Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” the newcomer said. He was a dark, massive man, dressed in a dirty dark suit with an old-fashioned collarless shirt that was equally dirty. He wore a greasy beret and hadn’t shaved in three or four days. The stubble on his face was streaked with gray and he needed a bath.

  “This is one of the men I told you about,” Leonard explained. “He can get us across the Pyrenees into Spain.”

  The smuggler examined Zack and shot a hard look first at Leonard, then at Chantal. He paused, evaluating the girl as she crawled out of the bed and stood up. “He is much worse than you told me and he needs to be in a hospital. This will be difficult.”

  FOUR

  The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.

  Mackay’s first three days on the staff of the National Security Council had been marked by confusion as he settled into his office, a windowless walk-in vault down the hall from Mazie. Wave after wave of intelligence inundated his office but no one would tell him what he was supposed to do with it. So he decided to get organized. He used the big table inside the vault to sort the masses of documents, reports, and reconnaissance imagery into ordered stacks. Then he spent the weekend wading through the various piles and made voluminous notes. Satisfied that he was at least treading water and no longer caught in a rip tide, he sat down at his desk and leaned back, making connections. Then he walked over to the table and worked through the pile labeled “Top Secret Ruff,” which contained the latest Keyhole 14 satellite imagery and analysis of Chiang’s Burmese compound. Mackay did not like what he was seeing.

  “Oh, no!” Mazie said when she walked in. “I’ll never find anything now.”

  “But I will,” Mackay replied.

  “Have you seen this?” Mazie asked. She handed him a report with photographs from the CIA’s chief of station in the Bangkok embassy. The report detailed how a body had been thrown over the wall of the embassy. The dead man had been gutted, his head cut off and wrapped in his intestines. Included among the photographs was a picture of the diamond pendant earrings that had been stuck in the man’s earlobes.

  Mackay reread the doctor’s description of the man and studied the photos. “This guy could be one of the pirates,” he said. “Heather Courtland was wearing a diamond earring like that one.”

  “I hadn’t seen anything on that,” Mazie replied. “How did you know about it?”

  “Something very bright was dangling from one of her breasts when they were transferred to the seaplane at the Gurkha camp. I saw it through the binoculars and thought at the time that it might have been an earring.”

  “We can check that out,” Mazie said. “But if it’s true, that raises even more questions.” Mackay gave her a probing look. “Why would Chiang kill the man and then make sure we knew he was Heather’s kidnapper? Is he trying to send us a message?”

  “This is getting weird,” Mackay said.

  “It’s always weird,” Mazie replied, thumbing through the stack of Keyhole reports Mackay had been working on. “Find anything here?”

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “Chiang has some pretty stiff defenses around his compound. He’s got a regiment-sized army, maybe two thousand men, all well-armed and trained by Israeli mercenaries.”

  Mazie raised an eyebrow at this. “Source?” she asked.

  “That comes from the Mossad,” Mackay answered. “And his air defense net is eye-watering. He has a Soviet-built Long Track radar for target acquisition that feeds a central command post in his compound. For engagement, he has four SA-Six Gainful surface-to-air batteries. Who knows where he got those. To back them up, there are concentric rings of ground observers armed with SA-Fourteen Gremlins.” Mazie looked confused. “The SA-Fourteen is an improved version of the Soviet SA-Seven Grail,” he explained. “It’s a shoulderheld surface-to-air missile that can engage an aircraft pulling eight g’s, head-on, and out to four thousand meters. The Soviets call it the Igla, the Needle. And it can put it to some pretty fancy aircraft. A slow-flying helicopter would be dead meat. The bottom line is that an aircraft can’t get within fifteen miles of that compound without being engaged and that it will take a major assault on the compound to free the hostages.”

  “Isn’t this what Delta Force is for?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he replied. “This calls for battalion-sized units complete with air strikes to soften them up.”

  “An attack on that scale would destabilize the current Burmese government,” Mazie told him, “and that’s not on the political agenda. Is there any way our Special Forces can go in?”

  “They can go in,” Mackay replied. “Getting them out is the trick. The sad fact is that the U.S. does not have a good record at bringing off small, surgical-type rescues. Sure, we do great at the big stuff, like Grenada when we went in after the medical students or Operation Warlord when the Rangers brought the POWs out of Iran. But those were big operations.”

  She changed the subject. “What’s the latest on the hostages?”

  “We’re still not sure where they are. I did see a report on Troy Spencer collected by Willowbranch, whatever that is.” He showed her the report.

  “Willowbranch,” Mazie mused as she spun the combination of a heavy safe. She rooted around until she found what looked like a car key that gave her access to the System 4 computer terminal in the vault. After inserting the key, she typed in her personal access code. When the code was recognized and she had given the correct responses, she turned the key to the last detent, activating the program that the NSC used to monitor all covert intelligence operations. “Willowbranch is a CIA operation and produces good stuff” was all she said as she read the complete, unedited report. Mackay did not have the “need to know” that Willowbranch was the code name of a German national operating under cover as an anthropologist on an archaeological dig sponsored by the Burmese government.

  “Too bad Willowbranch doesn’t know what happened to Anderson,” Mackay replied.

  “I know where she is,” Mazie told him, her round face impassive.

  “Then perhaps you should tell someone else besides me.”

  The Capitol, Washington, D.C.

  Senator William Douglas Courtland’s two aides were waiting for him to return to his ornate offices in the north wing of the Capitol. George Rivera was much more excited than Tina Stanley and kept telling her, “Wait until he sees them.” Tina wished he would calm down. Finally, the senator arrived and motioned for them to follow him into his private office.

  “These are grisly, but I think you should see them,” George said as he handed an envelope to his employer. The senator fingered the envelope, knowing what was inside but hesitant to look at the contents. George sat down, trying to be calm, but he was enjoying the senator’s obvious discomfort. Like so many of the power brokers in Washington D.C., Courtland tried to avoid facing the down side of their environment. Environment, George Rivera thought, that’s a good word to describe the arena they contended in—the brutish world of politics, money, rule, and, in its final congealed form, raw power. It did have its ugly side.

  “How did you get them?” Courtland asked as he slipped the three photos out of the envelope.

  “A contact in the CIA,” George told him. “Pontowski told Burke to bury them.” The aide allowed a slight smile, the smile of the insider who knows how to make the system work. “There’s always some asshole who thinks he can manipulate the system—just another virgin eager to become a slut. They play a game when they don’t know the rules and we win.”

  Courtland cleared his throat and looked at the photos. George successfully masked his smile as Courtland gasped for air. “My God,” he managed, struggling for control. Courtland was a gutter fighter who consistently played on the foul line of politics. His feet may have been covered with chalk dust, but he knew where the line was and, more important, the penalties for crossing it. “We can’t leak these to the press—too gruesome. Reporters will start investigating, digging for the story behind the story. They’
ll reveal my office was the source and that would mean a showdown with Pontowski. I can’t take that kind of heat. Look, you don’t know that Polack bastard like I do. He’d stab me in the back thirty ways from Sunday over this.”

  “I know a middle man,” Tina Stanley ventured.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  The heavily built, sandy-haired colonel walked briskly through the compound, glad to be away from the paper shufflers at headquarters USSOCOM and back with his command, Delta Force. As usual, Colonel Robert Trimler felt better when he was with his men. It was six-fifty in the morning and most of them were in “the rough,” dressed in civilian clothes or wearing beige shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes for physical training. The shorts were Navy UDT issue, which had been relieved from Navy-Seal ownership during a joint exercise. Trimler took it all in as he walked through the building, satisfied with the fanatical concern his men gave to physical conditioning.

  When he entered the command section, Sergeant Dolores Villaneuva stood up. “Welcome back, sir,” she said, her voice a low contralto. The statuesque brunette had been at work an hour and had his desk ready. “The usual paperwork,” she told him. “No critical fires that need to be put out. And the new CSM, Sergeant Major Kamigami, is on board.”

  “No doubt,” Trimler said, his southern accent remarkably strong, “he’s impressing the troops in his own inimitable way.” He gave her his misshapen grin. “I knew the CSM while in the Rangers. We were on Operation Warlord together.” The secretary was impressed. She, like most connected with special operations, had read the after-action reports on that operation and had heard the unofficial accounts that told much of the true story. “Staff meeting in twenty minutes,” he told her as he disappeared into his office.

  The eight men who made up Delta’s command section were standing when Trimler entered the room. He shook hands with Kamigami and then asked them to sit down. He came right to the point. “Delta has been ordered to start planning and training for the rescue of the five American hostages being held by Chiang. At this time we can only assume they are in Chiang’s compound in Burma.” He was pleased that no one was surprised by his announcement. Every person in Delta was highly tuned to world events and they were always looking for trouble spots where they might be involved. From the discussion that went around the room, Trimler knew that they had anticipated the mission and had given it an enormous amount of thought. The men of Delta could take bad news but they hated surprises. In this case, they were unanimous that it was bad news.

  After the meeting broke up, Trimler motioned for Kamigami to join him. The sergeant headed them down the corridor toward the Shooting House as they walked and talked. “Well, Sergeant Major,” Trimler asked, “what are your first impressions?”

  Kamigami didn’t answer him at first and kept pace beside his commanding officer. “Much as I expected,” he finally said. Trimler waited for more. Kamigami was a man of few words and those he did use were carefully budgeted. “There is one problem.”

  Trimler’s right eyebrow shot up. He had assumed command of Delta after the Persian Gulf War and had found it highly motivated and with high morale after the clandestine missions they had carried out against the Iraqis. He was satisfied that he had not inherited a barrel of problems bequeathed to him by the former commander. In fact, his impression had been just the opposite. But he knew from personal experience that he had best listen to what Kamigami had to say. “Lay it out, Sergeant Major. I can’t take a basket case into combat.”

  “They’re not a basket case,” Kamigami said. “Morale is sky-high and they are well-trained.” Kamigami gave an inward sigh. This was going to be a long speech for him and he hoped the colonel would understand his point. “What I see are three hundred shooters who live up to the image of Delta. They all wear nice watches, a Rolex or Seiko, are absolutely fanatical about staying in shape, every one of them is field-oriented, and I doubt if one has his hair or mustache within Army standards. You don’t see a single tattoo and most of them have a Skoal ring on the hip pocket of their jeans.” Kamigami nodded toward a sergeant wearing blue jeans and Trimler could see the white circular outline of a snuff can etched on his right hip pocket.

  “I hadn’t noticed the watches or the tobacco chewing,” Trimler said.

  Again, Kamigami said nothing for a few moments. “I’m not surprised, sir. What you saw was what you expected.”

  “I don’t see any of this as being a problem, Sergeant Major.”

  “It’s how the watches and Skoal rings got there that’s the problem. Sir, I’ve talked to the old heads about what they did in the Persian Gulf. It was too easy.”

  Trimler said, “You’ve lost me.”

  “Sir, the Iraqis were too easy. Delta went in, did its job, helped dispatch a bunch of Iraqis to paradise, mostly by laying a laser designator on a target, and only lost three men. Those three were killed when the helicopter extracting them ran into a sand dune. The Skoal rings and watches tell me they are full of self-confidence. That’s good. But it’s a self-confidence gained by taking on a bunch of clowns. Chiang has a small army of highly motivated and trained soldiers. They are not Iraqis.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Especially if we have to go into Chiang’s backyard. Every one of these eccentrics has got to believe that he’s taking on a new and much better opponent.”

  Trimler was beginning to understand Kamigami’s concern. It was a very finely drawn point that many of his fellow officers would consider a fit subject for a chat with a psychiatrist, not worthy of long discussion between a commander and his CSM. But that was what gave a unit like Delta a razor-sharp cutting edge—the very edge that could make all the difference when they were up against a fanatical enemy. “So what do we concentrate on?” the colonel asked.

  “Killing,” Kamigami answered.

  “Any idea which of our men aren’t up to it?”

  “As of now, I don’t know. But I know how to find out.” Trimler didn’t answer and only looked at his GSM. “We assume everybody needs to be refocused,” Kamigami said. “And we start with you and me.” He pushed the door to the Shooting House open and called for the NCO in charge.

  The sergeant in charge of the Delta’s Shooting House was detailing the exercise Kamigami had laid on. “This is a routine part of our training,” the NCO said, more concerned with impressing the CSM than Trimler. He sketched a diagram of the exercise room, explaining the setup. “The three dummies standing around the room holding weapons are terrorists. The dummy tied to the chair is the hostage. A four-man team will clear the room, killing the terrorists and releasing the hostage. A cut-and-dried operation.”

  “Then anyone in Delta can do it?” Kamigami asked.

  “Affirmative,” the NCO answered, putting all the confidence he could into that single word.

  “Good,” Kamigami continued. “Select four men who are virgins and tell them they’re on in fifteen minutes. Live ammunition, hostage seated, terrorists standing but location in the room unknown. I’ll place the dummies.” The NCO nodded, thinking that it would be a walk-through, even for four men who had never been in combat. The telephone rang and interrupted them with a message for Kamigami; a delivery truck was outside with the goods he had ordered. “I’ll fix the room and take care of the delivery. Start without me if I’m not back in time,” the CSM said as he disappeared into the exercise room.

  The four men the NCO had selected for the exercise were relaxed and confident, ready to enter the corridor that led to the room and with the dummy hostage and terrorists. They were hatless and dressed in the old-style jungle fatigues and boots. Each was wearing a lightweight flak jacket and carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5, nine-millimeter submachine gun with a silencer and thirty-round clip. They valued the MP5 because of its incredibly smooth roller-locking bolt system and equally efficient silencer. The NCO glanced at his watch. “No CSM,” he said.

  “He said to start without him,” Trimler said. The two
stepped into an observation booth and peered out the small bulletproof window. The NCO dimmed the hall lights and gave the four men the high sign. They entered the hall and moved down the corridor, not making a sound. The fourth man in moved backward, covering their rear and relying on the third man to warn him of obstacles. He stopped so he could cover the entrance and discourage any unwanted visitors while keeping their escape route open. The first three men moved to the closed door. One crossed in front to the other side while one crouched and readied a stun grenade they called a flash-bang. With his free hand he tested the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, cracked the door open, tossed in the grenade, and closed the door. A bright light flashed through the cracks around the door outlining it and a loud bang echoed from inside.

  The crouched man threw the door open and the man on the other side rushed in at an angle. The third man followed the first shooter through the door at a cross angle. Both were firing as they went, aiming high to hit the standing dummies but to miss the dummy tied to the chair. There was no deafening clatter of submachine-gun fire but only the sound of popping, bolt actions, and spent cartridges clattering to the floor. The flash-bang had blown out the light bulbs so they were firing in almost total darkness. Then it was silent and the man crouched at the door directed the beam of his flashlight into the room, making sure he was not in the line of any fire that a wounded terrorist might send his way.

  In the observation booth, the NCO and Trimler heard a loud “Goddamn!” followed by total silence. They rushed out of the booth and into the hall. Both men felt an empty void in their guts and a coppery-bitter taste flooded Trimler’s mouth. Something had gone terribly wrong. The NCO turned up the lights and stood in the open doorway, staring into the room.