Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “But you said he was an Andorran smuggler,” Zack said.

  “He uses many covers.” They fell silent as Zack tried to make sense of it all.

  Twenty minutes later, the door opened and a man in a well-tailored dark gray suit walked in. At first, Zack didn’t recognize the immaculately groomed and dignified-looking man. It was Felipe. “It is time to leave,” he announced. Even his accent had changed with his appearance and now he spoke English in the carefully modulated tones of a professional diplomat. He and Leonard helped Zack to his feet. “We will be picked up tonight.”

  “Felipe,” Zack began, “why have you bothered with me?”

  Felipe gave an expressive French shrug. “Because you can fly airplanes and bomb the Boche. I can’t do that.”

  A smile cracked Leonard’s grim look. “He does hate the Germans.”

  Felipe drove fast, leaving the sleepy town of Braga behind them. Zack shifted his attention out the window as they drove through the night. A lousy night for flying, he thought, studying the low clouds scudding across the sky. When they had passed through the town of Barcelos, Felipe stopped and a man crawled into the backseat next to Zack. The stranger spoke with a harsh accent that was matched by a change in Felipe’s tone. Then they were driving again, the stranger giving directions. A small van fell in behind them as they entered the vineyards that filled the coastal plain. Then the man directed them down a side road until they reached a long stretch clear of trees and buildings. The van parked at one end while they parked at the other end. The pilot in Zack recognized a makeshift landing strip when he saw one. They waited and, within minutes, they heard the low drone of an aircraft above the clouds. Both vehicles switched on their headlights and the silhouette of a small, single-engine, highwing monoplane dropped through the clouds.

  “The Lizzie’s right on time,” Leonard said. “Damn good navigating.”

  Zack watched the plane fly a short final to landing, touching down just as it cleared the van. It was a Westland Lysander, the small and ungainly aircraft that served the British well, dropping off supplies and agents in Nazi-occupied Europe and then ferrying out special passengers. A ladder dropped down from the high cockpit and two men scrambled down. Four bundles were passed down, followed by six small suitcases. “Radios,” Leonard said in a low voice. “Worth their weight in gold.” Then the pilot climbed down.

  “Who’s for homebound?” he asked. The man was no older than Zack and carried himself with a cool confidence. “Could use a bit of petrol.” Felipe motioned at the van, which was moving toward them. “Very good,” the pilot said. “We might have been swimming the last hundred miles or so.”

  While the men refueled the Lysander, Felipe and Leonard helped Zack to the ladder. “Sorry, mate,” the pilot said, “only had orders to bring one back. Not you.”

  “My friend,” Felipe said, “we must speak alone.” He pulled the pilot to one side and spoke in a low voice.

  “I thought you were going,” Zack said to Leonard.

  “Not possible.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Leonard didn’t answer at first. Should he tell the young pilot that he was returning to Zaragoza to find Chantal? “That doesn’t concern you,” he mumbled.

  Felipe and the pilot rejoined them. “It’s been arranged,” the pilot said. He scrambled up the ladder and settled into the high cockpit.

  “What did you tell him?” Zack asked Felipe.

  “I merely explained the situation to him and suggested that three returning to England was much better than none.”

  “Would you have done that?” Zack was incredulous.

  “No,” Felipe said. “One sacrifice was enough to get you this far.”

  A sick feeling stabbed at the bottom of Zack’s stomach. There was no doubt that the sacrifice was Chantal.

  FIVE

  Udorn, Thailand

  “The home folks are getting serious about this one,” E-Squared told Gillespie as they found seats in the crowded operations room in the Air America building.

  Gillespie looked the new arrivals over and saw nothing that distinguished the men of Delta Force from other Army troops he had worked with in the past. “Because General Mado is here?” he asked.

  “Nope. Because there is some real talent in this room. See that Army colonel and the big sergeant?” E-Squared pointed to Trimler and Kamigami, who were standing near the front.

  “The sergeant is hard to miss.”

  “The colonel is Bob Trimler, the commander of Delta Force, and the sergeant is Victor Kamigami, his command sergeant major. I met them on Operation Warlord. Kamigami can crunch rocks with his teeth and Trimler is one tough hombre who’s got his sierra stacked in neat piles. He led the rescue team that went into the prison to free the POWs. He was a captain then.”

  Gillespie looked at E-Squared with a new respect. “I didn’t know you were on Warlord.”

  “Yeah. So was the Beezer—and Mado. Mado probably made his third star because of Warlord.” E-Squared stared at his hands recalling that operation. “I suppose that’s why he’s the vice commander of USSOCOM. He’s the world’s ranking asshole. Makes a puke like me wonder about life.”

  “Whose line is it about ‘life not being fair’?” Gillespie asked.

  The rear door swung open and a lieutenant colonel stepped into the room. “Room!” he barked. “Ten-hut!” The men sprang to their feet as Lieutenant General Simon Mado entered. Colonel Paul “Duck” Mallard followed him.

  “Let’s get started,” Mado said as he stepped onto the low stage. He kept the men standing at attention. “As you all know, we are here on a special operation which I have named Operation Dragon Noire.” He gave the name a French pronunciation. “I have overall command as the joint task force commander, Colonel Mallard is the airborne mission commander, and Colonel Trimler is the ground commander.” Satisfied that the command arrangements were carefully spelled out, he turned the meeting over to Mallard.

  “Seats, please,” Mallard said. Mado was visibly annoyed by Mallard’s allowing the men to sit. Gillespie labeled the general as a raging egoist.

  “Way to go, Duck,” E-Squared muttered.

  Mallard quickly recapped the situation and called on the 1st SOW’s Intel officer, Lieutenant Colonel Leanne Vokel, for an intelligence update. Vokel took the low stage as the lights dimmed and a slide projector flashed on. She covered the latest reconnaissance imagery and then told the group that only three men were holding the hostage, Nikki Anderson.

  “Colonel Vokel,” Mado interrupted, “what are your sources for that last information?”

  “I can’t answer your question, sir,” she replied. “Everything we receive has been sanitized as to source.” Mado grunted in dissatisfaction. “But my experience,” she hurried to explain, “indicates that what we’re getting is good. It correlates with other sources and is validated by photo reconnaissance. And we are operating in a friendly environment with the full cooperation of the Thai government.”

  “I think I love you,” E-Squared mouthed, pleased with the way the woman stood up to Mado.

  The look on Mado’s face indicated he was not convinced. “Put this one on a back burner for now,” he said. “Colonel Trimler, what does Delta require to execute Dragon Noire?”

  “Now it starts,” E-Squared groaned to Gillespie.

  Trimler stood up and moved to a chart that had been pinned to the wall and quickly covered what Delta needed. “We want the First SOW to insert a landing zone team near the village where the hostage is being held. Further, we would like to conduct at least one mission rehearsal. I recommend we use the training site the First SOW has been using. It meets all our requirements.”

  “Who selected that training site and why?” Mado interrupted.

  Gillespie wondered why the general should be concerned with such a minor point. He should be more concerned with the security measures that were in place to protect the training exercise from compromise.

 
“Sir,” Mallard answered, “the 1st SOW has been conducting a training exercise here for over three weeks. We selected that training site in cooperation with the Thai authorities. It will be an easy matter for Delta to blend in without arousing suspicion. That gives us the cover we needed to prevent a security compromise while we practice.”

  “Too good to be true,” Mado spat. “And when something is too good to be true, it usually is.” He turned and stared at Mallard. “It looks like you were anticipating this mission, Mallard. By jumping the gun and starting training prematurely, you may have tipped our hand and compromised this mission. You should have cleared your exercise through USSOCOM first.”

  “He’s doing it,” E-Squared mumbled.

  “Doing what?” Gillespie whispered.

  “Doing an ‘off me, on you.’ By finding problems he has to correct, he can delay making any decisions. That shifts the monkey onto someone else’s back.”

  “General Mado,” Mallard replied calmly with no sign of stress in his voice, “I did not act unilaterally. This training exercise is consistent with the training we conduct in many parts of the world. For once, we were in a position to capitalize on training currently in progress. Further, this exercise was approved by USSOCOM.”

  “Go get him, Duck,” E-Squared mumbled.

  Gillespie looked around the room, trying to gauge the reaction of the others. He suspected that the 1st SOW was training for this mission because Mallard had anticipated the need. Wasn’t that what colonels were paid to do? Why are they playing games with each other? He glanced at the huge Army command sergeant major. Kamigami’s gaze was totally focused on Mado and his face was expressionless. For reasons that escaped him, Gillespie sensed that he was looking at an extremely dangerous man.

  In the silence that followed, Trimler brought his briefing to an end. “Sir, we have selected this landing zone near Ban Muang Dok as our primary LZ.” He handed Mado an aerial photograph of the landing zone that was on the edge of the village. “One practice run and we are ready to go, sir.”

  “Who approved this landing zone?” Mado asked.

  “I did, sir,” Trimler answered.

  “You approved the LZ?” Mado shot at him. “In my book, the 1st SOW should have picked the landing zone since they have to do the insertion.”

  “I assure you, sir,” Trimler replied, “it was not a unilateral decision on my part and the 1st SOW was part of the process.”

  Mado stood up. “It seems the wrong people are making the critical decisions on this operation,” he said. “And I don’t like it.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” E-Squared said, “but the ground team always selects the LZ in an operation like this one. We tell them if we can do it and what the risk is. The LZ that was selected looks like a good one, close to the objective where Miss Anderson is being held and there is no threat.”

  “Major”—Mado turned a cold, fish-eyed stare onto the MC-130 pilot—“your input was not asked for. Let’s get one thing straight, I will not order men under my command into a poorly planned operation like this one. Back to the drawing boards, gentlemen.”

  Mado slapped his hands down on the table and leaned forward, his arms stiff. “If you people in this room are not reading my lips, this mission is on hold until the planning and training are up to my standards. Mallard, Trimler, I want you in my office so I can sort this mess out.” He stalked out of the room with the two colonels in tow.

  The men sat in stunned silence. “Ah,” E-Squared finally said, “it’s good to know there are certain constants in the world and that General Mado is one of them.” He stood up. “Let’s go get a cool one. Dragon Noire is dead in the water.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Gillespie asked.

  “Mado in action,” E-Squared explained, his cynicism not lost on Gillespie. “He will never make a decision that can be pinned on him in case this all turns to shit. I saw it before during Warlord. So did the two colonels and Kamigami.” Gillespie looked confused. “Hell,” E-Squared continued, “he’s a high roller. What did you expect?”

  “Colonel Mallard doesn’t work that way,” Gillespie protested.

  The Golden Triangle, Burma

  Heather Courtland was lying by the large swimming pool in Chiang’s Burma compound. The pool had been carefully designed to resemble a natural lagoon and a waterfall hid the entrance to a small grotto perfect for lovemaking. Chiang had taught her all about it. DC and Ricky were treading water under the waterfall and talking. He is looking better, Heather decided. Ricky’s long hair had been unceremoniously sheared, a doctor had shot him full of antibiotics and vitamins, put him on a healthy diet, and the guards had dried up his supply of drugs, forcing him to go cold turkey. DC had nursed him through his withdrawal and now he was dependent on her. The two of them became closer and turned away from Heather. I wonder if they’re screwing? Heather thought. Then it came to her—they were enduring their captivity by holding on to each other.

  Heather languidly stretched a leg out to examine her tan. Perfect. “What a life,” she murmured to herself, feeling remarkably contented. Heather was not an introspective person, so it amazed her that she could feel so good trapped deep in the Burmese highlands. She liked what was happening to her. “Samkit,” she called. The woman immediately appeared out of the shadows to attend her mistress. “I’d like fruit and ice tea for lunch. And bring me the wraparound skirt that goes with this bikini.” Samkit hurried to carry out her instructions. Heather was not a patient person and had become more imperious over the last few weeks.

  “DC,” she called. “What do you know about Dostoevski?”

  The young woman detached herself from Ricky and swam across the pool. “Actually, not too much. I did read Crime and Punishment.”

  “You’d best tell me what you remember. Bertie asked me to read it.”

  “Well, it’s about guilt,” DC began. She was going over the plot when Samkit came back with the wraparound skirt.

  “Missy Heather,” she said, a worried look on her face. “General asks for you.” Heather stood up and stepped into high-heeled sandals and wrapped the expensive skirt around her waist. She shook her hair out and adjusted her top, making sure her breasts had maximum exposure. “General in bunker,” Samkit told her.

  “We’ll talk later,” Heather said to DC, “without Ricky. Samkit, come with me.” She led the way into the tunnel that led to Chiang’s underground command post. “Have you ever been here before?” she asked Samkit as they went through a heavy blast door and descended a concrete staircase into a labyrinth of corridors. They were in a heavily fortified military-style command bunker.

  “No, missy,” Samkit said, carefully noting everything she saw. They had to wait in a control room with a bank of TV screens. “What that?” she asked.

  Heather was amused at how backward Samkit could be. “TV monitors,” she said and stepped around to the control panel. She played with the controls and a screen flashed, changing to a panorama of the service gate at the rear of the compound. Heather played with the controls, changing the camera’s height. Samkit decided that the camera was on a telescopic arm that retracted into a hidden niche. She fixed its location. Heather called up a camera at the pool where they had been moments before. DC and Ricky were gone. Then she switched to a camera in the grotto behind the waterfall. They were inside, talking quietly, not touching. Heather turned a dial until she could hear their voices.

  “I’ve bribed one of the guards,” Ricky said. “I promised him a quarter million in gold if he’ll help us escape.”

  “When?” DC’s voice was barely audible.

  “He’s not sure. Maybe in a week or two. Don’t worry, he’ll get us out of here.”

  “I still think we should tell Heather.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” Ricky growled.

  Heather’s face was impassive as she switched the monitor back to the outside pool. The inner blast door swung open and Heather told Samkit to follow her into Chiang’s command post. She li
ked having an entourage, however small, at her beck and call. But Samkit hesitated. “I wait here,” she said, fear in her voice. Heather shrugged and walked inside.

  Chiang was sitting at the central console surrounded by four aides. “We have received some interesting news,” Chiang said. “We know where Nikki is and you should be enjoying her company in a few days.”

  Heather nodded, a slight smile on her face. “Yes, I would like that. Besides, it sends a clear message that you’re in complete control. By the way, DC and Ricky have bribed a guard.” She recounted the conversation she had overheard on the monitor.

  “That will not present a problem,” Chiang assured her. The guard had already told him about the attempted bribe. “You”—he smiled at Heather—“do indeed make a royal consort.”

  The compliment pleased Heather.

  Later that same evening, Samkit climbed the eight steps into the small hooch she called home. She was tired from the long day spent running after Heather and attending to her every whim. Soon, she thought, it will be over. She had seen a succession of young women who had shared Chiang’s bed and then later disappeared into the brothels of Bangkok. This one is no different, she reasoned. She frowned, remembering the time long ago when Chiang had called her his “royal consort.” She had learned much from her brief visit to the bunker.

  Samkit lit a lantern and started a small charcoal fire to cook her dinner. While the coals caught fire, she reached under her bed and eased up a loose floor board. She pulled out the small radio that resembled a Walkman. But this one was different. She pushed at the on/off button until it gave a hard click. The radio was now in a record/store mode. She spoke into the speaker, which was also a microphone, relating the day’s events and all she had seen in the bunker. It was a much longer message than normal. When she was finished, she hit the button again and returned the radio to its hiding place. She fell into her nightly routine, thinking about her son and how proud she was of him. She did not worry about what tomorrow would bring.