Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  Early the next morning, a saffron-robed monk walked past Samkit’s hooch as he begged for a meal. He reached inside the plastic bag he was carrying and keyed what looked like a cellular phone. A short-range signal activated the transmit feature on Samkit’s radio and it broadcast a high-speed playback of the stored message. Anyone in range and able to monitor the transmission would have only heard a short burst of garbled noise. The monk’s phone recorded the message and Samkit’s radio automatically erased its storage disk. He would play it back when he was alone. The monk was proud of his mother and would pray for her safety.

  Washington, D.C.

  Mazie never chewed her fingernails, but now she was chomping on her right thumbnail as she jockeyed through Washington, D.C.’s evening rush hour traffic. She worried the nail harder as she tried to decode the phone call she had received from Bill Carroll. “Damn it, Humphrey,” she told her beloved Bug convertible, “Why did he call me and not use our normal arrangement? This must be important. Have I missed something?”

  The traffic light blinked green in front of her and a honk brought her back to the moment. Roll with it, she thought, this one is breaking fast.

  Eighteen minutes later, she was sitting in a coffee shop in Chevy Chase, Maryland, when Bill Carroll sat down beside her. He was dressed in civilian clothes and looked more like a young high school teacher than a brigadier general in command of the Air Force Special Activities Center. His message was short. “Chiang knows where Nikki Anderson is. He’s going after her.”

  “How long do we have?” Mazie asked.

  “Who knows. Twenty-four hours at the most.”

  The National Security Council’s Crisis Action Team was gathered around the table in Mackay’s office and going over every scrap of information they had on Nikki Anderson. Like an amoeba, the CAT would gather in clumps to look at one aspect and then re-form when another subject was broached. The team kept referring to an exquisite large-scale topographic chart displayed on a large video monitor. The Defense Mapping Agency had computerized its map base and the team could call up whatever map they needed from a set of twelve-inch video disks. The computerized system allowed them to place the village of Ban Muang Dok at the exact center of the screen and not be plagued by the old military axiom that battles are fought on the edge of a map.

  “If this latest information is correct,” Cagliari told the small group, “time is not on our side. We’ve got to move fast.”

  Mackay kept referring to a thin paperbound volume labeled “OPPLAN Dragon Noire.” “I don’t see any problem,” he told them. “All the pieces are here and the players are ready to go. This is a chance to finally bring off a hostage rescue without it falling apart on us.”

  “I know you don’t think much of our ability to execute this type of mission,” Cagliari said. “Why are you pushing this one so hard?”

  “Sir, our track record does suck,” Mackay replied. “But here’s a chance to do it right. In special operations if you snooze, you lose.”

  “I suppose that is your quaint way of saying timeliness is a factor,” Mazie said.

  “It’s everything in this business,” Mackay assured her.

  “Okay,” Cagliari said, “enough. I’m going to see the President in a few minutes and recommend that we execute the rescue tonight. That still doesn’t solve the problem of the remaining three hostages. By freeing Miss Anderson, we lose any element of surprise in rescuing the others. Chiang’s going to be expecting us now. Now how do we get around that problem? Start working it.”

  Start working it, Mackay thought. The man’s amazing the way he keeps pushing ahead. Okay, what’s the key? Speed and surprise. No wonder the SAS keep insisting that they’ve got to “beat the clock.” An image of Peter Woodward materialized in his mind while an idea tickled just below the surface.

  Cagliari stood up to leave. “One other thing,” he said, “Tosh is very ill. It’s her heart this time.” He didn’t have to say that the wolf, lupus, had again returned to ravage the wife of the President.

  “Mazie,” Mackay said after the national security adviser had left, “can you tap into System Four and do a little digging?”

  Leo Cox focused his full attention on every word that Cagliari was telling the President. He was sitting in the Oval Office along with the director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, who also was very interested in what Cagliari was saying. But not for the same reasons. While Burke agreed with Cagliari’s recommendation that Delta Force be sent in to rescue Nikki Anderson, he was wondering where Cagliari had gotten his information. It had not come from his source, Willowbranch.

  “I agree that this is an opportune time to act,” Burke said. “But you did say the joint task force commander, General Mado, wants more time to prepare.”

  “This,” Cagliari said, “is one of those cases where we’ve got to build a fire under the military.”

  “I can sympathize with General Mado,” Pontowski allowed. “During World War Two my job was to fly and carry out orders. Oh, it was dangerous, but it was a very simple, uncomplicated life. Simple but dangerous. I only had to keep two people alive, my navigator and myself. I was the cutting edge. Now I have to act on Mado’s recommendations and make the decisions that drive the cutting edge. What I say determines who lives or dies. And I don’t like being rushed into action when other people’s lives are on the line.”

  He paused to let what he was saying register with his three advisers. “Only an egomaniac willingly shoulders such a burden.”

  “Mr. President,” Cagliari finally said, “you are not an egomaniac.”

  “I hope not,” Pontowski said. “Thank God I’m much older than you three and won’t have to live with the consequences too much longer.” His decision was made. “Order Delta to go in tonight.”

  Burke pulled Cagliari aside when they were outside in the hall. “Don’t you think,” Burke said, “that it’s time we pooled our resources?” Cagliari didn’t reply. “Come on,” Burke insisted. “You’ve got a source inside other than Willowbranch. It’s just a matter of time until I find out who.”

  “Plug some of your leaks,” Cagliari told him, “then maybe we can do business.”

  “They’ve been plugged,” Burke assured him.

  “Really?” Cagliari answered. “Was the leak plugged when that boat on Chesapeake Bay blew up and sank?”

  Burke humphed in his bureaucratic way. “You mustn’t believe what you read in the newspapers,” he said as he walked away. Heads-on-heads intelligence was not a game for the squeamish. Especially, the way Burke played it. The truth of the matter would die with him.

  Udorn, Thailand

  The Combat Talon MC-130E taxied into its parking slot on the ramp at Udorn next to the Beezer’s AC-130 gunship. The dark paint schemes on both aircraft glistened from the rain that had doused the air base moments before. A startling sunset was in the making as the clouds peeled back in multihued layers. E-Squared had just returned from a short hop to Bangkok’s Don Muang airport and the pilot played a tune with the throttles, varying the power to different props and moving one prop in and out of reverse. “You can always tell when the major is happy,” the crew chief told Gillespie. “He must have a load of beer.” The two waited for the big four-bladed props to spin down.

  When E-Squared stepped out of the crew entrance hatch, Gillespie grabbed him and rushed him to the waiting pickup truck. “Come on,” he urged, “the heavies are wetting their knickers and want us in Ops ASAPist.”

  “We must have got a go for the mission,” E-Squared allowed.

  “What makes you think that?” Gillespie asked.

  “The signs are right and if we don’t go in soon, the well will be dry when we get there.”

  The operations section in Air America’s headquarters building was crowded with officers and NCOs, all talking in hushed tones. E-Squared led the way through the crowd and found a seat at the back next to Beezer. “Watch Mado run for cover,” he told the two men. He settled down to wa
it.

  He was disappointed when only Mallard and Trimler walked into the room. “Gentlemen,” Mallard announced, “we have been ordered to execute Dragon Noire tonight. General Mado is talking to the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon via SatCom as we speak.” He did not mention that Mado was speaking out of both sides of his mouth, telling his superiors in the NMCC that they were ready to go but that he would like a few more days of training to ensure success. “Further,” Mallard continued, “they’re asking us for a recommended execute time.” A hush fell over the room.

  “Holy shit,” E-Squared said, his stage whisper carrying across the room, “someone with a clue at Fort Fumble asking the working troops how to do it.”

  “Hey,” the Beezer chimed in, “the Pentagon is like a stopped clock—right twice a day.”

  “Unfortunately,” Mallard snapped, “this is not a humorous matter. Colonel Vokel,” he turned to the First SOW’s intelligence officer, “tell them the bad news.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vokel said as she stood up. “We received a report that an unidentified convoy of four trucks is moving down this road.” She pointed to an unimproved dirt road leading from Burma into Ban Muang Dok. “We don’t know what the convoy is, but suspect it could be hostile. At their rate of movement, the convoy should reach Ban Muang Dok no later than twenty-two hundred hours tonight.” The room was silent.

  “Do the heavies in the Pentagon know about this?” E-Squared asked.

  “Yes, they do,” Mallard answered. “No doubt the rescue team has been ordered to move into place.”

  “Where did that team come from?” Gillespie asked E-Squared in a low voice.

  “Don’t ask,” the C-130 pilot whispered. “The details of the rescue itself are not our business. We only have to know how they expect us to support them.”

  “When would we have learned the details?” Gillespie asked. “That can be critical.” He was confused and wondered how wise it was to keep half the players in the dark about what was really going on.

  “About this time. You should have read the signs. Didn’t you notice during training how the team you were inserting only secured the LZ and then rapidly pulled in? Obviously, someone was coming to you.”

  “We still need an execute time,” Mallard said. “The original plan called for a three A.M. rescue. I think we need to be in and out before those trucks arrive.”

  “Colonel,” the Beezer called out, “killing trucks is what Spectre was made for.”

  “Unfortunately,” Mallard replied, “we don’t know for certain if those trucks are hostile. General Mado ruled out attacking any trucks unless they commit a hostile act.” The Beezer conceded that Mado had a point.

  A variety of suggestions erupted from the group. Finally, Gillespie spoke. “I’d recommend going in right at the end of evening twilight.” Everyone looked at the young pilot. Embarrassed by the sudden attention, he reddened. “Well,” he stammered, “I know it’s right at cross-over when land and air temperatures equalize and our infrared systems are degraded. But that’s the time when the Thais are all inside watching TV. At least they were in the village where we’ve been training. And every TV set is at full throttle.” Nods went around the room. They had all experienced it. The wail of Thai TV at full volume had to be heard to be believed. “That should help mask our noise. If we go in earlier, someone will be outside and see us. Later on, after things quiet down, they’ll hear us coming.” More nods.

  “Captain Gillespie,” said Mallard, “can you find the LZ with a degraded FLIR?”

  “Yes, sir. I can.” It was a statement of fact. The Pave Low helicopter had other, equally sophisticated, systems.

  “Colonel Trimler, does that give you any heartburn?” Mallard asked.

  Trimler glanced at his second-in-command, the lieutenant colonel in command of A Squadron, and then at Kamigami. They both gave short nods. “We can do that,” Trimler answered.

  Mallard considered it for a moment. “I agree. I’ll pass the time to General Mado. Mission brief in ten minutes.” He left the room.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” E-Squared said. He heaved himself to his feet and ambled over to Lieutenant Colonel Leanne Vokel.

  “Without a doubt,” Gillespie told E-Squared’s back.

  Twelve minutes later, a very unhappy General Mado marched into the room. The men all sprang to attention. “We have a go,” Mado announced. “There have been some changes in the operational lineup. Colonels Mallard and Trimler will be aboard the MC-One-thirty to monitor the accomplishment of mission objectives. I will be in the command post here and maintain radio contact with the airborne command element and the NMCC via SatCom.” He turned the briefing over to the operations staff and the men sat down.

  A weatherman gave them the latest forecast for that evening. Then the classified mission booklets were passed out. Each booklet consisted of a small bundle of five-by-eight inch plastic-sheathed pages held together by a two-pronged page fastener. The booklets carried the vital information they would need to carry out the mission. No one had to remind them that if one of the booklets fell into the wrong hands, the operation would be fatally compromised.

  “Here’s the lineup and times,” a lieutenant colonel said. “Ready to copy?” The men flipped open their mission booklets to the second page and pulled out grease pencils to fill in the blanks with the latest information. He read off the details. “The rescue team is in two elements, call signs Pogo One and Pogo Two. They will go in at nineteen-forty-three hours local. Our LZ time is twenty hundred hours local. Helicopter call signs are Rascal One, Two, and Three. Captain Gillespie in Rascal One will launch at seventeen-forty hours local with the LZ team. Rascal Two is the airborne backup and will launch with Captain Gillespie. Rascal Three will hold on the ramp here as the ground backup. Major Eberhard’s MC-One-thirty, call sign Hammer, will be airborne command and control and will launch at eighteen-thirty. Lieutenant Colonel Beasely’s gunship, call sign Spectre, will launch at the same time.” He turned the briefing over to Trimler.

  “You’ve heard the latest intelligence that indicates we should encounter only token resistance in the target area.” A wicked gleam lit the colonel’s face. “Now how many of you are ready to proceed on that assumption?” A chorus of grunts and guffaws mixed with a very definite “No way!” greeted him. “I thought so,” Trimler said. “Remember how we do it: Maximum surprise—maximum violence.” Then they were finished and the room rapidly emptied.

  Gillespie shoved the mission booklet into the leg pocket of his flight suit and zipped it closed. “This one should be a piece of cake,” he said.

  “You seem pretty sure about that,” E-Squared said.

  “Hell,” Gillespie replied, “you heard the same intelligence briefing that I did.”

  “Intelligence is always wrong,” E-Squared intoned.

  The Capitol, Washington, D.C.

  The Army colonel was leaving Courtland’s offices as Tina Stanley, the senator’s aide, entered. She was visibly upset and near tears. “Close the door,” Courtland said. He motioned her to be seated and paced his office. “What did the Coast Guard say?”

  “They claim it was a fuel tank explosion. I had to identify the body.” A shudder ran through her slender frame. “It was George.”

  “And the other body?”

  “No positive identification—yet. But I’m certain it was George’s contact in the CIA. Senator, I think it was a hit.”

  “Did their blood test positive for drugs?” Courtland asked. She nodded. “If it was a hit,” the senator said, disappointment in his voice, “then it was drug-related. Pontowski doesn’t work that way.”

  “This has been a terrible day,” Tina moaned.

  “That colonel had some good news,” Courtland told her. “The Polack is sending Delta Force in to rescue Anderson.” He recounted what the Army colonel had told him. He paced faster. “With a little luck, Operation Dragon Noire will be a bust. Even if he does get Anderson out, it will be a warni
ng to Chiang to get his guard up.” He was swinging his arms like he was holding a baseball bat. “Do you know what that does to the chances for rescuing Heather?” The woman did not know exactly how to answer that question.

  “It shoots ’em all to hell,” the senator said. He swung at an imaginary pitch. “Home run!”

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Zack Pontowski walked beside the wheelchair as the nurse pushed his wife to the helicopter that was waiting to fly her to Bethesda Naval Hospital. “Is this really necessary?” she protested.

  He smiled at her. “You know how doctors are.” Her old fighting spirit was back and for a moment he remembered the time in Zaragoza when he had been on a gurney being taken away. They reached the helicopter and, for one of those rare times at the White House, the press corps did not yell questions but held back out of respect for her privacy.

  “They are being good today,” Tosh said as she waved at the reporters. For a brief moment, Pontowski convinced himself that she would recover like she had in the past. How many times had the doctors expressed amazement at how she fought off the ravages of lupus with sheer willpower. But an inner voice warned him that it was not to be. Not this time.

  The staff and support units that surrounded the President moved with their usual efficiency during the short flight to Bethesda. Airspace was cleared and secured, Secret Service agents, some obvious but most totally submerged into the background, moved into place and cast a net of protection around the presidential couple. Radios crackled with coded commands and backup units moved into position. The Vice President was notified that the President was airborne and stayed on the ground. When the helicopter touched down on the pad at the hospital, the staff was prepared and waiting and Tosh was quickly moved into a suite. Pontowski stayed by her side during the entire time and saw how exhausted she was after the short move. He sat down beside her bed and placed his hand gently over hers.