Price For A Patriot
F. Denis King
copyright@2014 F. Denis King
all rights reserved
ISBN-10: 1500377759
ISBN-13: 9781500377755
My son, Steven J. Dowd, created the cover for this novel that captured clearly the chaos and blurring that I wanted to relay. Thanks, Steve.
for Colleen always
I dedicate this book to my wife, Colleen, who has endured my grousing and frustration with computers. She thinks my problems would vanish if I had a Mac. The problem (bless her) she assumes can be blamed on the dreaded PC. Just trying to format this manuscript/file to meet the requirements for printing boggled my addled brain and took forever. You know, come to think of it, maybe it is the PC’s fault. Why should I take the blame?
At any rate, Colleen did encourage me to press on and not get discouraged because she knows I love to write and I hope I’ve written a story that others will enjoy.
Thank you, Colleen, for your love and support. I want to also thank my friends and family members some of whose names I used in this book and who possibly didn’t survive the experience. That’s not their fault and not indicative of wishful thinking. I promise.
price for a patriot
Brandon Stiles goes to war, is captured on the final day of conflict, and is believed to have died before the cease-fire. A late release of this soldier would raise questions. Who else has not been returned? Better to keep or kill him.
A comrade in arms, badly injured and in coma, years later remembers. Like shards of glass, memory slowly rewinds and pieces come together. Brandon isn’t dead. He’s missing.
A brother’s love fuels relentless effort and warriors join to find and free him despite resistance at the highest levels of the Defense Department. A politician buries evidence thought harmful to his career and lied, forcing others to take unprecedented daring action. Their plan entangles with unrelated, violent crime that alters but cannot stop it. Even an emergency landing and wreckage of a commercial jet does not derail it.
Daring innovation amid death and destruction keeps hope alive. The world is shocked when the soldier, dead and buried, contacts a U.S. Embassy and is free. The hidden truth threatens the personal ambition of a man without honor. The soldier is accused of desertion and treason. A race to alter records ensues.
This is a story of devotion and determination amid violence, death and destruction. It is the story of an abandoned soldier whose fighting spirit burns intensely. It is the victory of the human spirit over opportunism and cynicism, and an American hero is finally welcomed back.
This story is fictional, an action-adventure that centers on the First Gulf War and the period 1990 to 1994. The passage of time has added relevancy while personal experience gives it realism, authenticity and believability. Readers of action-adventure novels will find it hard to put down.
Retribution, the sequel to Price For A Patriot will be released soon.
Contents
1. Fort Hood; The Hearing
2. Desert Storm; Cease Fire
3. Burial at Muleshoe; the Burn Unit
4. The Introduction; Questions Asked
5. Hidden Memories Resurface
6. What Really Happened
7. After The Prisoner Exchange
8. The Meeting With Feras; Mossad And CIA
9. Fetch the Prisoner
10. The CIA and Mossad Have Questions
11. An Old Friend Visits
12. A Garage Like No Other
13. Recruit The Team; The Plan Takes Shape
14. The Escape, 15 May 1991
15. The Rehearsal; The Casket At Global Freight
16. Cancellation Changes Everything
17. The Flight Deck Crew; Meet Carson Brock
18. Milo In Command; Explosive Decompression
19. Damsel In Distress; Mission Impossible
20. Brandon’s Ally Is A Kurd
21. El Pais Arrives; The Plan Evolves
22. Flt 620 Is Lost; Cartel Negotiations Begin
23. Instructions For Jose, Iraq (Saturday, 21 September 1991)
24. The Cockpit; The Courier; The Crash
25. Brandon Escapes, 28 Sep 1991
26. NSA Intercepts Sep 91; DOD and CIA Notified
27. Red Flag Discovered Three Years Later
28. Gunnison; Fast Draw Cowboy; The Gamble
29. Call For Backup; Disaster at the Airport
30. Ghost of Baghdad ’91-’94; Who To Blame
31. SECDEF Aims For The Senate; Cry Of Treason
32. Brandon Must Be Silenced; Assassin Strikes
33. Congressional Hearing; The Tables Turned.
1
Fort Hood; The Hearing
“It flew from his mouth like a startled bird. I swear, it sailed over my shoulder and hit the floor about the same time he did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah, I did, Smitty, one punch. That’s all.”
“That’s one too many, Brandon, what the hell were you thinking? You can’t strike a superior; you know that.”
“Yes, I know that, but I did. Want me to say I’m sorry? Okay, I’m sorry, but if I’m honest with myself, I’m sorry for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want to get punished but I did want to deck him. My head was up and locked; I admit it. Was I drunk? Well, I was feelin’ no pain but I knew better. At the moment I just didn’t care. I’d had a bad day and this fat, pompous, strutting rooster started pushing all my buttons and I lost it.
“Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.”
“I was at the NCO club having the last of a-few-drinks-too-many with friends I hadn’t seen in years, and might never see again. It surprised me when the dim lights went to full bright and they announced it was closing time. I actually had a good poker hand for a change and wasn’t ready to pack it in but of course we did and everybody headed for the door. I was tail end Charlie saying my goodbyes because I knew this was my last night before I’d be headin’ back to Monterey. I was bummed out.
“The parking lot was pretty much deserted except for my car and a few others that probably belonged to the folks that worked there. Of course, our friends in the military police were hangin’ around. They like to keep an eye on the place at closin’ time, which I understand but don’t always appreciate. Anyway, this young slick sleeve MP is sitting in his jeep about fifty paces from the front steps of the club, when he sees me stumble. Smitty, you know as well as I do that you don’t have to be drunk to stumble, which is what I did. I didn’t fall, I just stumbled and recovered. I caught the railing and that was it. The MP, however, is giving me the evil eye so I waved to him, and said, loud enough for him to hear, “When did they add that extra step?” I laughed; he didn’t. I thought it was a clever riposte, but old stone face didn’t crack a smile. He just stared in an ‘I’m watching you fella’ sort of way. That was uncalled for, Smitty. Right? He was doing then what you’re doing now—staring, not smiling. Well, I wasn’t there to make a new friend, and sadly I’d just said goodbye to some old ones. I didn’t much care about the boy-cop or what he thought, so I hopped in Old Betsy, my ‘55 Buick Roadmaster, and pumped the accelerator. You may recall, that’s a prerequisite for starting her. Unfortunately, flooding the carburetor can result in a backfire and a cloud of smoke when it does kick over, and that’s exactly what happened. Maybe that’s disturbing the peace but that’s what it takes to get Betsy’s eight cylinders all working together.”
“Brandon, don’t tell me you rammed the MP.”
“No, no, I ignored him. I accidentally burned a littl
e rubber on departure, but that happens sometimes when I pop the clutch. Remember now, Betsy has eight cylinders under her hood. They’re often reluctant to start, but always powerful when they do, and I zipped out of the lot a tad faster than expected, and sure enough, Mister I-have-nothing-better-to-do-tonight was right on my tail.”
“And you led him on a high speed chase through the streets of Fort Hood?”
“No, quite the contrary. When he signaled with his lights that he wanted me to pull over, I obeyed immediately.”
“And?”
“And I jumped out of Old Betsy and met him half way. I think I scared him because he had one hand on his holstered gun and the other pressing on the transmit button calling for backup. I guess I was out of line. I said a few things that were insulting.”
“Such as?”
“Come on Smitty, what would you say?”
“I’d say nothing, but I suspect you had a lot to say.”
“I suppose I did. It wasn’t flattering, I remember that. Standard stuff.”
“Standard stuff? How’d that go over? Did he cuff you?”
“Smitty, please, how long have you known me? In almost twenty years have you met the man who could cuff me?”
“Uh-oh. What did you do? Resist arrest?”
“A little, but they did cuff me.”
“They?”
“Yeah, the cavalry arrived and they cuffed me. Took me to the station on post and things went downhill from there.”
“Oh, Brandon, you knucklehead. How can things go downhill from there? Weren’t you at the bottom already?”
“Not quite, but as I look back on it, I was getting there fast. They took the cuffs off and I stood patiently in front of the desk sergeant who studiously ignored me. That’s bad manners, right? The guy had only one rocker on his sleeve. I have three. How about showing a little respect. But no, he was actually trying to intimidate me, to annoy me, and as patient as I am, Smitty, I must say being ignored and made to stand there like a supplicant did begin to wear on me. After a minute or two I said, ‘writing the sequel to War and Peace, Tolstoy?’ and I hear clapping. Not enthusiastic clapping, just hesitant clapping, for lack of a better word, clapping intended to be sarcastic. Do you know what I mean? I looked over and see this fat man in a uniform. His gut hung over his belt. I’m sure he hadn’t seen his dick in years. He was obese, a light colonel with ketchup on his collar and a cigar stub in his mouth. I thought I was on Candid Camera. He swaggered over like he was John fucking Wayne and started chewing my ass. I couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe you and Willy and a few of the guys had set this up. It was an act; it had to be. The colonel was going for an Oscar, and then I realize it’s real. He’s serious and it’s for the benefit of the four impressionable, young MPs who are in the room with me. They’re standing like statues at parade rest, very military, with hands overlapped, knuckles at the small of the back, elbows flared outward. The big shot is on a roll and he’s pushing all my buttons. Who the hell did he think he was, Smitty, Patton? He circles me, looking me up and down, telling me I’m a disgrace, asking me, me, how could I expect to lead men in battle when I could not command their respect. Tellin’ me I’m a disgrace to the uniform when he could barely fit in his. After calling me a common drunk and a few other things, I noticed one of his young MPs smile. That did it. This pompous wind sock was their role model and I lost it, Smitty. I hit him in the gut as hard as I could, just one punch and he folded like a tent, but that cigar he chewed on, sailed out of his mouth. A whoosh of hot air followed, just like the gas that follows a shell out the barrel. Just missed my head. His men were too stunned to move. I turned back to the desk sergeant to see if he was still writing and he wasn’t. I now had his full attention.”
“God Almighty, Brandon. I knew you were in trouble, but this is bad. You’ll be court marshaled; you know that, don’t you?”
“That’s what my defense council says. He’s a real optimist. I’m glad he’s not the prosecutor. I screwed up, Smitty, no doubt about it. As rewarding as it was to deck that swaggering tub of lard, it wasn’t worth my career and prison time, and that’s what my cheerful defense lawyer says awaits me.”
“He is an optimist, Brandon. This time you’ve really done it. That colonel may be an empty vessel but he’s the top cop on base and he’s an officer and you’re not, and guess what, you won’t be judged by a jury of your peers, you’ll be judged by a panel of officers who might be thinking, ‘it could have been me’.”
The Hearing
When asked to describe what he had witnessed, MP Private Breddin from Macon, Georgia said, “It happened with lightning speed, sir. The colonel was reading Sergeant Stiles the Riot Act, really dressing him down, when suddenly the colonel hit the floor like his legs disappeared. It was bizarre.”
“What do you mean? Did you see Sergeant Brandon Stiles strike Colonel Winn or not?” one of several judges asked.
“Yes sir, I did, I saw it happen very clearly and in my mind I can run it in slow motion. I’d never seen a man move so fast. I’d call it a karate strike for lack of a better definition. Sergeant Stiles was standing at relaxed attention listening to the colonel’s critique when his right hand suddenly moved to waist level, palm up. Like this. Then his fist shot forward toward the colonel, like this. I think his fist rotated knuckles up before contact but I can’t say for sure. Then he was back at attention like nothing happened. If I had blinked, I’d not be able to testify as to what happened.”
“Did you or any other MP make an attempt to protect your superior, to prevent this attack on Colonel Winn, Private Breddin?”
“No sir. It happened too fast. We still had our hands behind our backs when we saw the colonel hit the linoleum.” He grinned.
The panel of judges had asked Brandon if he cared to speak in his defense before they ruled on the charges before them. A muted “no sir” was Brandon’s reply. The ruling came quickly.
“Sergeant Stiles, this court is deeply concerned by this attack on a superior. An army cannot function without respect for authority, without adherence to rules and regulations, without obedience and discipline. Without order, the army of the United States of America would be a mob. Without consideration of your service record, this court would strip you of all rank and send you to a military prison for a period of several years, but we have considered your record Sergeant Stiles and it is impressive. You have been in the service of your country since you were nineteen years old and are eligible for retirement next year. The decorations and rank you are wearing tell the story of a soldier who has served long and well. It is therefore with regret that we find you guilty of all charges and hereby demote you in rank to Sergeant First Class with forfeiture of pay and privileges. Because your brigade commander has spoken on your behalf, and made a plea to this court, you will be allowed to complete your studies at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California before rejoining your unit, now preparing to deploy. You will serve no prison time. Following this deployment, however, you will, upon return to the United States, be retired, reduced in rank, and pay grade, and given a less than honorable discharge from the service. This Court is adjourned.”
Brandon stood as the panel of judges filed out of the hearing room. His lawyer placed a consoling hand on his shoulder saying, “It could have been worse.” Brandon ignored the remark and turned to look across the room. His eyes met those of Lt. Col. Winn. There was no machismo now. The colonel averted his eyes and turned away.
“Sorry, Colonel,” Brandon said beneath his breath.
Master Sergeant Jason Smith had been in the courtroom that day and he came forward to console his old friend. “Brandon, I wish you’d stayed in California and not taken leave. If you had, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Yeah, but it did. What’s done is done.”
“Right. What’s done is done. So, you should have killed that smug prima donna, B
randon. Your sentence probably would have been the same.”
Brandon nodded, and then smiled, saying, “Smitty, you should have been there. When my fist sank about six inches deep into his marbled fat, the cigar he was chomping on launched like an arrow. Just missed me. The MPs didn’t know what to do. The Big Shot Colonel was struttin’ his stuff one minute and gasping for air the next. Should they pick him up or come after me? They had a real dilemma. It just happened, Smitty, I snapped. It sure as hell wasn’t worth twenty years of sweat and tears. My career path just took a detour to plan B. I was planning to hang around another ten years but you heard the man. I guess I should be grateful, at least I’ll be allowed to retire with twenty.”
“Yeah, it sucks, Brandon, but the judges were sympathetic. They could have drummed you out right then and there, sent you to prison, and stripped you of all rank and any retirement pay. As is, they just cut you down to size, and now—I out rank you, as I should have all along.”
“Why you lousy, little… I ought to…”
Smitty jumped back, laughing. “Careful now, you don’t want to strike another superior.”
2
Desert Storm; Cease Fire
A world away and almost seven months after his trial, rivulets of sweat trickled down Brandon’s face and neck, turning his desert-brown T-shirt a shade darker.
“Hey, Smitty!” Brandon shouted before mumbling, “Now where did he go?”
“Maybe you need a seein’-eye dog, old man. If I was any closer to you, it’d start a rumor,” Smitty said as he arose from his crouched position just feet away but hidden by a rack of munitions. “Just can’t stand to let me out of your sight can you?”
“You need counseling, Smitty. You’re seriously messed up.”
“Yes, doctor. Has my session started?”
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