by Doug Beason
“Ifrit! Get back and call a general alert. Every man available is to converge on the airport. I will headquarter at the control tower.”
He gave the messenger a shove; the man stumbled down the hall and disappeared around the corner. Kamil pointed at the armed militiamen at either end of the corridor. “All of you, come with me.” He kicked open the door and took aim with his gun. A nude boy was lying on top of Hujr. He screamed as the door crashed open.
Hujr swung him around toward Kamil. General Kamil’s gun cracked three times in succession. Hujr and the boy lay still, blood gushing from wounds in each of their bodies.
Kamil tried to pull off another two rounds, but his pistol clicked empty. The boy twitched slightly. Cursing, Kamil started to reload his weapon, but when Hujr didn’t move, he turned from the room.
“You.” Kamil motioned with his eyes at the militiaman who had guarded the door. “Put another bullet through both of them. Make sure they are dead, then join us at the airport.”
“Yes, General.”
Running down the hall, Kamil withdrew a cartridge from his belt and reloaded his pistol. As he turned the corner with the remainder of the militiamen, the one guarding the door entered the room, keeping his rifle pointed at the bodies.
The boy lay limp to one side; blood oozed from a small wound in his back. The man was still.
As the guard approached, he thought he heard a noise. He stopped and frowned. Was it his imagination? The boy should be dead. He moved back to the door and listened in the hallway, but he didn’t hear a sound. Kamil and the troops had left, leaving no one around.
He pulled up his weapon and moved toward the two to finish them off.
Ojo-1
The engines started like a charm. Gould performed automatically, like a machine.
The TAV ran through its computerized checklist, the screen finally flashing green when all systems indicated a go.
He punched on the JATOs, giving no warning to the passengers in back. He didn’t care who was back there; all he wanted to do was to get back home. And start over.
Delores dead.…and the first time he had found someone he really cared for.…
But he couldn’t think of her now. He had to concentrate on what he was doing. With the TAV filled to the max, he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
He pushed her from his mind. He tried to convince himself that there would be a time and place to grieve, a time and place to think about it. Why did it have to happen like this? It just wasn’t fair.
The runway looked clear. Through the IR canopy, the nine thousand feet of asphalt looked like a long, shimmering ribbon. To his right the horizon was bathed in a dull glow, which grew brighter with every passing second. The sun was rising.
He decided to keep the canopy on IR until he took off, just in case those Do’brainese crazies decided to throw another truck his way. Another suicide attempt and he’d be dead, along with the President and those fearless young marines who had rescued the chief executive.
To his left, Delores’ TAV burned as a yellow-white glow. A funeral pyre, belching an orgy of streaming flames, demarcated Delores’ grave. Even the smoke showed up on the infrared-sensitive canopy as a rising cloud of brilliant, turbulent heat.
He could almost hear Delores now: “Okay, hotshot—so you’re not a fighter pilot after all, but just a rotorpuke who should be out flying helicopters. You don’t even have the gonads to get the hell out of here.”
No, she’d never say that—she was too good to put herself above anybody, himself included.
But what would she do? She’d get the hell out of Dodge, that’s what she’d do. She wouldn’t be feeling sorry for him if he had died instead of her; at least she wouldn’t be letting it get in the way of what she had to do.
Before running up the JATO units, Gould grabbed the intercom and made the announcement for the passengers to strap in. That’s the least she would have done.
Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac
Outside the TAV, the marines gathered the weapons of the eleven who were on board. They moved to a shallow depression to the south as the TAV’s engine noise began to grow.
With a sudden explosion, blue fire burst from the JATOs as the units ignited, and the craft rolled down the runway. The roar washed over the marines. They covered their ears to block out the white noise.
Powered by its external JATO engines, the TAV lifted off the ground and clawed into the sky. The craft seemed to crawl forward, moving upward with a sagging gait. It barely advanced but grew perceptibly smaller in the distance.
As it flew from sight it made a sudden nosedive, picked up speed, then shot up into the sky as the scramjets kicked in. Within seconds the pop of the scramjets’ ignition reached them.
The sky was just starting to show a tinge of red along the horizon. In the desert silence the burning TAV smoldered at the runway’s middle, belching white smoke along with the black.
The dry air smelled sweet, strange.…Krandel hadn’t noticed it before, but the place was almost serene. If he had been here any other time, it would have been pleasant.
Half a mile away sat the 787. It was quiet, too, and it was hard to fathom that only a short time before all the shooting and chaos was centered about that jumbo jet.
They prepared their spot in the depression and sat in a circle with their backs to one another, watching through the dawn, keeping an eye out for the troops they knew would come.
Through his growing pain from the wound, Krandel finally felt a part of the unit. The unspoken camaraderie bound them together. They sat, alert, ready to finish the job.…and still they kept the hope that their brothers would be back and would not forget them.
Camp Pendleton, California
The waves rolled to the shore, crashing onto the beach not twenty feet from where the children played. Maureen Krandel put down her book and squinted into the setting sun. She held up a hand to shield her eyes. Justin and Julie squealed with pleasure as they ran to and fro on the sand, playing tag with the water as it came, then receded into the ocean. A red bucket and a bright yellow shovel dropped by Justin lay near the water, where the waves grew perilously near.
The two and a half hours in the sun started to show on the children: They both wore white T-shirts, and they had plenty of sunscreen on their faces, but the beet-redness from a sunburn still showed on their skin. They got their fairness from their mother, and no matter how much protection Maureen tried to bestow upon them, they could never hide completely from the sun.
It was the same way with her husband—not with the sun, but with his devotion to his job. No matter how much she tried to protect him, his job doggedly sought him out, enveloping him and always taking him away. After he had left their home she had spent an hour on the phone with the other wives. None of the other spouses knew what was going on, and none of the marines she had called wanted to talk about it.
In desperation, she tried to contact General Vandervoos, but his phone lines were tied up. Camp Pendleton was closed tight, and no information, no matter how mundane, was leaking out.
The news media were as much in the dark as she—no news of any sort surfaced on the TV. She couldn’t imagine what it was, but she was certain that it wasn’t “just an exercise,” as her husband had tried to convince her it was.
He was gone; for how long she didn’t know. As to where and why, they were only incidental to the one question she feared most: Would she ever see him again?
She realized that, with his job, he might be called away at any time. And although she didn’t fully understand the true nature of what he was doing out there, the possibility existed that he would be away for a long time.
What’s a long time? At least in war, one could be conditioned against seeing her husband for months on end. But in peacetime? A day could be a long time—if she wasn’t ready for it.
The marine camp was mum on when he’d be back. She just prayed that he would come back.
Her mea
nderings were interrupted by Justin’s shrill screams. The plastic shovel he had used while playing in the sand had floated out into the ocean. Julie was holding him back, preventing him from going after it; turning her head, the girl yelled for Maureen to help her.
The yellow shovel bobbed up and down as it slowly moved away, spinning as the turbulent waves rocked it. Maureen stood and called the children back to her. As they approached she gathered them into her arms and started crying.
Ojo-1
The President groaned when shaken awake. “Sir, we’re over the worst of it. Our ETA into Dulles is in twenty minutes.”
The President shook his head. The whole trip—the capture, the rescue, those awful g’s when the ramjet had lit, and now this weightlessness—seemed a nightmare.…except for those marines.…
“We have contact with the National Emergency Command Center, if you want to speak with them.”
“Yes.…put them on.” In the weightless environment the marine swam to the cockpit and came back, unrolling a line of wire and a pair of headphones as he held the webbing.
Montoya studied the marine as he came forward. One side of the man’s face was blackened by soot and oil; underneath the grime, tiny blisters could be seen. They were raw and red, almost ready to pop.
Montoya asked the marine, “What happened to you, soldier?”
The man held out the headphones to Montoya. “Nothing
much, sir.”
“Soldier, you look hurt.”
The marine seemed embarrassed. “Just some burns, sir. I was trying to help some of my buddies get away from the fire.”
“Looks like you might have received some third-degree burns. I want you to get help as soon as we land. And if there is anything I can do for you, I’ll do the best I can.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, sir?”
“Eh?”
“Begging the President’s pardon, sir—but there is one thing you can do.”
“Well? What is it, soldier?”
“You could call us marines, sir. We’re not dogfaces—soldiers, that is, sir. We’re United States Marines.” The marine reddened. “Sorry, Mr. President. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but we’re mighty proud of the Corps.”
“My mistake, marine.” Montoya felt lousy. Here these young men risk their lives for him—a few even get killed—and he doesn’t have the decency to call them by their right title.
“’S all right, sir. Here’s the line to the NECC.”
“Thank you, marine.” The President fumbled with the set and secured it to his head, wincing as he inadvertently hit his foot while moving.
Vice President Woodstone was on the line, apologizing. “The rescue was our only option.…and we thought it wouldn’t hurt you in the polls. After all, none of your party was harmed, and I don’t think we upset either the ALH or the Do’brai government too much—”
The President cut in. “Do you know we had to leave eleven marines behind? And one air force pilot, as well as two marines, died in the rescue.”
The Vice President sounded puzzled. “Of course, but we’ve been in constant contact with the Do’brainese embassy, and they’ve assured us that once they’ve found them, the marines will be taken care of and unharmed. And more important, they’ve promised not to reveal the rescue operation to the press if we keep this, uh, contretemps quiet.
“You see, the Do’brainese swear they had nothing to do with it. It was all an ALH plot to try to discredit them and the United States. I tried to hold off as long as possible, but you know how insistent Baca and that military chief of staff can get. Anyway, the Do’brai government wants us to have our marines give up. They promise to return them—”
The President coughed. Holding his side, he spoke dryly. “Just like they promised to treat me well, no doubt. I may be a pacifist, Percy, but I’m no fool. Have the air force launch the remaining five TAVs. Get our marines out of there.”
The silence was deafening. The Vice President came back slowly. “I must have misunderstood what you said. We have a bad connection—”
“You heard me. Bring our boys home! I want the air force to close up Do’brai as tight as a drum. I don’t care if we have to keep our planes in the air for twenty-four hours straight—our marines are coming home. Nothing is to leave Do’brai—by air or ground—unless we’re in control of it. Do you understand?”
After a moment the headphone came back to life. Woodstone answered with an edge to his voice. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.…I understand.”
Montoya sounded weary. “Very well, keep me informed.” The President relaxed, tearing off the headphones. His feet hurt like hell, and his thigh ached, but thank God, he was still alive.
He studied the men around him. Across the aisle a young marine slept with his mouth open, confident that the TAV pilot would bring him safely home.
Montoya swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to see that those they had left behind would make it as well.
Do’brai
Hujr tightened his body when he heard the yelling outside the door. He couldn’t hear what was going on, but he could hear Kamil’s voice. The young nymph moved demurely over Hujr’s body, urging him to continue in their lovemaking, but Hujr remained tense, unsure of the turn of events.
The small sanctuary Kamil had offered him was a piece of heaven on earth, and he was grateful for it—but he had also been promised at least a day’s rest before he would be disturbed. Kamil had told him the American President wouldn’t be moved until the following day, and with the assurance that he would be left alone, Hujr felt safe in the general’s hands.
But now the rumblings outside the door put Hujr on edge. The boy started to protest, but Hujr quieted him with a finger to his lips.
The door blew open, and Hujr reacted instantly, rolling to his side and pulling the boy with him. He didn’t feel the first bullet; it ripped into the boy, and he screamed, his legs jerking spasmodically, almost throwing him away from him. The next two bullets found Hujr, one grazing his forehead and the other digging into his shoulder.
The shooting stopped.
Hujr allowed his body to twist and fall from the elevated mat, feigning death. It was difficult to lie still with the pain, but he forced himself to be dormant. If he could keep immobile, he could swing out and jump the assassin when the person moved closer to finish him off.…
The expected shot never came. An empty chamber clicked off. Kamil’s voice cursed at someone in the hall; then all Hujr could hear was the pounding of feet as troops raced past his door. The room was still for several heartbeats. The boy moaned lightly, his arms twitching against the mat.
Hujr was about to move when the door creaked shut. There was movement in the room. Someone had walked in and was inspecting the chamber. Hujr held as still as he could, trying not to breathe lest the person detect that he was alive.
A moment passed. When the boy moaned Hujr heard the guard move to the door, then walk close and chamber his rifle—
Hujr snapped his feet up and knocked the man in the knees. As the man staggered forward, reached up and dug his hands into the man’s throat.
The guard sputtered, then choked as Hujr slowly finished the job.
Hujr pushed the guard away in disgust. His shoulder throbbed from the bullet wound. The boy was still unconscious, bleeding from his own injury. Hujr dressed quickly, and before he left he paused to put a bullet through the man’s head. At least he would be sure the man would never catch up with him, a lesson that the guard should have learned.
He listened at the door and, satisfied that no one was on the other side, cracked it open to survey the hall.
The place was deserted except for a body slumped in the middle of the corridor. From Hujr’s position, the body looked faintly familiar.
Hujr crept out and turned the body over. His pulse yammered at him. It was Du’Ali! Seemingly unrelated events began to click in his mind. His seclusion in total secrecy, even from Kamil’s own troops, now made sens
e: Kamil wanted no one to know of Do’brai’s involvement in the kidnapping.
Hujr backed into the room and gathered the guard’s weapons: a knife, a pistol, and a high-powered rifle. Wrapping a soiled handkerchief around his upper arm, he was able to halt most of the blood still oozing from his wound.
He’d have to move out, and fast—he didn’t know when to expect the troops back. He was used to moving clandestinely through Do’brai; that presented no problem. But wherever he went, he knew that General Kamil would have a price on his head. He wasn’t sure why, but that didn’t matter.
He was used to being a wanted man, but for someone to double-cross him—that was unforgivable. Therefore, there was only one thing he could do.
He made up his mind to hunt the general down.
U.S.S.S. Bifrost
“So what if we’ve never done it before? Give the marines direct control of the runway clearer, damn it.” Lieutenant Colonel Frier jutted out his jaw and stared defiantly at the army general filling his monitor. So what the hell were they going to do to him if he talked back to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—take away his birthday? They sure as hell couldn’t court-martial him up here. Not now, anyway.
General Batman Peters’ face remained impassive for only a fraction of a second; the delay was due to Frier’s transmission bouncing off two geosynchronous satellites, to the White House and back to BIGEYE again. But when Peters’ expression did change, the general wore a scowl.
“Listen, George, we can’t afford to relinquish control of the runway clearer—”
“You mean you can’t afford to relinquish control, General. You’re the only one in the NECC who realizes how bad things are in Do’brai.”
“All right,” conceded Peters. “I can’t allow you to control it.”
“But I wouldn’t control it, I’d only relay Colonel Krandel’s instructions. Krandel is in direct contact with BIGEYE, and he’s the one whose ass is on the line. He doesn’t want to rely on the whim of the NECC to protect his men.”
“I understand that, George.”
“Then do something! Do they want these boys to live or die down there? Ever since Vandenberg launched the runway clearer, the NECC has refused to let it do what it was designed to do. Whose side are they on, anyway?”