by Doug Beason
“We thought the President was near the runway. You know we couldn’t allow that runway clearer to let loose its salvo.”
Frier sounded weary. “I know that. But now that Krandel’s men are holed up and the President is gone, let them direct its firepower. All they have to do is relay their orders up to BIGEYE, and we’ll shoot the coded directions down to the runway clearer. It’s a piece of cake.”
Peters gnawed on his lip. The delay seemed a little longer than usual this time. The general replied, “Giving Krandel control of the runway clearer would ruin the Vice President’s plan to get out of this situation with no injuries.”
“Too late for that, general. Two marines and a TAV pilot have already died, and Krandel estimates a dozen Do’brai militia have bit the big one.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do—but I can’t promise anything.” Frier started to grin as Peters came back: “And you’re lucky you’re not coming down to Earth anytime soon, George, or I’d have you strung up for insubordination.” He paused, then added, “But thank goodness someone besides those marines has balls. I’ll let you know ASAP, if not sooner, on that.”
Camp Pendleton, California
“Men, I’m not going to give you any rah-rah bullshit.” General Vandervoos paused and looked around the room. “I’ll lay it out for you straight: Eleven marines are fighting for their lives in Do’brai. Six hours ago I told you that the President of the United States had been kidnapped. Our men have successfully rescued him, and he’s due to land at Dulles in fifteen minutes. But he wasn’t freed without a price. Two marines—Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski and Corporal Henderson—and an air force pilot died in the rescue. One of the TAVs we sent in was destroyed, and now eleven of our brothers are depending on us to get them back.
“We’re sending in the five remaining TAVs. Three of them will carry fuel to get you back; the other two will transport the remainder of the RDF to Do’brai.” General Vandervoos tried to chomp on his unlit cigar. When the stogie fell apart in his teeth, he threw it wearily to the side.
The man looked beat. Deep, dark circles enveloped his eyes, and his face was gray, but his voice still had an edge to it. “So I’m not giving you a pep talk. If you need one, you shouldn’t be here.
“You men are all professionals—and I don’t mean like some regulation-happy son-of-a-bitch who’d rather see a rule followed than the job get done. I mean professional in the sense that when you know a fellow marine is dying, you’re going to do everything you can to rescue his ass. Even if it means you may die trying. You’ll do it because you’re a marine; because there are things like God and country, duty and honor and freedom, which mean more to you than anything else on earth.…”
Vandervoos stopped, glassy-eyed, and almost choked on his words. He surveyed the group of forty men, but none batted an eye. Only Captain Weston, standing guard over his platoon in the rear of the lecture room, nodded his head.
General Vandervoos ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m getting old, rambling on like that. But damn it, I’d go with you if I could.” He straightened and spoke in a whisper. “Men, your brothers are out there. You’re going because if you were in their place, they’d be coming after you.” There was silence for several moments. He lifted his head. “Captain Weston, do you have anything to say?”
Weston spoke up from the back. “Only some tactical information, sir. BIGEYE has Colonel Krandel’s men holed up in a small depression east of the runway. We’ll be coming in on the TAVs from opposite directions to try to confuse any enemy fire that may be present. The plan is to disembark and cover the three TAVs coming in with the fuel bladders, refuel, and get out of there as fast as we can.”
“Good. Good. Any last questions?” The atmosphere was tense. “I know you men haven’t contacted your families in over six hours now, but we still need the news blackout. Your TAVs load in ten minutes. Good luck, marines.”
Vandervoos strode abruptly from the room. The men jumped, knocking over chairs in their haste to stand at attention as the general exited.
Once the general cleared the door, Weston moved to the front. “You heard him—nobody screws up and nobody dies. Let’s roll.” He threw open the door, and the men filed silently out, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
They knew the general was right. If they were the ones in Do’brai, they would be the ones being rescued. And nobody wanted to screw up his own rescue.
Do’brai
General Kamil reached the staff car on the run. He commandeered the vehicle, threw the driver from the seat, and tore off for the airport.
Behind him, the militiamen scrambled aboard an old, brown military bus. Belching smoke, the bus rumbled after their leader.
Kamil drove steadily through the dusty streets, keeping his cool, but pressing the car ever faster. The traffic was sparse at this time of the morning, but he still had to swerve to miss carts and animals as early-morning hawkers gathered to display their wares at market.
He reached the airport as the sound of an explosion filled the air. His first thought was that something had happened to the plane carrying Montoya and the ALH. But a glimmer in the air caught his eye. Looking up, he could barely make out the sleek outline of a black jet, a jet unlike any he’d ever seen before. The jet staggered into the air, lurching like a lowlife who’d partaken of too much hashish. The nose tipped down and the jet accelerated toward the ground, going ever faster.
Suddenly, a ball of fire erupted from the jet, and the plane took off into the sky with its tail on fire.
Kamil slammed the car door shut and ran into the control tower just as the bus carrying the militiamen pulled up. Reaching the tower offices, Kamil burst into the control room.
“Quick. Someone tell me what is going on.”
A man pointed a finger at a fire smoldering at the far end of the runway. “We were attacked.”
“By whom?”
“I do not know. They took the bus and killed most of the ALH representatives.”
“The staff car I sent out. Did they get the passenger I put in the staff car?”
The controllers looked at one another. “We think so.”
“Ifirit!” Kamil slammed a fist onto a radar console. As he turned, his face grew red. “Who allowed this to happen?” When no one answered, he started a tirade, cursing and accusing everyone present of heinous crimes against the state.
One man finally spoke up. “General, we do not know who it was, or what happened—”
“Of course not, you fool! You will die for this act!”
“But General, we were able to destroy one of their planes.”
Kamil turned and seemed to notice the burning aircraft for the first time. Black smoke rose from a pile of red-hot burning metal on the tarmac.
Once the general calmed down, the man continued quickly. “And we think there may still be some of their men near the runway.”
Kamil narrowed his eyes and scouted the area. “Have you seen any of these men?”
“We were not able to identify them for certain, General, but we have spotted a few of them.”
Kamil chewed this over, then decided to contact Ash’ath. He barked for a phone, and the men scurried to accommodate him. They fully realized their lives might depend on how they reacted in the next few minutes.
Grabbing the phone, Kamil scowled and waved them away from him so that he would not be overheard. Kamil got through to President Ash’ath, pushing past the ingrained bureaucracy, using both threats and his special access privileges.
“I have been briefed on the incident, Kamil.”
Kamil spoke quietly, keeping his voice from being heard by the others in the room. “Yes, Excellency. If it is your wish, I will decimate the remaining intruders. They should be hanged and slaughtered for all to know that it is foolish to deal with Do’brai.”
“I think that will not be necessary, Kamil. There are other ways to deal with this matter. And if these intruders are from the United States, as I am su
re they are, then there just may be a way to salvage this debacle.”
“Yes, Excellency?”
“If we act fast, and intelligently, I believe we will be able to strike a deal with the United States.…one to force them to try to save face.”
“I do not understand—”
“I will issue an apology to the United States and offer to safely return their people to them. Your orders, then, Kamil, are to insure that none of these men escapes.”
“Gladly, Excellency. We will butcher—”
“Do not harm them. Do you understand? I want them alive.”
Kamil was shocked. “Surely you are not thinking of returning them unpunished? After what they did to us?”
Ash’ath came back gently. “No, Kamil. I do not intend to return them, nor do I intend to allow them to go unpunished. But the United States must be taught a lesson.
“Here we must act carefully. Privately, the U.S. must be assured that Do’brai had no part in their President’s kidnapping—that was something that a splinter group of the ALH pulled off. Publicly, we will deny that anything happened except that our homeland was invaded. In addition, it would be a shame to waste all the news media’s time by having no execution for them to telecast. The United States must know that our country is sacrosanct.”
“Then, the American invaders.…?”
“Exactly. We will allow the ALH delegates to fly on to Kapuir with the Americans you will capture. There the invaders will be executed by the ALH for trying to overthrow Do’brai, a country with whom the ALH has strong ties.”
“But won’t the United States connect us with the ALH?”
Ash’ath paused. “Must I tell you everything? Once the plane departs for Kapuir we will issue a statement deploring the acts of both the ALH and the United States. The first statement will blast the United States’ aborted invasion of Do’brai. The second statement will scorn the ALH’s taking matters into their own hands. The ALH will appear to break their promise to us not to harm the American invaders.
“The American President will never be mentioned. The United States will never admit that a lone hijacker managed to kidnap their President—they will insist it was a renegade ALH plot. And once we destroy Air Force One, they will not have any proof connecting the alleged hijacking to Do’brai. As far as they are concerned, the ALH is behind all of this. Just be sure you do what I say.”
Kamil bowed, even though he spoke on the phone. “It is done.”
Chapter 10
0430 ZULU: SUNDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER
The two highest achievements of the human mind are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.” Whenever these twin concepts fall into disrepute—get out of there fast! You may possibly save yourself, but it is too late to save that society. It is doomed.
Robert A. Heinlein
Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.
“Mr. President, we have an ambulance waiting for you. Can you walk by yourself, or do you need help?”
Montoya forced the words. He sounded almost incoherent. “You’d better help me, son. I don’t think I’ll be able to hobble out of here on my own. Just get me to the White House as soon as you can.”
The doctor motioned, and two Secret Service men pushed their way through the TAV and gently helped Montoya to his feet. The marines stood aside and made room for the men.
Montoya grimaced, but the agents took all his weight off his feet and carried him under the shoulders. The doctor led the way out of the hatch. “We’ll have to hospitalize you first, Mr. President. We have to do something about your feet or they’ll get infected.”
Montoya struggled, causing the agents to stop their progress. “Hospitalize me, like hell! I want a chopper out here now.”
“Mr. President—”
“Young man, that’s a presidential order. I’ve got to see to the rescue.” The President grabbed Gould as the pilot emerged from the TAV’s cockpit. “Son, you’ve got to make sure those marines get out of there. You pulled me out of Do’brai—you’ve got to do it again.”
Gould was taken aback. “Yes, sir.…” He glanced at the doctor. The President held Gould’s hand tightly, refusing to let go.
The doctor raised his brows at Gould. “If you can help us get out of your plane, I’d appreciate it.” He then nodded to the agents. “Let’s get him out of here.”
Gould went with them as they moved out of the hatch and into a waiting ambulance. Montoya continued to protest, becoming violent.
The TAV was ringed with guards, the majority of them in the dark business suits of Secret Service agents, but there was a smattering of military, state, and local police mixed in with the rest. Once inside the ambulance, the doctor pulled out a syringe.
“Mr. President, this shot will make you feel better.” He injected the needle and slowly pushed the plunger.
“You better not dope me up. I’ve got too much to do when I get back. And where’s that helicopter? I thought I told you I want to return immediately to the White House.”
“It’s coming, Mr. President. We’ve just had to lay you down for a while.”
“It had better get here.” Within moments Montoya slowly started muttering in Spanish. He giggled to himself. When his head rolled to the side, the doctor ordered the driver: “Let’s get out of here—and fast. He’s in bad shape.”
Gould released the President’s hand as he moved from the ambulance. “Is he okay?”
“He won’t be unless we get him out of here. He’s got dehydration, shock, loss of blood, and it looks like what we call the kidnapper’s syndrome. His blood pressure is sky-high, and he’ll die if we don’t settle him down. We’re lucky the White House warned us about his condition. We’ve got to go.” The doctor slammed the door shut, and the ambulance screamed away.
Gould watched in silence as they left, ignoring the marines filing out of the TAV behind him. An emptiness filled him, a void left over from the rescue and Delores. Great, he thought. What was he supposed to do now?
Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac
Krandel fingered his rifle and fought to keep his eyes open. The clouds above them turned cotton-candy pink as the sun just hit their periphery. The desert’s red horizon turned bright and finally evaporated into a glaring blaze as the sun began its journey across the sky.
To Krandel’s left the TAV had stopped belching smoke, but the smell of JP-12 still reached them, mixing with the delicate morning breeze. They sat in a circle with their backs to one another, waiting and watching for the reprisal. An hour had passed since the other TAV had left. Except for sporadic gunfire and shouts from people unseen, no contact had been made with the Do’brainese forces.
It made the men uneasy.
Krandel shared in their worry but didn’t voice his concerns out loud.
“Colonel, how much longer until they attack?”
Krandel answered automatically. “Fifteen miles.”
“Oh—yes, sir,” the puzzled voice came back.
His flippant retort didn’t seem as funny now as it had back then—was it fifteen years before?—when Krandel, one summer while still a midshipman, served as a ranger for the Boy Scouts at Philmont Scout Ranch. The sprawling scout ranch where Krandel spent one summer taking Boy Scouts up in the mountains brought back memories. The scouts were usually ill-prepared for the arduous mountain hiking, and when the groans and griping started, their exhausted cry soon became: “How much longer, Mr. Ranger? How many more miles until we get to camp?”
And his reply would come: “Fifteen miles.”
No matter how much farther, no matter how much longer—even if the campsite was just around the bend—“fifteen miles” was the standard answer.
Fifteen more miles.
Krandel wished it could still be that simple—achieving sanctuary after a fifteen-mile jaunt through the mountains. It would be a piece of cake.
But things were different now. They were in a boatload of trouble. And like it or not, he was
their commander. A genuine, combat-trained, service-ready jarhead—and he was in control. But what could he do?
If the NECC would allow him to control the runway clearer from here, it would add immensely to their firepower. The tank-like device squatted not two hundred yards away—an ugly but fully operable piece of war equipment controlled through the satellite link with BIGEYE. They had planned to destroy it by blowing it up once both TAVs had left.
He felt momentarily ashamed that he’d been flippant with that marine a moment earlier. The man actually looked up to him, and how often does that happen? His thoughts drifted to when he was at the Pentagon. There he was lucky to get even a nod with all the brass strutting around.
Krandel half turned to the men and said in a stage whisper, “They’re waiting until it’s light enough to see clearly. This airport is barely up to international standards, so it’s an even bet that the Do’brai militia doesn’t have any sophisticated gear to see clearly in the dark. Which reminds me—if you haven’t taken off your IR goggles, go ahead and do so now.”
“Shall we toss them, Colonel, or do you want us to keep them handy? They might get in our way later on.”
“Eh?” He hadn’t thought of that. He started to tell them to toss the gear, but he realized that he should be keeping the men’s morale up, too. “No, we may be here for a while. It may take until nightfall for us to get out of here if the TAVs take that long, so don’t throw the goggles away. Toss them in the center with the rest of the gear.”
“Aye, aye, Colonel.”
Krandel turned back to cover his area as the men placed their goggles behind them, into the center of the depression.
The sun was above the horizon now, and the first rays were lighting up Do’brai’s terminal. A low hum of activity permeated the air. Krandel strained to catch voices in the distance.
The drone of a truck engine caught his attention. He felt an overwhelming urge to urinate, but he fought it down. His breath quickened and his heart started yammering. Something was up, and crap was going to hit the fan, and soon. It was the same feeling he had had just before he jumped from the TAV. The sound grew louder.