by Doug Beason
“Behind you, Colonel. They’re coming from the opposite end of the runway.”
“All right, this is it.” Krandel twisted his hands on the rifle stock. It was already slippery from his sweat. “Wait for my order before you shoot, unless some son of a bitch shoots first. We’ll wait this out as long as we can to save ammunition.
“Cover the area in front of you, and sing out if you see anything.” He wet his lips, then called again while keeping his eyes glued to the area in front of him, “Morales?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Inform BIGEYE we’re about to get crapped on. Find out the rescue mission’s ETA, and have BIGEYE relay the bad guys’ positions to them so they can take countermeasures before they land. And have them tell Washington to get off their fat butts about the runway clearer. We want control of that sucker now.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel.”
The sounds grew steadily louder. The tension mounted, but the marines held their post.
Krandel had a sudden wild thought: What if they attack from all sides? Just throw men at us, wave after wave, until they use their own dead for protection against our fire? It had happened in Korea.…he suppressed a shudder and realized they couldn’t do that. They didn’t have nearly as many men as the Chinese had had in Korea. But the thought didn’t comfort him.
He called to Morales again with a slight edge to his voice. “What’s the holdup, Morales?”
Nothing; then: “BIGEYE can’t get through to the TAVs, sir.”
Krandel relaxed. “Good, that means they’re just about here. They’re going through the communications blackout when they reenter the atmosphere.”
“Sir?”
“What, Morales?”
“Sir.…BIGEYE reports it’s too early for the communications blackout with the TAVs. They don’t answer BIGEYE’s query.”
Shouting started on Krandel’s left. A horde of men swarmed over an embankment, scrambling down the earthen side and into a ditch, where they were positioned out of sight of the marines. Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle came from above.
“Incoming!”
The marines sprawled flat, automatically collapsing in a prone position. Shrapnel sprayed the air as the mortar exploded. All hell broke loose, but the Do’brainese stayed hidden. There was no one to shoot at, and the marines didn’t have any ballistic weapons with which to respond.
Krandel yelled over the firing, “Tell BIGEYE to position the runway clearer.”
“The NECC hasn’t released it yet, Colonel.”
Another round exploded, landing to their right; the next one would be a bull’s-eye.
“When will they, damn it?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Another shell hit. Krandel yelled with his face in the ground, “The TAVs—when did they take off?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know!”
Do’brai
Hujr crept around the building, stopping to tighten the bandage around his shoulder before moving on. He made good time; the sun was starting to rise, and already he was not more than five kilometers from the airport. Slipping in and out of the alleyways was like second nature to him. He appropriated some fruits and pistachios from a cart near the marketplace, not looking at it as stealing, but considering it the right of one who lived off the land.
He was dressed as a Do’brainese peasant—loose, flowing robe, tattered headgear, and, if one viewed him from a distance, a walking stick, which was actually the high-powered rifle he had taken from the militiaman. He had but one purpose in life at this time: not revenge for Du’Ali’s death, but a settling of debts. Kamil had promised him fortune, fame, and notoriety. Instead he had been double-crossed and almost killed. And to repay the debt—following the dictum “an eye for an eye”—death permeated Hujr’s mind.
It didn’t matter how many people were around, or who would witness Kamil’s death; Hujr was prepared—the same way he had been prepared to martyr himself with the President of the United States—to bring Kamil to justice for double-crossing him.
The sound of gunfire and bombs exploding startled Hujr as he crept toward the airport. The airport was the only logical place for Kamil to be, and if he wasn’t there now, he would have to show up sometime. The distant sounds of combat convinced Hujr even more that he was headed in the right direction.
Wrapping his robe more tightly about him, he stealthily made his way across the remaining distance.
Do’brai airport control tower
The small depression looked even more inviting to Kamil now than it had half an hour earlier. The sun was rising, and the foreigners could be seen as motionless specks. Soon it would be time.
“Americans,” spat Kamil, the name leaving a nauseous taste in his mouth. “They have no concept of what it means to fight to the death. As soon as they realize their situation is hopeless, they will quickly surrender—and then they will pay for robbing me.”
Kamil put down the binoculars and looked quickly around the control tower. No one appeared to be listening. They all worked busily at their jobs, ignoring Kamil as he spoke to himself.
But they heard, thought Kamil. They would not dare admit that they were eavesdropping, for they must never know what had really happened out there, he thought—that we almost had the President of the United States. Let them think we were invaded. Let them think the intruders failed to take over Do’brai; it could only fuel the resentment against America.
He brought his binoculars back up and surveyed the remainder of the runway. The giant 787 that was to carry the ALH sat dormant. The smoking remains of the Americans’ plane were at the end of the runway, next to where the invaders hid. But something curious—large and unwieldy, looking almost like a tank—sat off the runway, halfway between the Americans and the tower. It was left over from the Americans’ raid and would have to be investigated, but only later, when Kamil had time.
The sun was fully up now. If the Americans fought back, Do’brai would have casualties, but they would be insignificant; after all, soldiers were expendable.
Bringing the binoculars down, Kamil spoke without turning. “Radio the assault force to capture the Americans. They may beat the Americans when they are captured, but if any American dies, both the soldier who killed him and his commander will be gutted.”
The order was acknowledged, and the troops that were moved into position only a half hour before began their assault.
Mortars, coupled with the tinny sound of machine-gun fire, could barely be heard through the tower’s thick windows. The firepower was designed to pin the Americans down, but it still made an awesome display.
Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.
Major Robert Gould stood with his hands on his hips and glared at the colonel in front of him. Two solid hours of debriefings by a team of air force, CIA, DIA, FBI, OSI—and probably XYZ—agents had pushed Gould to his limits. Colonel Rathson was very insistent, but Gould was arguing, “Colonel, the President of the United States ordered me to make sure those TAVs are launched. I really don’t think you can get it from any higher authority than that. They need my TAV back at Edwards, and they need it fast.”
“Nevertheless, Major, I can’t release your craft. Regulations are regulations. You’ve passed your sixteen hours of duty time, and you’ve got to have your crew rest. I appreciate the fact that you’re the only TAV pilot here, but you simply cannot fly your craft back to Edwards until you’ve had the proper rest as prescribed in the regs. Nothing you can say will make any difference. Now, I suggest that you check into a hotel, and in twelve hours I’ll release you.”
“Oh, hell.” Gould slammed a hand on the table.
“And Major.”
“Yes, Colonel?”
Colonel Rathson looked around the briefing room and lowered his voice. “Major, in any other situation I’d have you hauled up for disrespect. Your attitude is completely unprofessional. Get the message?”
Gould counted to ten under his breath. “Yes, sir
—I understand.” The whole affair was getting ridiculous. His 747 mother craft had flown cross-country to meet him at Dulles International as soon as he had launched from Edwards not eight hours earlier. Using the air force reserve facilities at Dulles, the TAV was fitted on top of the 747 and was ready to go—except that permission for Gould to fly the craft had been denied.
Rathson had flown out from Langley AFB to coordinate the recovery of the TAV, but he had his head so far up his ass going by the book that he’d thrown Gould’s plans to fly the TAV back to Edwards into an uproar.
Gould fumed and was ready to stomp out the door when a thought hit him. “Colonel?”
“Um?” Rathson lifted his eyes from his smartphone.
“Colonel, is there anything to prevent the 747 crew from flying back to Edwards carrying the TAV?”
Rathson put down his message. “What? Did I hear you correctly, Major?”
“Yes, sir. I know that I can’t fly the TAV back myself, but is there any regulation against the 747 crew flying back with the TAV?”
The colonel mulled it over. “Well, they’d have to stop at least twice to refuel with that additional weight.…but I suppose there’s nothing that says it can’t be done.”
Gould stepped forward eagerly. “Then let’s do it, Colonel. I’ve got to get that TAV back to Edwards in case they need it for another mission.” So he was telling a white lie, but what the heck?
Rathson pulled at his jaw. “Your 747 did bring along an extra crew, so they don’t have the crew rest problem you do. I suppose that as long as it’s not prohibited by the regs, it shouldn’t matter.” Rathson straightened and said firmly, “Go ahead, but you won’t be able to file your flight plan for the TAV. I’ll have to clear it with Langley.”
“Thanks, sir!”
Gould was out the door as Colonel Rathson finished his sentence. Bursting into the crew lounge, he caught the 747 pilot by the arm and explained the situation. The crew gathered around. They were agreeable to Gould’s suggestion, as they wanted to get back home without an unnecessary overnight stop.
They grabbed their gear and left for their 747, planning to leave as soon as possible. Before heading out to the plane, Gould made a quick stop at the operations desk; there was one last thing he had to check out. The colonel from Langley was nowhere in sight.
Gould collared the sergeant in charge of the ops desk. “Do you know if the TAV fuel bladder is full?”
The man checked a status board. “Yes, sir, but we have strict orders that you are not allowed to file a flight plan for the TAV.”
“I’m riding back with the 747 crew.”
“Oh. Well, in that case we’ll have to drain the TAV and the fuel bladder before you take off. The regs forbid you to transport a fueled vehicle on board an aircraft. And since you’re not going to rocket, that reg applies to your TAV.”
Gould thought fast, then shook his head. “Can’t. As one of AMC’s combat ready aircraft, don’t you know that Air Force Reg 869-5.L specifically states that the TAV must be mission-ready at all times?”
The sergeant frowned. He answered slowly, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that one, sir.”
“Check with Edwards if you’ve got questions, Sergeant. It’s paragraph 5, subparagraph L. That reg was made specifically for the TAV, and your unit—being a reserve outfit—probably doesn’t have a copy of it.”
“Well, sir—”
“We’ve got to get going, Sergeant. Thanks.” Gould spun on his heel and left the room, breaking into a run when he got outdoors. Instead of boarding the 747, Gould scrambled aboard the TAV. Once inside he informed the crew below him he’d rather sit out the flight in his own surroundings. Besides, they’d be too nervous knowing both the TAV and the fuel bladder were topped off with fuel without him being in the TAV.
He fretted through the preflight procedures, but when the 747 engines started up he finally began to relax. He didn’t feel comfortable until they were airborne and on their way to California. Then he was sure that Delores would have been proud of him.
White House, Washington, D.C.
“Gentlemen, the President’s condition is stable, but he is still asleep.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Vice President Woodstone let it slip out, and the others around the table looked up.
Woodstone put up his hands. “I only meant I’m glad that he’s stable. Aren’t we all?”
“Yes, sir,” growled Peters, obviously displeased that Woodstone had let out his true feelings.
Woodstone arranged in front of him the small pile of papers that had accumulated during the afternoon and night. It was late at night, and everyone was starting to feel punchy. Woodstone said, smiling, “Well, gentlemen, now that the President is safely back, I’m afraid we must turn our attention to more mundane matters.”
Baca coughed after no one spoke up. “You mean the marines that President Montoya ordered rescued.”
Woodstone folded his hands. “Precisely. Gentlemen”—he waved a small white paper, bordered in red—“we all know that the President ordered a rescue. Since that time, we’ve put the remaining five TAVs on alert. Correct, General?”
Peters glanced up at Colonel Welch. Welch cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. The TAVs are orbiting with their mother ships, waiting for your final orders. But there’s still the question of releasing the runway clearer to Colonel Krandel’s control.”
Peters pounded on the table. “Mr. Vice President, Colonel Welch is absolutely right. If you’re not going to commit the TAVs, then you’ve at least got to release the runway clearer. It doesn’t do any damn good for that piece of equipment to sit out there unused. Krandel’s team is in danger of being overrun.”
“Have the marines been attacked yet?”
“Yes, sir, they have.”
“But has anyone been harmed?”
“No, sir, but that’s not the point!”
“That is the point, General.” Woodstone slouched back in his chair and waved the red-bordered paper again. “I have a personal communiqué from President Ash’ath—”
“President Montoya already told you what he thought about that promise not to harm our marines.”
“But this is a clarification of that first message.” Woodstone smiled. “President Ash’ath promises that no harm will come to the marines. And in addition, he promises to deliver to us the hijackers that commandeered Air Force One. I’m sure that your marines will confirm that no shells have hit them. President Ash’ath assures me that they are simply trying to keep our men in one spot.”
“That’s a helluva way to do that, sir.” Peters raised an eyebrow at Baca.
Baca shrugged.
Peters tapped a pencil on the table. “Mr. Vice President, I don’t like this at all. It doesn’t seem right.”
Baca spoke up. “He’s got a point, Mr. Woodstone.” The attention turned to Chief of Staff. “The President was very adamant about the rescue. If you weren’t already in control of the situation here, I think the President’s doctor would not have sedated him, and President Montoya would be here right now. And a hundred-to-one he would have launched the rescue.”
“But the President is not here, Mr. Baca.” Woodstone bristled. “And I think we’ve argued this moot point enough.” He turned to Welch. “Colonel, please transmit an official reply to President Ash’ath that we accept his gracious offer. We will instruct our marine detachment at Do’brai to unconditionally surrender—if and only if we have President Ash’ath’s personal word that no harm will come to these men.”
He turned to Peters. “General, please order our men to surrender—with honor, if it is at all possible.”
“Yes, sir.” It took an effort, but Colonel Welch stood and turned toward the door.
“Good.” Woodstone smiled widely. “Remember, gentlemen, there’s always a way out of sticky situations. To paraphrase a quote: ‘Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.’ I can’t remember who said it, but I think we’ve upheld its spirit. Just
think of all the casualties we’re going to avoid—American and Do’brainese alike.”
Peters stood up, his face red. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“Certainly, but stay close by, General. I think we should man the NECC until the situation is well in hand.”
“Yes, sir. Pardon me then—I have to throw up.”
Do’brai airport
Hujr was right. General Kamil and his staff were assembled in the control tower at the airport. He couldn’t see the general from his vantage point, but he knew he was in there. When the troop carriers roared past, militiamen hanging on to the sides, holding on to their rifles, they held clenched fists high in the air, saluting the tower. There was too much activity around for the general not to be present.
Hujr waited in the brush. The dirt and ants kept him company, but at least he was hidden from view. He was on a slight rise and had a perfect line of sight to the door of the control tower.
He was content to wait. He fingered the trigger on his weapon for the hundredth time, and although eager for the general to appear, he constantly reminded himself not to rush things. Afterward, he’d be able to lose himself in the city. So he waited, growing ever more content with the thought that revenge would soon be his.
Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac
“We have some new orders, Colonel.” Corporal Morales ducked as he spoke; another mortar went off, not fifty yards away.
“Out with it, Morales.” Krandel was getting irate. The shelling had been going on for nearly an hour, and either the Do’brainese were the lousiest shots in the world or they were playing cat-and-mouse with them. The shelling went on, and although no rounds came close enough to injure the marines, every time they tried to move they were pinned back into the depression. It was obvious they were being held there.
Crawling over to Krandel, the corporal held out the headphones. “You’d better verify the orders, Colonel. I don’t like the sound of them.”