Echo of Tomorrow: Book One (Drake chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  "Two messages?" He asked, puzzled.

  "Yes, the first is an official message which will be broadcast to the world as soon as this conversation is completed."

  "The other?"

  "An unofficial one."

  "What is the official message?"

  "As the President of the United States, and Commander-in-Chief of all the Armed Forces, and your commanding officer, I hereby order you to cease and desist in all military actions. You are to stop, stand down, lay down your arms, and return to base." She spoke the chilling word. "There, you will place yourself under arrest and brought back to stand trial at a court Marshall for crimes against humanity."

  "Is that all?" He asked, his face a stony mask.

  "Yes. If you proceed with this action, I will have no other recourse but to put you on trial, if you should survive. Then have you publicly shot when they find you guilty. I cannot, and will not protect you, or any of the officers involved in this illegal action, is that clearly understood General?"

  "Yes Madam President it is. What is the other message?" Scott felt a cold hand clutch his heart. He'd expected nothing less. There was silence for a moment, then he heard a soft sob.

  "Go kick ass General Scott." She choked out. "Go kick their fucking asses!" She sobbed, her voice carrying her emotion over the distance.

  "Thank you, Madam President. Officially, I decline to obey that order, unofficially, I will do as you say and go kick ass."

  "Good luck, General." She whispered as the connection cut off, tears of pride and sorrow running down her cheeks.

  "Thank you, Madam President." Without another word, he switched back to the other frequency. "The word is 'Sledgehammer', I say again, the word is 'Sledgehammer'."

  "Yes, sir received and understood." The radio operator transmitted the go-code and sat back with a sigh. It was done.

  High above the heavy B1B2 bombers came round into their attack run, bomb bay doors opening, exposing the cargo of death. Thirty seconds later the bays were empty and the door slowly closed as they peeled off to return to base to rearm and refuel. Behind them came the fighter/bombers to deliver their loads, screaming over the heads of the waiting troops at tree top height. People in the street of Tehran looked up as they heard a strange whistling sound over-head, shock and horror passing over their faces at the realization of what was coming. The moment the first bomb exploded, the tanks, artillery, and MRL's opened up as tons of high explosive steel rained down in an unrelenting firestorm. Hour after hour, it continued as aircraft re-fueled and re-armed and returned, to deliver another load. The Cruise and Tomahawk missiles arrived, screaming down to slam into selected targets, adding their tonnage to the overall destruction. At length it ended, and the silence returned, but not for long. The moment the barrage stopped, the tank engines rumbled to life and the steel juggernauts moved forward. They smashed their way through the hastily erected barricades, or pushed aside the burned out tanks that blocked their path. There was nothing the remaining defenders could do to stop them, and they opened the city to the infantry that followed, and gave no quarter.

  There was no mercy on either side; each fought to the death, knowing that there was no other way. Scott Drakes tank took a direct hit from an RPG as it passed an alleyway, disabling it. From then on, he fought on foot, surrounded by the remnants of the Fourth Marine Battalion who became his personal body guard. The moment his tank took the hit they swarmed around it, protecting the General and crew as they exited. From then on, many placed themselves between a bullet and the General, and paying the price. The closer they came to the city center, the more difficult it became for the tanks to do their job. The streets were clogged with stalled traffic, mounds of rubble, or cars, busses and building awash with flames from phosphor rounds. It became a matter of street fighting, building-to-building, rooftop-to-rooftop, hand-to-hand. Yet the invaders were unstoppable, no matter how hard the people of Tehran fought they couldn't slow them down. They were the legion of the damned, with no reason to live, except to kill, and kill they did, taking on impossible odds and winning.

  As the invader got closer the Ayatollah prayed, and pleaded for divine guidance, but Allah wasn't listening. His followers pleaded with him to flee the city, or hide, to no avail, until at last it was too late to flee. As evening fell over the burning city, the doors of the old Royal palace crashed open and Scott Drake strode through the shattered opening. Like some monster from hell, he stood there, framed by the burning city behind him, demons from the deep pit surrounding him as dirty, blackened Marines in torn, bloodstained battle gear moved into the building. Here and there, shots rang out, the screaming of women and children and the moans of the dying filled the air for a few moments, then silence, yet Drake was unmoved.

  All he could hear was the screaming of his wife and children, as they burned to death in the nuclear fire that lit Los Angles. He prayed to a non-existent God that they died quickly and without pain. His once clean uniform now stained with blood, his own and others. He'd been hit at least three times, yet he felt nothing, nor did he care. He only wished to live long enough to kill this religious fanatic who stood before him. As he'd walked through this city of the damned, he hadn't bothered to hide, or duck for cover. He'd simply walked through the street as if on the way to work, and no amount of pleading from his staff or the Marines could change his mind. He'd brought them here to exact revenge, he'd done his job, and it was over. If he was lucky and could kill the person responsible, so much the better, either way, he knew the man would die, by his hand, or by others. It didn't matter, as long and the man was dead. Yet survive, he had, as if protected by the hand of the God he no longer believed in until at last he stood facing the author of this madness. Slowly, he walked across the tile floor and looked down at the kneeling man in the blue turban.

  "Do you know how close you came to destroying this planet?" He asked. The man looked up at him, making motions as if he didn't understand.

  "Please don't give me any of that crap that you don't understand English. You do, you studied for three years at London University." The Ayatollah stood up and faced him, trying in vain to look dignified, and aloof.

  "So you know." He sneered.

  "I know many things about you, but you didn't answer the question."

  "I don't care as long as the Great Satan is destroyed, what does it matter." He spat then shrugged. "Allah wills." The light of fanaticism was in his eyes, even now.

  "Just to let you know before you die, you didn't destroy America, just four cities."

  "Allah will destroy the Great Satan, if not today, them to tomorrow." Scott Drake could see the light of madness in his eyes.

  "That's what you wanted, isn't it?" He asked, understanding at last. "You wanted to destroy the whole world."

  "And I will. This is only the beginning, soon, Allah will rule the world, and we will have peace and order."

  "Your order, your peace, at what price?"

  "Price? You speak of price..."

  "How any million have to die to get your perfect world?"

  "All that do not believe in Allah, blessed be his name and his prophet Moha…" He started to say. At that point, Scott Drake stopped arguing with him; he simply pulled out his pistol and shot the man through the head. As the tip of the barrel touched his forehead, the Ayatollah realized he could die, that all his plans and all the deaths were for nothing, and for a moment he screamed.

  "Gunny, take this piece of garbage out and throw it into a fire." As the lifeless body slumped to the floor.

  "Yes, Sir!" Gunny sergeant Brock said, "you two, he snapped at the two Marines standing by the entrance, "you heard the General."

  Walking outside after the Marines had left with the body, he watched for a moment as they dumped it into a pile of burning debris in the street, added broken items of furniture to the fire and stood back, watching it burn. It wasn't long before the word of the burning spread through the troops, and in ones and twos they came, each throwing an additional pie
ce of wood or furniture on the growing blaze. Soon they were coming by with Iranian flags, or pictures of the Ayatollah, and copies of the Koran, taken from temples and government buildings. They didn't shout or cheer, and in the main, remained wooden faces as they passed, throwing their offerings into the flames. The fire grew bigger as the evening progressed, and by seven o'clock, it blazed high in the air. Scott Drake didn't try to stop it, knowing it was a form of purging, intuitively knowing that this was what his troops needed. They symbolically destroyed the man and the ideals that'd brought destruction on their families and country, but he knew they needed more.

  "Gunny," He called growled, "tell them to burn it all. Burn this whole stinking rat hole to the ground." The gunnery Sergeant looked at him a moment, then nodded.

  "Yes, sir. I'll spread the word."

  "Let this be a funeral pyre for all the hatred in the world, all the discrimination, bigotry, and intolerance. Let it end here." Scott voice cracked, filled with unspoken emotion. Slowly he walked away, his Marine guard in tow, none of them wanting to let him out of their sight.

  For two hours, they walked through the city, the fire behind them growing brighter as the fire spread. At last, he climbed a small hill overlooking the city, and looked back, seeing the heart of Tehran burning. Here and there, explosions went off as munitions or fuel exploded into flame, spreading the fire. Dark shadowy figures ran, or scuttled passed in the gathering darkness as the few remaining denizen of the city sort escape. No one stopped, or fired at them, that had ended, and all watched the city burn. At last he sat and watched, unmoving, and uncaring, seeing only the image of his dead wife and children. By dawn, the city blazed from end to end, the last of his troops gathered around him, as here and there a few civilians came wandering, phantom like, out of the darkness. They looked curiously at this strange invader who'd destroyed their city, and their Country. They didn't shout or cheer, rape, or pillage, as so many others had in the past, and more than one cried, but for what, none could say. As if on order, they turned and followed their silent leader back into the desert from where they came. The only things they took with them were their personal weapons, everything else they left in the burning city. Gradually they formed up into military columns, numb and unseeing, General Scott Drake leading them away from the ashes of victory towards an unknown future. An old Imam came to the same spot that General Drake had sat, and stood for a moment looking after him, then at the city, shaking his head.

  "It is the will of Allah." He muttered, more to himself, but a few heard him.

  "What did you say holy one?" One asked. The old man looked at him.

  "It is the will of Allah."

  "This?" One man shouted, pointing to the ruins of Tehran. "This is the will of Allah?" His voice hardened, his face darkening with rage.

  "Yes, my son. We believed in the Ayatollah, we gave him his power to order the nuclear weapons to destroy the American cities. It is we who are to blame for this tragedy."

  "But the Great Satan had to be destroyed!" The man screamed.

  "It is your stupidity and hatred that has to be destroyed." The old Imam muttered, and pulling a pistol out from under his robe, he shot the man in the head. "Anger begets anger, hatred begets hatred, and so it has been from the beginning, and yes, we are our brother’s keepers. Let it end here." He sighed, echoing the words of Scott Drake. "Let it end here." He turned, crying softly to himself, walking away towards an oasis he knew of, and the people followed.

  CHAPTER ONE: Western Desert

  "Call in the choppers Gunny, let’s take them home." Scott Drake called over his shoulder.

  "Aye, sir." Gunnery Sergeant Brock acknowledged, and he nodded to the radioman.

  Scott Drake didn't stop, just kept walking out into the desert as the first cargo chopper came in. There was confusion at first, as they waited for the General to board. He didn't, so they started loading them up from the rear of the column and ferrying them to the air base at Dhahran. Of the two thousand five hundred M1B3 tanks, none were left, and of those that had made it to Tehran, all were now blackened hulks inside the glowing embers of the City, as were the APC's, Bradley's and MRL's. The invading army took nothing with them except the clothes on their backs and individual weapons. It was over, and they wouldn’t need them again, no matter what happened. Of the 26,000 infantry, tank crew, and support personnel who had crossed the Iraq border fewer than five thousand remained. By dusk that day, all but the forward contingent of the column, some three hundred and eighty men, and women of the Fourth Marine Battalion, the remaining senior officers, and Scott Drake had boarded. Another flight of choppers roared overhead and landed, immediately loading men, while above them an umbrella of gunships and fighter aircraft circled overhead.

  "They're all loaded, sir." Gunnery Sergeant Brock informed Scott. "We are the only ones left General. It's time we went home, sir.” He said it softly, as if he wasn’t sure where home was anymore.

  Scott would have been content to walk out into the desert until he died, having little, or no will at all to remain in the land of the living, but he knew that was impossible. He had rolled the dice and won, now he must pay the piper.

  "Home to what Gunny, a firing squad?" He asked bitterly.

  "No, sir, that will never happen,” Brock growled fiercely, “not while this unit is alive." He gave Scott Drake a hard look. He understood all too well where the General was coming from.

  "You can't fight the army Gunny you should know that by now."

  "Where the hell are those pencil dicks in Washington... sorry, sir, the Capital, going to find ten men to carry it out?" He snapped, fingering his sidearm.

  "There are always people willing to do it Gunny, and that's always been part of the problem."

  "Your weapon, sir." The Gunnery Sergeant stood like a block of stone, unmoving with his hand out. Scott Drake smiled slightly, taking it out and handing it over.

  "Think I'm going to blow my brains out Gunny?"

  "The thought had crossed my mind, sir." Scott shook his head.

  "Because without you this is all meaningless," he snapped, "for right or wrong, you validated what we did." For just a moment, Brock's stony exterior slipped and Scott saw the haunted look in his eyes. Then it was gone, the stony mask returning.

  "You need no validation from me Gunny,” he said with a shake of his head, “the death of your families and friends did that for you."

  "True, sir, but it was you that made this happen. You that gave us the opportunity to do what had to be done. You think anyone in Wash… the capital would have done what you did? They were too scared of the consequences."

  "If not me, then someone else Gunny." Scott sighed, feeling the weight of ages on his shoulders.

  "No, sir, I respectfully disagree." He shot back. "They would have done nothing except talk, and it would have gotten worse. This was needed for a long time and you know it." He reached down and picked up a handful of sand.

  "This sand has soaked up a lot of blood in the last thousand years General. Don't let it suck up yours as well, please!" His pleading look cut Scott to the heart.

  "Thanks, gunny, I appreciate your loyalty." In answer, the Gunnery Sergeant switched Scott’s sidearm to his left hand before coming to attention and cutting him a parade ground salute.

  Scott returned it, and turning, walked to a small rise a short distance away. The bloody remnant of his army was on their way home to an uncertain future. Most had nothing to go home too. Family, friends, relations all gone into the fire. They’d repaid that act ten times over, punishing the perpetrators as America had promised it would. The Arab World had forgotten the principle of MAD and paid the price. Would the World wake up and pay attention now? He didn’t think so. Twice in her history, the USA had used nuclear weapons on another country, and it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. Had Teller and Oppenheimer felt this way after Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Yet what else could he have done to make these people understand. They were fanatics, and like
rabid dogs needed to be put down for the good of humanity. As the sun vanished below the horizon, he turned back and walked to the chopper, shoulders back, head high, ready to face the future.

  * * * * * *

  "Where is he?" The President asked, not bothering to look round, her eye locked on the giant monitor. The members of the new cabinet, and the joint chiefs knew whom she meant without her having to say so.

  "On his way home, Madam President." She nodded intent on the screen.

  The satellite view of Tehran showed nothing but a large glowing ember, like some malignant sore, pulsing softly in the night as the wind stirred the fire with ghostly fingers. Conflicting emotions raced through her mind. Joy, at the destruction of the author of this nightmare, sadness that so many innocent people had died, on both sides.

  "Now what do we do?" She asked softly, looking at the room at large. "I have to put him on trial, and that will mean his death. If we don't, and give him a medal, as we should, then we will be branded for all time for the crimes of this one man."