by Rob Buckman
"Jango, front" Scott called, thinking of a dozen things at once.
"Yes, sir?" A voice that had Texas stamped all over it answered.
"Take your air crew and have this aircraft serviced and ready to take off in thirty minutes or less." Jango and his team had been responsible for servicing a multitude of aircraft as they came back from a sortie, that didn't mean he and his team couldn't fight, they could and had, more than once.
"Anything I can do, sir?" Captain Turner said, hobbling up from the darkened interior. He'd been wounded in the arm and leg, but refused to be Medivaced out. Scott hadn't bothered him as he was on painkillers and sleeping.
"You take it easy, Jeff. I have everything covered for the moment. It all depends on how long it takes to get back in the air."
"The leader of these agents was right, you know. You can't get away with this."
"As I told him, I'm not trying to. I'm going to California and will place myself at the disposal of the proper military authority when I get there."
"What if someone figures out what's going on and sends troops over here?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, but I don't think they will. This crowd," he said, pointing over his shoulder at the group of agents, "want to keep my arrest quiet, and I'm betting no one here knows what's going on."
"I hope you're right, sir, I'd hate to lock and load against our own people." Jeff Turner grimaced as pain shot up his wounded leg.
"We won't, now go back and get some rest and see the medic for a shot."
“Aye-aye, sir.” As reluctantly he did.
"I heard the General call you Brock, is that correct Sergeant?" Agent Markham asked as he strode alongside Brock.
"It is, and that's Gunnery Sergeant Brock to you pencil dick. What of it?" Brock shot him a look that was anything but friendly.
"Nothing, I just wonder if you realize the trouble you're in by following the General's orders?" Brock just grinned, saying nothing. "If you help me arrest the General it would help mitigate the circumstances here, and your involvement."
"You got to be shitting me." Brock eyebrows shot up and he looked curiously at the man beside him as they headed towards the Ops. Center.
"No, no I'm not." Brock looked at a small executive jet, waiting on the ramp outside the operations center.
"Then you're a lot dumber than you look." He said, coming to a halt.
"How’s that?" Markham asked, his ears reddening. It wasn't often someone called him dumb to his face and got away with it.
In this case, he didn't think he could take the Gunnery Sergeant. There was something about him that said dangerous. Brock turned to face him and leaned down slightly so he was almost nose-to-nose with the smaller agent.
"Listen up dickwad!” He growled. “I just helped that General you are so hot to arrest, invade two counties, and annihilate every living thing we came across.” Brock didn’t try to hide the depth of feeling. “And, I lost a hell of a lot of good Marines doing it.” His voice caught for a moment.
“We killed men, women, children, dogs, cats, camels, horses, donkeys, and fucking lizards to avenge the destruction of four American cities. Do you really, really think that there is anything, and I mean anything you could say or offer me that would induce me to betray him?" There was no mistaking the venom in the man's voice, or his personal commitment to General Drake.
In passing, Markham wondered to himself how one man could evoke such passion from a hard-bitten old solider like the Gunnery Sergeant. If it was true, that Drake had taken twenty six thousand men across the border with him and less than five thousand had returned, he personally thought it was too high a price to pay for too little gained. It then occurred to him in a moment of perfect clarity that in this case, maybe none of them ever expected to return. They had all been ready and willing to die to avenge the destruction of those cities and their loved ones. Never having been in the military, he had no frame of reference to judge them, or their actions.
In less than an hour the C150 was serviced and on its way to California. Ever resourceful, a group of Marines had asked for and received permission to ‘obtain’ much needed supplies, so at least they eat and drank well on the last leg of their trip home. Scott didn’t inquire too deeply into where the enterprising Marines had ‘obtained’ the steak, lobsters, shrimp, salad and accompanying dishes, or the case of liquor, suspecting some executive flight out of the Corporate terminal was going to come up short on food. The standby crew had cooperated with no trouble, even willingly once they found out who their passengers were, and it was an uneventful flight. Six hours later, they landed at Edward's AFB and taxied behind a ‘follow me’ car to a darkened hangar at the far end of the facility. By this time, most of the people inside were asleep and few noticed the long ride was over as they touched down. The ramp whines as the hydraulics engaged and hit the ground with a thud. The moment it grounded, they heard the thump of boots on the aluminum surface as men came aboard, a flashlight probing ahead.
"Who's there? Markham?" A voice asked.
"Yes, I'm here." The leader of the agents replied.
"Where's General Drake?"
"I'm here." Scott answered from the other side of the cargo bay, switching the light on as he said it.
"Holy shit!" Someone muttered, as another group of six armed men saw that Scott Drake arrived all right, but not with the escort they expected. They certainly didn't expect to see a hundred odd fully armed Marines; all weapons pointed their way. For a moment, there was complete silence as no one was sure what to do next.
"What are your orders and who gave them to you?" Scott asked in a hard voice.
"They came from me, General." The President of the United States announced as she stepped aboard. It didn't take a crystal ball for Scott to realize who this was.
"The President of the United States on deck, fall in." Scott snapped, coming to attention and saluting.
There was an immediate scramble as everybody moved. For a moment, it looked like chaos as the Marines fell into three ranks on each side of the cargo bay. The FBI and the secret service agents stood to one side dumb struck. The Marine's were willing to pull down on them, and probably shoot, yet one command from the General and they fell in without a word of protest, as if he’d waved a magic wand.
"Troops ready, sir. Troops! At… ten… shun!" Gunny Brock snapped in a parade ground voice. "Preee… sent arms!"
It was ragged, probably the worse salute she'd or any President of the United States had ever received from any group of Marines, even raw recruits, and it almost made her cry. If there was a man or woman in the ranks that didn't have some sort of wound she couldn't see one. She knew that of the five thousand troops of this unit that went into combat, less than three hundred returned. She also knew what happened in Cuba, and why they had all been willing to die, but that was in the past and would never be mentioned in any history book. They had paid their dues and done their penitence in hell. She slowly walked down each side of the aircraft inspecting the front rank; nodding to a man or woman here and there as something drew her attention, a wound, or particular weapon. She took her time but not out of malice or because she was insensitive to their condition. She did it to honor these soldiers, who, no matter what condition they were in were willing to come into formation for her. It was a wonder that some of them were standing at all, and sheer grit alone was holding a lot of them up. She arrived to stand before General Drake, finding he was still holding his salute. She returned it, suppressing to urge to smile in pride and cry in sorry at the same time.
"You may stand the man easy General."
“Thank you, Madam President. Gunnery Sergeant Brock!" He called.
"Yes, Sir!" Brock replied.
"Stand the troops at ease."
"Aye-aye, sir. Troops! Troops stand at… ease!" Boots clumped on the aluminum decking, and she heard more than one sight of relief.
"You can tell the troops to smoke if they wish."
"Thank y
ou, Madam President. Brock!"
"Aye, sir." Brock acknowledged. Standing at the top of the ramp the President looked them over for a moment, choosing her words carefully.
"I would like to personally thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have done, and what you sacrificed. I would also like to congratulate all of you for the service you have done." Her voice broke, and she stopped. "If nothing else you have given this country the heart to carry on and rebuild." Drawing herself up, she didn’t bother hiding the tears.
"In the coming weeks, months and years we will have much work to do, and I hope you can all be a part of it." She could see that sat well, and taking a deep breath, she continued. "I know you all want the best for General Drake; as your actions here today proves. So I am not going to insult your intelligence by telling you a bunch of BS about the bigger picture, or any of that political double talk.” She saw the soldiers nod.
They, probably more so than ordinary people, knew how deep the BS ran. Usually because they were on the receiving end of a shit-storm, because the very people who gave them their marching orders had screwed up in the first place, necessitating the need to give them those same self orders.
“We’ve all heard too much of that in the past. I will simply tell you that the rest of the world is out for blood, and wants General Drake's head on a platter." She stopped, seeing the dark looks on the battle worn faces. "I am also going to tell you right now I am not going to give it to them. Instead, I will tell you, that at 02:16 hours this morning, General Drake's aircraft crashed in the desert, killing all aboard." She waited for the penny to drop. It did with a rush, but not as she expected. There were muttered comments around the aircraft, a few nods and that was all.
"With respect, Madam President, but can I ask what will happen to General Drake then?" Captain Pete Mitchell asked.
"It's all right Jeff, it doesn't matter what happens to me." Scott murmured over his shoulder.
"I'm afraid I disagree, General, it does matter." The President turned to the young Captain. "Be assured that no harm will come to your General, Captain."
"That's not an answer to the question..." Pete shot back.
"You're out of order, Captain Michael." Scott snapped.
"No, General, the young man is right. He and the rest of your people have a right to know." She looked round at the Secret Service agents for a moment.
"Would you and agent Markham, please take your men outside and secure the perimeter." She asked. With a nod, he and the rest departed. "Please close the ramp General." The President waited until the loading ramp closed all the way before speaking.
“I have to tell you first, General, that as promised, I would Court Marshal you were you returned to US soil.”
“Yes, Madam President, I remember.”
“I asked you to do something for me, and you did it.” She looked down at the floor a moment to compose herself. “My oldest son was in Washington…” She stopped, unable to continue.
“I understand, Madam President.”
“Yes, I know you do. You and your men. However, what you don’t know is that I asked for an Article 32 hearing for you to consider the evidence for a charge of treason.” She stopped for a moment and look in his eyes, wondering what the effect of her words had on him. She might as well have looked at the statue of Abe Lincoln, if it were still around, for all the expression Scott Drake’s face showed.
“After careful consideration, and weighting all of the evidence against you, they unanimously came back with a verdict of not guilty.” She saw him blink then, as if he hadn’t heard her right.
“That’s what I said, not guilty. In their judgment you fulfilled your obligation and did your duty as a soldier in defending this country to the best of your ability.” She finished.
“I take it, that wasn’t the verdict you were hoping for.” The President looked at him a moment, then nodded.
“I was hoping for a nice quick, tidy hearing, with the judge handing down a guilty verdict. That way we could have a nice public trial, after which a quick, clean execution and it would all have been over.”
“You sound almost disappointed, Madam President.” Scott said, raising one eyebrow.
“You might say that. Of course, the execution would have been carried out in private and your body would have been cremated. Who can tell the difference between burned corps and barbeque ashes?” She smiled then.
“I see.” Scott nodded in understanding.
“The trouble was, as the judge pointed out. I could have had a dozen trials, with handpicked officers, and the verdict would always be the same. He also pointed out that he doubted I could find ten men or woman willing to be part of any firing squad.”
“I was told something similar recently.” He said, looking over at Brock.
“So, with that in mind, I had to fall back on plan ‘B’”
“Which it?”
“Well, seeing as General Scott Drake, died in a plane crash, we can’t have a trial, or an execution, can we?”
* * * * * *
The leader of the Secret Service team wasn't happy, not because the President had asked him to leave, but because she was in there without a security detail. America had lost two Presidents recently, it wasn’t about to lose another, at least not on his watch. He paced back and forth for ten minutes before the ramp lowered again and the President and General Drake exited the aircraft.
"There has been a change in plan John." She said walking up to him. "It's time you got me back to the Capital." He looked at the General for a moment, seeing a big grin on his face.
"And the General?" He asked, looking pointedly at Scott.
"You mean General Scott?"
"Yes Ma'am."
"Didn't you hear what I said in the aircraft? General Scott's aircraft crashed in the desert at 02:16 hours this morning, killing all aboard." She commented before turning to look at Scott. "This is Colonel Morgan Drake, Scott Drake's twin brother." She said with a poker face.
"Yes Madam President." The Agent looked at Scott, then the President. "If you say so Ma'am." He answered, wearing his best poker face.
A week later General Scott Drake was buried with full military honors at the new Arlington National Cemetery in Sacramento and broadcast across the world. The remaining three hundred and eight six men and woman of the Fourth Marina Battalion acted as the honor guard as the casket was marched from the mortuary to the cemetery on a gun carriage. The muffled sound of black draped tap drum echoed through the still air, matching the slow tramp of marching feet along the parade route. People from all walks of life lined the route, the rich, the poor, the homeless, foreign visitors and dignitaries, all came to pay their last respects to the man they perceived to have avenged the death of so many people. Above the graveside, on a small knoll, a lone piper played 'Amazing Grace', while below, the clear, sweet voice of Marine Corporal Janet William's sang the words. Even before she'd finished the first stanza, the honor guard joined in. It spread like a wildfire, until it sounded as if the whole city was singing the song. Until now, the words had no special meaning to Gunny Brock, but for the first time in his life, he truly understood them, and a tear ran down his craggy face.
As the casket slowly sank into the ground, the Marine's came to attention and fired the traditional salute over the grave. The President thought not to attend, as this was more of an unofficial funeral, but in the end, she did, thinking of her last message.
General Drake had done as she'd asked and kicked ass, so it was the least she could do. Nowhere was it mentioned that he'd acted without orders, or in defiance of his President. No one saw the slight smile that crossed her face as some secret joke as she stood with her hand over her heart. She did wonder if the place Scott Drake was now didn't resemble the coffin being lowered into the ground. Fifty years from now, few would remember what he looked like, so the fiction of a twin brother should hold up completely. Two days later, the President of the United States delivered a speech to the Genera
l Assembly of the new United Nations. Her words stunned the world leaders when she announced that the four of the five permanent members of the security council, America, Great Britain, Russia, France, and China, had already agreed to dismantle their nuclear arsenal. They would soon turn over control of all nuclear weapons to the UN.
"I can tell you all that, as of this moment the United States is not longer a nuclear power, and never will be again. The time has come, fellow members, to consider just how close we came to nuclear annihilation, and what intolerance, power and religion almost drove us too." That was an understatement, and many around the room didn't see that anything had changed. The entrenched interest of this world didn't want a change, liking the way it was. The President continued.