by W. R. Benton
“WSO, this is Rescue One, over.”
James keyed the radio and said, “Go, Rescue.”
“Be advised we'll be at your location in two mikes.”
“Copy and hurry. I can hear partisans moving around me.”
“Patience, I'll be there soon.” the rescue chopper pilot said.
James nodded at Shaw, who was standing at the edge of the clearing with a man launched FIM- 92 Stinger missile on his shoulder.
As the chopper neared, the right door gunner said, “I see the WSO, but he's flat on his back in the open area to our right.”
“It's a trap! I see a man off our left with a missile of some kind.”
Suddenly the missile fired, lights on the chopper panel lit up, the warning system blared loudly, and the pilot attempted evasive action only to have the missile explode just outside his wind screen.
“Uh, Mad Dog Three, this is Rescue One and we've sustained unknown damage and are heading home. Request you drop all you have on the WSO's last known position. The man is down and unmoving.”
“Copy, we'll give you time to leave the area and will make it hot for those on the ground. Uh, Rescue One, what is the extent of your damages?”
“Unknown at this time, but I'm bleeding and I think my co-pilot is dead. One gunner is down, his condition unknown, and the man from the ground is uninjured. I'm starting to smoke and my dash is full of warning lights flashing. We'll move South, away from the town, over.”
“Rescue One, we'll make two runs each and then catch up with you to provide escort as you head for the National Forest.”
James keyed the radio as they ran for the cemetery to avoid the jets and their munitions. “Rescue One, this is Partisan One, welcome to Rolla, and y'all be sure to come back now, heah?”
As the Chopper turned South, the pilot knew then he'd been speaking with a partisan and not the WSO. He started to reply, but the stick began to shake and smoke was now filling the cockpit. He fought the aircraft and began to gain altitude slowly.
Most had almost forgotten about the fast-movers when one radioed, “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Mad Dog Two and I'm leaving the aircraft.”
“Copy Mad Dog Two, this is One, and I have your six. Attention all stations, Mad Dog Two has left the aircraft, has a good chute and will be landing in a clearing approximately 20 kilometers south of Rolla, east of a highway.”
“Mad Dog Three, I see the clearing and will try to put my chopper down at that location, over.” Rescue One transmitted and then heard his right door gunner say, “We have an unknown fluid leaking back here and it's hot to the touch. It smells like hydraulic fluid to me. I also have smoke pouring past the open doors.”
The chopper moved to the clearing and as the pilot was setting the aircraft down, his fire warning lights began flashing and then they remained on. As the chopper lowered, the pilot kept one hand on the master switch for the electrical power, intending to flip it off the instant his skids touched the ground.
All went well until about three feet off the ground, when all power was suddenly lost and the aircraft dropped like a rock. As they fell, the master switch for the electrical power was flipped off.
They landed hard, with the occupants all shook up hard, and the pilot injured his spine on impact. They were smoking as the gunner pulled people from the aircraft and assisted each to the trees. The other door gunner was dead, having taken a large piece of metal to the chest, and the medic was bleeding from his face and left arm. The co-pilot was dead as well, his body riddled with shrapnel.
The pilot screamed as the gunner pulled him from the chopper and carried him to the woods. He returned to the smoking aircraft two more times for the machine-guns, ammunition, the medics medical kit, and individual weapons. Once back into the trees, he gave the pilot a shot of morphine to keep him quiet, and then watched as the chopper burst into flames.
By now they were joined by the pilot from Mad Dog Two.
The jets zoomed over them rocking their wings, and as they flew up to return to base and refuel, Mad Dog Three said, “I spotted movement to your south, maybe a mile away. Be advised, we have no friendly troops in this area. We'll be back as soon as we can, copy?”
“Uh, copy, Mad Dog Three.”
Damn me, Gueguen thought, I am in a worse situation than I was before being rescued.
Chapter 7
A man walked onto the school gymnasium stage, moved to the microphone at a podium, and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, President William “Wiley Jay” Norton.”
The President was tall, six feet and six inches, wide shoulders and narrow hips, and weighed 180 pounds. His salt and pepper hair was worn short. His green eyes had faded over the last few months, due to a lack of sleep and fatigue. He was drinking more than usual these days because the New World Order and the Conservative States of America had both promised to kill him. So far, they'd failed, but it wasn't due to a lack of trying. So far, he'd survived six attempts on his life.
He walked to the microphone and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
Clearing his throat, he said, “My fellow Americans, it is imperative that we turn our weapons over to the United Nations. The UN is bravely defending the United States of America against those turn-coats who value gun ownership above the safety of our citizens. It is already law that all guns be turned over to the police, and tonight I want to announce that I received a listing of all members of the National Rifle Association (NRA) and we will soon be visiting each home to search for weapons. If a gun is found, or not found and not listed as turned in, you, along with your family, will be sent to a FEMA camp for re-education. By comparing the listing from the NRA with our state listing of registered firearms, we'll know exactly who has what weapons. If you have a gun, don't try to hide it, just turn it in to the police. This is no game we're playing and the searches will start tomorrow, with the assistance of the UN military forces. If you deny a weapon and we find one, your whole family will be shot immediately. I will take no questions at this time.”
As he moved toward the door to leave, three shots rang out and two of his bodyguards fell. The third shot burned a furrow over his left arm, but the injury was slight. Pushed roughly to the ground, he was quickly covered by one of his body guards. The guards were trained to fall on the President and protect him with their own bodies. He picked up a 9 mm pistol dropped by one of his guards and sighted an older man with a cowboy hat aiming at him. He fired two fast shots, felt a deep burning pain in his left leg, and saw the cowboy fall. He was unsure who hit the cowboy, because other guns were firing as well. A lone shot sounded and the concrete floor near his head sent a chip high into the air, and then the bullet zinged off into space. Once again the air filled with the sound of pistols and even an Uzi opening fire. The President raised his head enough to see a younger cowboy stitched down down the center of his torso by 9mm bullets.
Blood, bone and flesh splattered on the wall behind the cowboy, and the young man gave a loud shriek as he fell. Bullets, after passing through his body, struck the cinder block wall and pinged off into space. Two screams followed the ricocheted bullets, so the President knew others were struck as well.
The following quiet was loud to his ears after the loud gunfight, and slowly his bodyguard moved off of him. The police and Secret Service all stood at the ready, prepared to fire again.
“Are you okay, Mister President?” a bodyguard asked.
“Took a flesh wound to my left arm and collected a bullet in my left leg.”
The agent who'd been on him was now sitting on the floor, his leg bleeding as well. A doctor who traveled with his staff made his way to the President. Opening a briefcase, he pulled out two tourniquets and tossed one to the man working on the injured guard.
“Slap that on his leg, just above the wound, and tighten it as much as you can. We already have an ambulance coming. You'll both be fine, once we get the bleeding stopped. You're a very lucky man, Mister President
.” He then pulled out a syringe of morphine and injected the Commander-in-Chief.
Placing his rolled up jacket under the President's neck, the doctor moved to the injured bodyguards. Of the three injured, only two required morphine because the last one was dead, having taken a round to the head. Besides the man with the hole in his leg, the other guard had a sucking chest wound, but using plastic wrap, the wound was soon air tight and the man was able to breath better. The doctor had spent a few years in the military and was well experienced with bullet holes and how to plug them.
“T . . . tell, the Vice-president he has the wheel for now. I'll be back to work as soon . . . as soon as I can.” He was getting sleepy from the morphine.
“Sir,” one of the bodyguards said, “Vice-President Conroy has been notified.”
“Good, so . . . so sleepy.”
“The ambulance is here, Doc. I told them to take our wounded to the nearest hospital and hope that's okay.” a secret service agent said.
“How near is it from here?”
“Just two blocks.”
“Excellent, because while all are stable now, the chest wound is bleeding internally.”
The EMTs walked into the gym packing containers of medical supplies and monitors of all sorts. The doctor met them and said, “I'm Doctor Steve Wilcox and the patients are all stable. The President and chest wound should go in the first ambulance and the rest in the second or other vehicles. We also have six dead; the two shooters, one bodyguard and three bystanders. I have no idea how many civilians were injured, so you may want to take a look when you return. As soon as you take the two of our most seriously wounded, I'll take a look at the crowd.”
“Sir,” an obese black EMT said, “we have three ambulances outside, counting ours, and as soon as we take the first two injured, they'll be inside tending your wounded and dead. Wow, never thought I'd be packing the President of the United States in my meat wagon.”
IV's were started on the first two passengers and both promptly fell asleep, with neither in pain. The doctor had written the date and time he'd given morphine in a black permanent maker on the foreheads of both men.
The other EMT, a tall thin white man, saw the writing on the heads of each man and asked, “Combat medic?”
“Navy Corpsman, with two tours in Iraq assigned to a Marine unit and then home to go to medical school using the GI Bill. You?”
“US Marines, Iraq and Afghanistan, two tours each. I'm in night school now to be a nurse, so my days are full. The GI Bill is a good deal when it comes to education.”
Extending his hand, Doctor Wilcox said, “Semper fidelis.”
“Semper Fi, Doc, and glad to meet you. I'm John Burks.” They shook hands.
As they shook, the big EMT said, “Ready to roll and all patients are stable, thanks to you, Doctor Wilcox. However, I'm concerned about the chest wound, he's losing blood, so let's move.”
“Be advised,” a rough looking Secret Service Agent said, “on the way to the hospital, an armed agent will ride in the back, with the injured, and another in the front seat. You are to take the shortest route to the hospital.”
“Not a problem.” Burks said as he raised the gurney the President was on and moved toward the ambulance, with the doctor saying, “I'm to ride in the back as well. Where the President goes, I go, until he's out of post op and in a private room.”
Agent D2 realized he had to pull over with the cop on his ass still flashing lights, so he continued on to a grocery store parking lot. Extending his left hand out the window, he motioned he was pulling over, after entering the parking lot. He then made his pistol ready and covered it with a tee shirt he had in the car.
After stopping, the cop was slow getting out of the car, due to him running a check on the car tags. The Department of Motor Vehicles indicated the car was clean, with no warrants for the owner, a Mister Thomas D. Barnes.
The officer neared the car and asked, “Do you have any firearms in the vehicle?”
The CSA had open and conceal carry and neither required a license. The Officer, Cannon Lilly, knew about 80% of the cars he pulled over had a gun and usually it was a pistol. He'd always asked where the weapon was and then if not on the person, have them step from the car.
“No, I'm clean.” D2 replied, and then gave a fake smile.
“I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”
“Here's my drivers license, but the other paperwork is in the glove box, so I'll open it to get the documents.” The last thing D2 needed was to get shot by some nervous police officer.
“Go ahead and get them for me.” Officer Lilly said, and began looking the drivers license over. The name on the license was Thomas D. Barnes, so he had the right man.
When D2 leaned over to open the glove box, he heard a loud noise, then a searing pain enter his back and out his chest. When the 9 mm round struck the floor of his car, it then ricocheted up to strike his right thigh, and he knew he'd been shot. He reached for his pistol, only to feel a slug take him low, just above his belly button. He fell half into the passenger seat, screaming in pain, and unable to move.
Officer Lilly walked to his trunk, pulled out a gallon of gas he kept for stranded motorists, and then returned to D2. He poured the contents of the gas can in the front seat area, soaking the injured agent well with the gas, and then struck a match with his thumb. He tossed the empty can in the car and it landed in the back seat.
“N . . . no, p . . . please.” D2 managed to get out, just a second before the match was dropped almost in his lap.
There was a loud wooosh sound as the gas ignited, and Lilly noticed it burned almost clear. D2 began to scream as the hot flames ate at his flesh. He was able to sit up, open the door, and fall to the ground, fully engulfed in flames. Lilly tossed his body camera to D2's chest and smiled as it began to melt from the heat.
Lilly let him burn until his screams ceased and then grabbed a fire extinguisher from his patrol car and put the flames out on the man. He then returned to his car, and as he notified dispatch he had a man down, the gas tank on D2's car exploded. The officer was mesmerized by the huge oily fireball and sat watching it as dispatch asked if he needed backup.
“Negative on the back up, but I need a firetruck and ambulance on the scene.” he replied, and gave his location.
On the ground near the vehicle, he tossed a half dozen brochures from the New World Order. He noticed D2 was on fire again, this time from the explosion, but his extinguisher was empty. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.
“Hello.” a voice said.
“Dragon.” Lilly said only one word.
“Good.”
Lilly knew he now had a half million dollars in his Swiss bank account and thought, That was easy money, but I don't get many chances like this. With my body cam destroyed and the cruiser cam not on, it was easy. I'll simply say Mister Thomas D. Barnes fought me and pulled my camera from my uniform. No one will be the wiser.
The Boss sat on his sofa in the dark living room, with only one candle burning, and his arm around Beth. His phone rang, he picked it up and said, “Hello.”
“Dragon.” a familiar voice said.
“Good, see that Dragon slayer is paid immediately.”
“It has been done. Also, our attempt at the football game didn't work, and resulted in two penalties and no touchdown. However, their quarterback has an injured arm and leg.”
“Excellent, so he'll know we are seriously active in the game. Guten Abend.”
“Guten Abend.”
He hung the phone up, then removing his cell phone from his coat pocket, he dialed a number and said, “Meeting in one hour, at the wine cellar.”
The cellar was a bunker constructed under The Boss' house, and only a handful of folks knew it was there. Each that knew about the bunker were either board members or provided security around the clock, seven days a week, for the facility. Even Beth didn't know of the cellar, but she suspected they ha
d a meeting place in the huge mansion, only she had no idea where. As long as The Boss continued to pay her $5,000 a week to be his mistress, she'd didn't care either.
Standing, he said, “I have a meeting to prepare for and will be gone a few hours.”
“Hurry back, sweetheart, it's starting to get warm in here again.”
He laughed, kissed the top of her head and moved for the cellar. The entrance door was near the kitchen, and it was built in a false wall. The room was used as a wine room, with racks and racks of different wines. The entrance to the cellar was gained by the wine rack near the window, and could be opened by lifting the third bottle of wine on the second row. The rack rotated inward. He then stepped inside and the entrance closed. It also locked, so any unauthorized guests would be trapped at this area. He moved to the scanner on the wall near a solid steel reinforced door, and placed his eye close enough to be scanned. As soon as the light turned green, it quickly turned red again. The Boss punched in the twelve digit code and the light turned green once more. The door was heard to unlock and it slowly swung open.
Stepping inside, he knew he was being weighed and his height checked. A keyboard near the second door made a series of beeps and then a computerized voice said, “Please enter your personal access number.”
He entered his personal number and knew his height and weight were proper or he'd not have progressed to this stage. He also knew he was being scanned for weapons and while he was carrying a 9 mm pistol, he was authorized to do so. If unauthorized, an alarm would have been tripped and he would not have been allowed to exit the chamber. Instead, the door popped open and he entered, only to meet a human guard who sat at a console monitoring the whole process.
The Boss handed his identification badge to the guard who scanned it and waited for the information to show on a screen. He then inserted the badge in a chip reader and once the chip was read, the Boss had to answer two questions that only he knew.