Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angriff’s footfalls rang on the metal floor as he got right into Randall’s face, an angry DI with a raw boot. He took the cigar out of his mouth and used it as a pointer, and it felt like a well-rehearsed theatrical act. Nick the A had probably done this many times over the years. Or at least Randall prayed it was an act.

  “Captain, I have to deal with a grave matter. You see, I have to decide whether you have put this command in jeopardy or not. Do you think that when I woke up this morning that was the number-one priority on my agenda for today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re damned right it wasn’t! For your own selfish purposes, you put yourself and your wishes above the well-being of this brigade. And if that’s not bad enough, you dragged somebody else into it — a fellow officer, no less.” He turned from Randall and took two steps toward Morgan, but Randall heard the intensity in his voice drop a notch. “As for you, Lieutenant… what do I call you? Angriff? Randall?”

  “Randall, sir.” Her eyes stayed fixed on a spot across the office.

  If Randall had never been chewed out by a general before, surely his wife had, countless times. It still angered Randall to see his Tank Girl subjected to such treatment.

  But Angriff stopped speaking and, try as he might, could go no further. He wanted to chew his daughter out worse than ever before, even worse than when she joined the Army without telling him, to let her know the agony and grief her reported death had caused not only him, but also her mother and sister. Her irresponsible and immature decision had possibly compromised the most important mission in the history of the U.S. Army and she needed to understand the potential consequences. He needed to get in her face and put the fear of God into her, to vent the incredible pain he’d lived with every second of every day since told that she’d died in combat.

  Yet he could not do it. Not only had seeing his baby girl alive again rejuvenated some part of him that had died with her, but also…

  Arms crossed, he retreated two steps. “At ease. Sit.”

  Moving behind his desk, he slumped into the oversized office chair and reached behind, adjusting the lumbar support for his aching lower back. When Schiller had found his supply of cigars, he’d begged Angriff not to smoke them in the office because it would gunk up the filters. Now he cut the ends off the Cubana Monte Cristo Especiales Number Three he’d been using as a prop, toasted the foot, and lit it. Taking a long draw, he leaned back and found the first pull delicious, even after all those years.

  “So, you’re married?”

  Morgan didn’t squirm. “Yes, sir. A priest and everything.”

  Angriff motioned with the Cubana. “And this is my son-in-law?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angriff pointed at his daughter with his free hand. “All right. You and I have to have a family conversation. Dad and daughter. Since he’s your husband, he can listen in.” He turned to Joe. “But conversations between you and I remain strictly military. Is that clear, Captain?”

  Morgan roused. “Dad, that’s not fair. This was all my idea. Joe tried to stop me.”

  “He should have tried harder.”

  “You can’t blame—”

  “Stop.” Angriff raised his right hand and spilled cigar ash on his desk. “I don’t want to fight. I… I thought you were gone forever and now…” Unsure what to do next, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “There’s something you need to know, something terrible, and I’m not really sure how to tell you.”

  Morgan leaned forward. “Daddy? What is it?”

  After Angriff ceased speaking, Randall’s heart ripped in two at the agony on Morgan’s face.

  “Dear God,” she whispered. “Oh my dear God… Oh my God, oh my God, is this my fault?” Tears started flowing.

  Angriff knelt beside her chair and put his arm around her. “No, sweetie, this wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself. You didn’t murder them, and I didn’t murder them, even though this happened because of who I was.

  “I couldn’t do anything to avenge you, but I vowed to track down the bastards who killed your mom and sister and torture them like they torture others. But then I was offered command of this brigade. At first I turned it down. What I really wanted was revenge. I wanted to wipe out every Muslim terrorist on the globe, single-handed if necessary.

  “But then I looked at the big picture, the greater good. Regardless of how many burps I killed, there would always be more to replace them. I prayed like I’ve never prayed before, and asked God for guidance. Hell, I even went to Confession. I came to understand that my place was here, in the future, where I might be able to make a real difference. So I accepted this command.

  “And now, just when I thought I’d lost everything, I have you back again. And—” He finally looked over at Randall, met his gaze. “—it looks like I’ve gained a son-in-law, and apparently one who can shoot straight. So sweetie, at the end of the day, it’s hard not to see the hand of God in this. If you had still been alive after I buried your mom and sister, then I would not have taken this assignment. But by taking it I got you back and picked up a son. That can’t just be an accident.”

  With savagery Joe had never heard in his wife before, she looked her father in the eye. “Did you get them?”

  Without prompting, Angriff knew what she meant. “I personally took care of the guy who leaked their itinerary. It wasn’t random; they were targeted. He worked at the NSA.”

  “I need details, Dad.”

  He nodded. “I followed him after work one night. I called in a favor and certain cameras had a malfunction in the parking lot, and some guards turned away from a shadow that slipped through the gate. I caught up with him, dragged him behind a big SUV, and poured pig’s blood down his throat. He choked on it and tried to scratch me, but I knelt on his chest. He cried and pissed in his pants and begged me not to kill him. Then I strangled the bastard with my bare hands. I looked into his eyes as his life drained away. Some friends had offered to help, but I had to do this all on my own. They got rid of the body for me and cleaned up the evidence.”

  “So he suffered?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Good. Joe, none of this leaves this room.”

  Randall had never seen his wife like that before. The bouncy, happy-go-lucky Tank Girl he fell in love with was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Lieutenant Morgan Mary Angriff Randall, veteran tank commander and trained killer, sat in her place. For the first time he saw the father in the daughter.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, more than a little aroused.

  Bunny Carlos wanted to hit somebody. Two days ago, the enormous hangar had been dark and quiet, not counting when Joe cranked up his music. Carlos could tinker and clean and let his mind wander without worrying about tripping over somebody. In the past forty-eight hours, everything had changed. Talking, shouting, air tools, music, engines revving, different music, metal on metal, another kind of music… the relentless cacophony rang in his ears. And where the hell was Joe? He’d been gone for hours.

  Six ground crewmen stood at attention beside the Comanche, four women and two men, in clean new coveralls. None of them knew each other or him. In practical terms, he and Joe were supposed to trust their lives to six strangers whose competence was unknown and who had never worked together as a team. Carlos had no intention of letting that happen. He and Joe knew their Comanche inside and out. They had maintained her by themselves for the last eleven months and could keep doing so if necessary.

  “How many of you have experience working on AH-72s?” he said.

  “I do, sir,” said the E-8. “I was crew chief on AH-64s and 72s in Malaysia.”

  “Malaysia?”

  “Khota Baru, sir. When ISSA launched their final offensive?”

  “Must have been after I went cold.” Carlos leaned sideways and examined the stripes on the sergeant’s sleeve. He straightened up with a new respect for her. “What’s your name, Fi
rst Sergeant?”

  “Rossi, sir. Frances J.”

  “You worked on Comanches in Malaysia, Sergeant Rossi?”

  “Mostly Apaches, sir, but Comanches too, for a little while. The brass called them Golden Eagles, but we all thought that name sucked.”

  “A tropical environment? Tell me about the conditions.”

  “Conditions weren’t too bad to start, sir. We moved in on the third day of the attack and used the Malaysian Air Force’s base in the area. It was near the coast and the salt air was a problem from the get-go. We had to pay special attention to look for corrosion, mostly on contacts, O-rings, rubber gaskets, and in the ordnance pods.

  “Bugs were an issue, too. There were clouds of mosquitoes and flies and they were constantly clogging the filters. Centipedes, too, they crawled into everything and if they stung you, you were down for the count. The airfield itself was grade-A. Hard surface, hardened bunkers, good workshops and equipment, it was pretty much the same as flying from one of our own bases.

  “That lasted for about a week. Our birds flew seven to ten sorties every twenty-four hours, day and night, and it took a toll on the aircraft and crews. Then the jimbangs broke through and we had to second-wife it in the pitch dark. It was a real soup sandwich—”

  “Jimbangs?”

  “Yes, sir, the ISSA foot soldiers. The Malaysians called them jembalangs. In English that means goblins. They were ugly fuckers, big noses and chins; they looked like goblins. Somewhere along the way it got changed to jimbangs. Some of our older guys called them Ali Babas, burps, ceefees, walfers, all kinds of names, but jimbangs is what stuck.”

  “Jimbangs,” Carlos said. “I like that. What was that other one, walfer?”

  “Walking fertilizer, sir.”

  He smiled. “Go on.”

  “Not much else to tell, Lieutenant. It was pretty kinetic. We retreated from base to base for the next three weeks until we wound up back at Singapore, where we got evaced to Guam. Most of our combat time was out in the jungle, but the engineers did a thumbs-up job chopping landing zones out of the forest. It rained all the time, there weren’t any spare parts… what else? Oh, yeah, once we were grounded because of no fuel, but we hijacked an air force convoy and un-assed it down the coast. That was close, too; the jimbangs were biting our butts. We finally had to start cannibalizing the less airworthy birds just to keep the others flying.

  “The attack battalion went into combat with a full load of Apaches, twenty-four of them. We came out with three and those were held together with duct tape. We burned them on the tarmac at Singapore just before wheels-up to Guam. We all got Bullwinkle Badges out of it, although nobody gave a shit. We left seven buddies over there, but we should have lost more. Our zoomies were top notch and brought a lot of guys out who should’ve been dead.”

  “Zoomies?”

  “Rotorheads, Lieutenant. Helicopter pilots?”

  “Rotorheads I know, Sergeant. We called jet pilots zoomies.”

  Rossi shrugged.

  “It seems like I missed a lot.”

  “If you mean combat, sir, I would say that’s probably a big roger.”

  “Thank you, First Sergeant Rossi.”

  Rossi appeared to be in her mid thirties with a small frame, but Carlos knew fire-hardened oak when he saw it. Something about the way a person carried herself let you know if she had a steel core or was just pretending, and Carlos knew Rossi was the real deal. If she could service combat aircraft under enemy fire while simultaneously running a crew, working in the safe confines of Overtime’s spacious hangar should be a piece of cake.

  “Ten-hut!” Rossi said, in the same way non-coms had barked in every war since Helen took a boat ride to Troy.

  Carlos looked over his shoulder and then turned completely around. Joe Randall had come out of the tunnel leading from the inner base and had already started down the stairs, preceded by a short blonde lieutenant. Carlos put his hands on his hips, cocked his head, and watched them climb down. Recognition dawned. Folding his arms, his face creased into in a frown and then a glare. “I’ll be dipped in shit.”

  Morgan Angriff Randall stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Red puffiness ringed her blue eyes. “It’s nice to see you, too, Bunny.”

  Behind them, Sergeant Rossi held her salute and did not move or flinch. But somehow Carlos knew the nickname had not passed unnoticed.

  Seeing her audience, Morgan said a little louder, “Hello again, Lieutenant Carlos.”

  “Nice to see you, Lieutenant… Angriff, right?” He glowered and didn’t take his eyes off Randall. “I hope you’re well.”

  Avoiding Carlos’ glare, Randall walked past them both and over to the line of technicians. “Who do we have here, Lieutenant Carlos?”

  “Our ground crew.” His terseness underscored his dislike of surprises, particularly secrets kept from him by his best friend.. “First Sergeant Rossi there is our scud-running trunk monkey.”

  Randall returned her salute. “At ease. Rossi, is it? Any relation to Dan Rossi, Air Force pilot? No? Well, it’s a big world. Lieutenant Carlos and I will want a private meeting later to make sure we’re all on the same page as to what will be expected of you and your crew. It’s not that we doubt your abilities or your crew’s skills, but we don’t know you. So in the meantime, you and your people will touch nothing, and will start memorizing every technical manual we have on the AH-72. It’s similar in some ways to the Apache, but it also has its differences.”

  Carlos interrupted him. “Sergeant Rossi has combat experience with the AH-72, Captain.”

  The two men exchanged irritated glances.

  “Does she now? Combat experience or not, I don’t even want you breathing on my aircraft until I say you can. You and your crew have one and only one mission, and that is keeping Lieutenant Carlos and me alive. To that end, you are to learn anything and everything you can about this world-class weapons platform you see before you. Capiche, Sergeant?”

  “Aye, sir,” Rossi said.

  “You are to know this gunship better than I do, from the box office to the tourist killer. Then and only then will I permit you the honor of servicing this magnificent machine of war. Are there any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, get to work. Dismissed,” Randall said.

  When their crew was out of earshot, Carlos re-crossed his arms and tapped his toe. “Let me guess. You two meeting here isn’t exactly a coincidence.”

  “You could say that,” Randall said.

  “I always wondered why her picture was on the bird. And that whole thing in Tel Aviv was, what? An act? A smokescreen for my benefit? ‘Where’s Tank Girl,’ I said. ‘Gone,’ you said, ‘and she’s not coming back.’ I guess technically that wasn’t a lie, now that I see where she went. But shit, Joe, I thought we were friends. You couldn’t tell me about this, that Morgan was going cold, too?”

  “That much I could have told you, Bunny. It’s the rest of it I had to keep quiet and you’re not much at leaving things alone. If I told you any of it, then I’d have had to tell you all of it.”

  “So there’s an all of it? Awesome. Let’s hear it.”

  “Her name isn’t Angriff.”

  “She’s not Lieutenant Angriff? That was a lie, too? I thought you said Tank Girl was Nick the A’s daughter. Sorry, Morgan.”

  She held up a hand. “I’ve called him worse.”

  “Oh, she’s his daughter, all right,” Joe said. “But Angriff is her maiden name. Her married name is Randall.”

  “Well, fuck me sideways,” Carlos said. “You two got married and didn’t tell me? This is really fucked up, Joe, you know that? This really pisses me off, man.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Bunny. I couldn’t tell anybody. Shit, do you know what the army went through to get us here? They faked her death in combat. They blew up a fucking M1, then they told her parents she was a crispy critter. A dead crispy critter. Dead — do you hear me? — as in not alive? The army t
old her parents, including the father who is now our commanding officer, that she was incinerated in the explosion. All they ever got to bury was a jar full of ashes they probably scraped out of some haji’s cook stove. That’s one helluva big pile of shit ready to fall on your head if somebody found out, and you really wanted to be in the loop on that?”

  Carlos paused and thought about it. “You were protecting me?”

  “Fuck, Bunny, you’re the last person in the world I would hose. And you’re the only person I wanted to tell about this, but I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “So who was your best man?” Carlos said.

  “There wasn’t a best man. There wasn’t even a wedding. Five minutes with the chaplain, two civilian contractors as witnesses. That was it.”

  “Straight up?”

  “Straight up,” Randall said.

  “Where did you go on your honeymoon?”

  Randall stepped back, smiled, and spread his arms. “Sunny Arizona, my brother.”

  “If we’re brothers, what does that make her?” Carlos pointed with his thumb at Morgan, busy inspecting their Comanche. “Is she like my little sister now?”

  “You’re the creepy uncle,” she said. “And did you really tell him that if he married me I’d swell up like a dead cat in a ditch?”

  “I’d never say anything like that about you, Morgan.” Again Carlos looked at Randall with the nastiest expression he could muster. “And if I did, I sure as shit wouldn’t expect him to tell you.”

  “Unless you’re gonna start sleeping with him,” she said, “I wouldn’t tell him anything you don’t want me to know.”

  “He should be so lucky.”

  “You don’t romance me like she does,” Randall said.

  “Hey, you two!” Standing beside the Comanche, Morgan pointed at the lewd image of Tank Girl on the helicopter’s side. “If that’s supposed to be me, the ass isn’t round enough and that sword needs to be a lot bigger.”

  Chapter 23