Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  Chapter 34

  Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.

  “Blood on the Risers,” traditional song of the United States Paratroops

  June 20th, 2210 hours

  “Is that a mortar round in your pants or are you glad to see me?” Morgan Randall said, wrapping her leg around his waist while she licked his neck.

  “Wait ’til that round goes off.”

  Erotic word play had always been part of their lovemaking, but they were usually slow and gentle with foreplay. Hiding in a shadowed corner of a small side tunnel, at that moment they were neither. Even on a base the size of Overtime, privacy was a rare commodity, so when they saw the chance, they took it.

  Someone passing in the main corridor might have heard the rustle of clothing, but no one could see the entwined pair without stepping their way a few paces. Randall assumed he would hear such a voyeur coming. He did not.

  The first inkling of trouble was a thin cord wrapped around his neck. Someone pulled him backward, away from his wife, and threw him against the wall face first. The cord cut into his neck and blood ran into his shirt.

  Another set of hands pulled Morgan forward and wrapped her in a bear hug, while a small man started to throw a hood over her head.

  Using the man behind her as a brace, she lifted her right leg and kicked the smaller man in the mouth, aiming at a mole on his upper lip. He staggered back and put his hand into his mouth. It came out bloody.

  “You fuckin’ bitch!” He balled his fist and swung. The blow landed square on her chin and she went limp. The two men lifted her by the shoulders and feet and took off.

  Randall relied on surprise and reflexes when flying, and those same traits served him in a fight. Like all pilots he carried weapons on his person, but not just during combat; he always carried two knives. Using his right hand, he struggled to reach the small, all-purpose dagger strapped to his left wrist. With the blood to his brain shut off, his vision began to deteriorate into red and yellow sparkles. Peripheral vision narrowed. He sucked for air but nothing came.

  His hands began to go numb as he tried to slide out the knife. Panic closed in and his most primitive instincts screamed for him to flail and thrash. Instead, he maintained focus long enough for the blade to come free into his grasp. While shifting it for the thrust, he almost dropped it twice. Then as he was blacking out, he shoved upward with all his remaining strength.

  The three-inch blade sliced into his attacker’s neck. Randall pulled it to the side as hard as he could. Blood spurted and sprayed Randall’s back. He reeled aside and fell to his knees, clawing at his ruptured throat.

  Randall pulled the cord away and felt the blood running down his own neck. He bent over, hands on knees, until his vision cleared. He had a pounding headache and no wife. Panting, he inspected his attacker, whose breathing through his slashed throat was rapid and shallow. A huge pool of blood made it clear he had only seconds left to live.

  “Where… where did they take my wife?” Randall gasped.

  The man’s lips moved. In those last seconds of his life, Randall thought he might be crying, but no sounds emerged, only bloody coughs.

  Angriff fidgeted with his silver Zippo lighter, the one engraved with the large A on the front, a sure sign he wanted to light his cigar. Out of deference to Fleming, however, he mouthed it, clicked the lighter open and closed, and smelled the tobacco. Fleming knew Angriff wanted his permission to light up, but he did not care. The sneezing and coughing from his allergy to tobacco smoke overrode his accommodating nature.

  “You made your points clearly.” Fleming continued their after-lunch analysis of the staff meeting. “If anybody’s confused about how this is going to work, it’s on them, not you.”

  “A lot of them didn’t like it.”

  “Sometimes you get the glory, sometimes the cane. Political officers are nothing if not survivors.”

  “I hope that’s not just your relentless optimism talking. They believed this would be command by committee, just like it was in D.C., and they don’t like my approach even a little bit. The polyoffs, political officers, wanted to do what they do best, politick, kiss my ass, and tell me my shit smells like roses. I’d can ’em all if I could, but we need every one of them.”

  A commotion erupted in the corridor outside the main doors of Central Command. Peering down the ramp and through the milling people, Angriff could not see what was wrong, but within seconds two sentries came into view holding a man between them. Angriff rose and walked to the head of the ramp, where Schiller also watched.

  The man in the middle wasn’t being dragged, but supported. He had a shirt wrapped around his neck and the front of his own shirt had blood-streaks running down to his waist. Schiller made to help but the sentries waved him away. That was when Angriff recognized his son in law.

  “Put him in my office.” Nausea welled into his throat. He knew what had to be coming next. “How bad is it?”

  “That doesn’t matter, General. They kidnapped Morgan.” Randall gave a quick rundown of the attack. By the end, he was crying. “I tried to save her, sir, I tried, and they got her anyway.”

  Angriff had seen many battle wounds and could visualize the cord around Randall’s neck. Getting out of that took guts and presence of mind, and Randall killed one of the kidnappers despite being surprised.

  “It’s not your fault, son. Remember that. It’s not your fault.”

  He met Fleming’s eyes. “Bettison. It has to be him. I should have killed him while I had the chance. I knew he was going to try something like this.”

  “You can’t just go around shooting people for no reason,” Fleming said.

  “Wanna bet? I lost my little girl once. I’m not going to lose her again.”

  “He’ll make contact. He wants a ransom. Guys like Bettison don’t kill unless it serves their purpose.”

  “Overtime is on lockdown. Schiller, find Walling. Call General Tompkins and get me Green Ghost.”

  An engineer on his way to repair a leaking latrine found the ransom note in an elevator. Because it was written on an MRE wrapper in purple permanent marker, Angriff found it hard to read. He handed it to Walling.

  “Angriff, Fleming to SF eleven,” Walling said, reading it. “No guns. Quick. Alone or… well, you can guess, sir.”

  Angriff stood with hands clenched behind his back, looking down at the Clam Shell. “Read what it says, Colonel.”

  “General—”

  “Read it!”

  Walling licked his lips. “…alone or the bitch dies.”

  Five people had gathered in the office besides Angriff and Walling. Schiller, Tompkins, Fleming, and Green Ghost all stood, while Nipple sat on the love seat and played with her hair. Nobody knew who she was and nobody asked. She was with Green Ghost, and even those who did not know him gave him a wide berth.

  “I told you this would happen.” She didn’t look at anyone.

  Angriff wanted to slap her.

  “I’ll go alone,” Fleming said. “See if I can bargain with them.”

  “Let me go with you,” Tompkins said. “If something happens to me, I’m expendable. And if it comes down to it, I’m still a good shot.”

  He and Fleming started debating and Walling joined in. Green Ghost watched for a minute before walking over to Angriff.

  “It’s gotta be you, Saint.”

  “I know.”

  “If it’s Bettison behind this—”

  “It is.” Using his thumb, he pointed at Nipple. “I don’t like her, but she did warn us.”

  “Bettison wants you dead. He’ll probably shoot you as soon as he sees you.”

  “Probably. But he said quick. I don’t have much choice.”

  “Dying’s not much of a plan.”

  “The objective is to save my daughter’s life. If it costs mine in the process, I’ll pay that price.”

  “At least give me time to suit you guys up in some armor.”

  “If Bettison sees body arm
or, I’m not sure how he’ll react. He might just start shooting.”

  “He won’t see this. It’s experimental. We stole it from a DARPA supplier before the shit fell in. Some new type of ceramic mesh, very thin. It’s supposed to absorb the energy from a bullet and disperse it over a wide area. You wind up with a really big bruise, but they say it stops pistol rounds. It also has nanotech camouflage, meaning it blends with its background. I’ll bring one for Socrates, too.”

  “Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”

  “And you’re gonna need a weapon. Ever shot a Walther PPS- M2?”

  “Nine mil?”

  “Forty caliber.”

  “No, but I’m a fast learner,” Angriff said.

  “Good gun, very small and thin. We’ll put in on your side, but if you get frisked it’s over; there’s nowhere to hide it. And even if they don’t find it, Bettison still holds all the cards. The minute you step off the elevator he’ll have you covered. While I’m getting this stuff I’ll talk to my guys, see if there might be another way down there.”

  That tripped a memory. Angriff paused, and there below him, typing at his work station, was Private Dupree.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “We need to get going,” Fleming said. “It’s been almost two hours since we got the note. I’m not anxious to be a target, but if we’re going to do this, we need to do it.”

  “I know,” Angriff said. “Damn the network. I can’t be sure Ghost has had time to get in place.”

  “Nick, these pouches are slipping into my crotch. If we don’t go now we’re going to have to undress and retie them. I’m also worried they’re going to leak.”

  “All right, let’s go rescue my daughter.”

  They had to move slowly to make sure the decoy pouches did not slip. Given their anxiety, the elevator seemed particularly slow. When it got to the final stop, sub-floor eleven, the doors slid open and a small man with an M16 covered them. Using the gun, he motioned them out.

  “Over there.” His accent made it sound like ova theya.

  Angriff stopped. He knew that voice from somewhere.

  Taking measured steps, they entered a wide corridor with long shadows thrown by the dim lighting. Nothing was visible until they came to a bend, and there, standing to one side and pointing a pistol at them, stood Terry Bettison. Darkness gave his angular face a demonic aspect Angriff had never noticed. In the middle of the tunnel sat a metal chair, with a sheet of paper and pen on the seat.

  “All right, Bettison, I’m here. Where’s Morgan?”

  “I’m surprised, Angriff. It doesn’t look like you’re armed, you’re not wearing body armor — don’t tell me you actually showed some brains for once. I’m proud of you.”

  “You want me to pat him down?” the small man said.

  Angriff and Fleming wore standard pullover shirts that lay flat against their chests. There were no bulges to indicate body armor or guns. “No. Stay away from him. He’s probably planning on you doing just that. That’s your style, isn’t it Angriff? Direct action?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to clear him?” the man said. “Just have him lie down.”

  Annoyed, Bettison snapped, “Do you see any guns?”

  “Not from here, but that don’t mean shit.”

  “Armor? Do you see any armor?”

  “No armor, but something ain’t right.”

  “The only way he can hurt us is if you get in range for whatever they’ve got planned. He wants his precious girl back and won’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  The small man retreated a few steps, unhappy. “This ain’t very professional.”

  Best not to give them time to work it out. Angriff cleared his throat. “I did what you said. Where’s my daughter?”

  Bettison pointed to his hatchet man. “Go tell the slut to yell so he can hear her.”

  Angriff did not react to hearing his daughter insulted. He stood still, buying time.

  A few seconds later Morgan yelled, “Run, Daddy!”

  “What’s your endgame, Bettison? So you kill us. What does that get you?”

  “I’m not sure why you care. This isn’t a movie where I reveal my plans while you figure out how to escape. I’ve got plans; there’s just no reason to tell you what they are.”

  “Don’t you want to gloat?”

  The small man came back out, leveling his M16 in their direction. “Let’s hurry it up. I’m getting that jumpy feeling.”

  “You heard the man, Angriff. We need to speed this up. I want you and General Fleming to sign that paper. It’s your resignation as commander of the brigade and hands over power to your command staff. They will then pick the most appropriate commander. There’s no need to waste time reading it. Just sign.”

  “And my daughter?”

  “Your daughter is a highly decorated tank commander. We need all the good soldiers we can get. As long as she doesn’t cause trouble, no harm will come to her.”

  “What if I don’t believe you?”

  Bettison chuckled. “I didn’t realize you had a choice.”

  When the small guy left the room, Morgan Randall lay alone, watched by the guard she had labeled Smelly because he stank of garlic and mold. Not his breath; him. The odor seeped out of his body. When she’d first awakened and he’d slid his hand under her shirt and cupped her breast, she’d gagged at his reek. She’d almost vomited until the small man had said no, they had to wait. Then the middle-aged one they called Bettison had showed up and nixed the idea for good. Smelly had growled.

  Her jaw ached from getting slugged and her shoulders burned from having her hands tied so long behind her back. The rag stuffed in her mouth made it hard to breathe. Dumped like a bag of laundry on the dusty floor, she was surrounded by the store room’s junk, strange shapes in the dim light. A clock on a shelf was stopped at six o’clock.

  The voices outside were loud enough to hear but not to distinguish words. She recognized her father’s voice and wanted to cry, but didn’t. Bettison had promised not to harm either her father or Norm Fleming, and she prayed he kept his word. She didn’t count on it, however, and it seemed more likely he would just shoot them. It was the safe thing to do. If that happened, if she died in that ill-lit dungeon, she asked God to help Joe not blame himself for what happened. They’d been taken by surprise and it was nobody’s fault except her kidnapper’s.

  Smelly leaned out the doorway, staring into the hall. Morgan stretched her neck to relieve the stress in her shoulders. Movement caught her eye, and bizarrely, the door of the cabinet against the wall opened. A young woman with blonde hair and freckles put a finger to her lips. The lean face of a man appeared beside her.

  Then the shooting started.

  Angriff put the pen down and stepped back, hands in the air.

  “We’ve done what you said. Now let my daughter go.”

  Bettison collected the paper, held it up until he could read the signatures, and seemed satisfied. “Good job, generals. For once, you weren’t a pain in my ass.”

  At a distance of twenty feet, he raised the pistol and fired two shots into Fleming’s chest, then Angriff’s. Both men staggered under the impact of the rounds as red liquid drenched their clothes. Fleming fell backward immediately, while Angriff dropped to one knee, swayed, and rolled over on his side, facing away from Bettison.

  “Nice shooting,” the small man said. “Stay or go?”

  “Let’s play it safe and go. Kill the girl.”

  “I might play a little first.”

  “Damn, you guys are sick. Hurry it up if you have to. We need to be outta here before they figure out Uncle Sam isn’t coming back up. Five minutes and we’re gone.”

  It had been a close-run thing. Angriff was a tough bastard, Bettison gave him that much, but in the end it had all worked out. He had every confidence Overtime would soon be theirs. He eased slowly toward the two fallen men. Time for the coup de grace. He stood over Angriff a
nd aimed at his head, avoiding the red puddle surrounding the body.

  But something round and cold pushed against the back of his head and a hand slapped the gun from his grasp.

  “I wouldn’t move if I was you,” Green Ghost said.

  Morgan had dubbed the last of her kidnappers Mole Man because of the brown mole on his upper lip. When he returned, she still lay on the floor, hands behind her and the rag in her mouth.

  “Lendy! Lendy, where you at, man?” He stood in the store room’s center, staring around, and did not notice the blood leaking from the big storage cabinet or the lean man slipping out the door behind him.

  He leaned his gun against the wall and unzipped his pants, letting them drop. “Time for fun. If Lendy gets back, he can have sloppy seconds. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Something sharp touched the shaft of his penis. He looked down. A petite hand held a large knife with the blade turned downward. His erection faded.

  “I like sloppy things, too,” said a young-sounding female voice. Another hand shoved a dirty rag into his mouth.

  Morgan Randall took the rag from her own mouth and jumped up. Mole Man’s eyes widened. Maybe Lendy wasn’t coming back.

  From the tunnel outside, Green Ghost yelled, “We’re good out here. Saint Nick is fine.”

  “Daddy?” Morgan shouted. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, sweetie.”

  “You wanna do the honors?” Nipple smiled.

  Morgan leaned in close, staring at the jagged rip in Mole Man’s lower lip from her earlier kick. “First you tried to kill my husband, then my dad, and that really pissed me off.”

  “No try about it, bitch. We did kill your husband.” But the quaver in Mole Man’s voice undermined the attempt at bravado.

  “No, you didn’t. These nice people talked with him. So if you want to keep your dick, you should do the same.”