by John Ringo
"Harmon found the girls," the national security advisor said. "And found out what was going on. And, somehow, sabotaged the facility as a signal to start the mission."
"How many troops?" the President asked.
"A battalion of Syrian commandos," the Chairman answered. "And they're not, generally, the Keystone Kops you get with most Arab armies. They fought the Israelis to a standstill in the Golan Heights in '73. And an unknown number of mujahideen."
"They're forming up again," the national security advisor said. "They're getting ready to rush the door."
"I don't normally input at the tactical level," the President said, "but . . ."
"I'm making the call now, Mr. President," the Chairman said, picking up his phone. "More or less to ensure that everyone has the information and knows the target."
"Get them support," the secretary said. "Get them support as fast as we possibly can."
"Target," Mike said, firing at the first figure on the stairs.
The soldiers were not bothering to pick their way through the bodies and a couple of them, who hadn't been hit, tumbled down the stairs. But the rest kept coming, firing wildly but filling the air with lead nonetheless. Three of them paused on the landing, obviously picked marksmen, and tried to target the defenders in the gloom as the rest rushed Mike and Amy's position.
"I'm out," Amy said, rolling into the doorway.
"Babe!" Mike yelled. "Grenades!" He slowed his fire, dropping three in the front rank, and then felt the bolt lock back. He quickly grabbed another weapon, but by then two of the soldiers were nearly to the door and he had to fire up at them. One of them managed to get off a burst of "spray and pray" in his direction, and he felt a searing pain in his back and chest.
Amy shot the last of them off his back, but the stairway had filled with soldiers again and the marksmen were now firing at Mike and Amy's positions. He felt another round hit his leg, but he kept firing, willing the soldiers to break and run.
"Babe" had been playing ball since she was five years old. First two years of T-ball and then fast-pitch softball in a brutally Darwinian league. By high school she was considered one of the top pitchers in Georgia, an area that took its women's fast-pitch seriously, and was going to UGA on an athletic scholarship.
She pitched accurately enough, and hard enough, that she could probably have taken down most of the front rank by simply hitting them with the grenades. However, that would have left the grenades rolling around on the floor to . . . "frag" Amy and Ghost. She considered the situation for just a moment, using pretty much the same thought process as if she was deciding to throw a grounder to first or second, then pulled the pin and spun her right arm in a whirlwind motion, slamming the grenade upward to ricochet off the roof and back down into the group. Before the first thud, and a cry of pain that could be heard even over the firing, she had spun another up and another . . .
Suddenly, there was an explosion in their midst and then another and bodies were tossed, screaming, to the floor. With the way clear he could spot the snipers on the landing and he engaged all three of them, hitting one simultaneously with shots from Amy.
The rush had fallen back but bodies littered the hallway, some of them simply wounded. He spotted one trying to crawl up the stairs and shot him, deliberately, in the head, then reloaded.
"More mags to cross-load," he said, sliding one across to Amy. "There any bandages in the room?"
"No," Amy said. "Why? Oh, crap!"
"Yeah," Mike said, sitting up and leaning back. When his back touched the wall he felt like screaming, but he was afraid he'd pass out if he stayed prone. "Fight until you die or drop time."
"Where have I heard that before?" Amy asked.
"Axes flash, broadswords swing," Mike quietly sung. "Shining armor's piercing ring. Horses run on a polished shield. Fight those bastards 'til they yield."
"Midnight mare and blood red roan," Amy replied. "Fight to keep this land your own."
"Sound the horn and call the cry," they sang together. "HOW MANY OF THEM CAN WE MAKE DIE!"
"What is that?" Babe asked from the doorway.
"'March of Cambreadth,'" Amy replied. "Heather Alexander. Very cool song. That's the only verse I can ever remember. My dad used to play it."
"I think I'd like your dad," Mike said and coughed. His hand came away dark in the flare light, but he was pretty sure it was blood. It wasn't a sucking chest wound but something had nicked his lung. "Follow orders as you're told, make their yellow blood run cold. Fight until you die and drop. A force like ours is hard to stop. Close your mind to stress and pain, fight 'til you're no longer sane. Let not one damned cur pass by. How many of them can we make die."
"You know the whole song?" Amy asked.
"And lots of others," Mike said, weakly. "Right now I'm thinking of one by Crüxshadows."
"Who?" Amy asked.
"Great band," Mike whispered. "I will not run, this is my sacrifice," he sang, softly then coughed. "For I am Winter born . . ."
"Bad song, Ghost," Amy said. "I really need you to hang in here."
"I will, Amy," Mike said. "I will. I hereby dub thee . . . Bo."
"Why Bo for God's Sake?" Amy asked, angrily. "It's better than Thumper, I suppose . . ."
"For Boadicea," Mike replied. "The Celtic warrior queen."
"Oh. In that case . . ."
"Of course, she lost," Mike added honestly. "And was dragged off to Rome in chains. But hopefully we'll do better."
"So, sing some better songs," Amy said. "If you can."
"How about poetry?" Mike asked.
"I hate poetry."
"What, your dad never told you about Kipling?"
"Only 'A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke,'" Amy said.
"Shame on him," Mike replied. "This is the ballad of bo da thone, eerst the pretender to Theebaw's throne, who harried the district of Alalone. How he met with his fate and the VPP at the hands of Harandra Mukerji, senior Gomashta, GBT."
"What the hell is that?" Amy asked.
"The opening to the 'Ballad of Bo Da Thone,'" Mike said. "And, speaking of which, there's a bag in this room. A sample case. If I'm not . . . viable when support gets here, tell them the interior is contaminated and it's a personal present from me to the President."
"What's in the bag?" Amy asked.
"That's between me and the President," Mike said, chuckling and then coughing. "Crap that hurts. All these women around and not a pad or a tampon to be had."
"Mike," Amy said, quietly. "I know you're stressed and I know that things are tough, but we've really had a bad time, you know. Could you dial back on the . . ."
"Sexism?" Mike asked. "Yeah. Now I will. I needed to shock them before."
"I can tell that you're really a nice guy . . ." Amy started to say.
"Hah," Mike replied mirthlessly. "Don't be fooled. I'm a very bad man indeed."
"No, you're not," Amy said. "Quit trying to tell yourself you're . . ."
"Amy," Mike said quietly. "There are times when I don't know whether I'm going to slip all the way to the side of evil. There's bad in me you don't know. But I'll tell you this; if I didn't have . . . something that kept me on the very edge of good, I'd have happily lined up with those soldiers to rape you. And dug my fingers into your bleeding flesh to make you scream. I'm not just a little bit bad, I'm just about all the way bad. The sexist comments weren't all an act. That's how I really am when the stops are pulled out. The fake part is being a nice guy."
Amy was quiet for a time and then shook her head.
"I don't believe it," she said and then held up a hand to forestall the protest. "Yeah, okay, you have your demons. But . . . well . . . I'll get over what happened. I know I will. And, Mike, if you said you wanted to chain me to a table, just like the one in the room, and act like you were raping me, I'd do it. Because I know that I'd walk out alive and only harmed to the extent that I let you harm me. I trust you. I can just look at you and know I can trust you."
"I hate that," Mike said. "I really do. But . . . yeah, you're right."
"You've never raped a woman, have you?" Amy asked.
"Depends on the definition," Mike replied. "I don't think any of the hookers in the third world are actual volunteers. I keep that in mind when I fuck 'em. It helps."
"I'll give you a pass on that," she said, shrugging. She looked down the hall. "They're holding back."
"Trying to figure out another way in," Mike replied. "They'll probably try the air shaft."
"That's behind us, right?" Amy asked, nervously.
"Yep," Mike said and grinned. "Let 'em."
Amy didn't ask why he was willing to let them try, but she didn't think the Syrians would like it much.
"In the fury of this darkest hour," Mike whispered quietly, "we will be your light. You ask me for my sacrifice and I am Winter born . . ."
"You're right," Amy said. "Very appropriate. Is there more?"
"Without denying a faith in God, that I have never known," Mike said, then coughed. "I hear the angels call my name, and I am Winter born . . ."
"Maybe you should back off," Amy said. "I'd love to hear all of it. But . . . when we're out of here."
"Okay," Mike said, leaning back and sighing.
"Okay, why tampons?" she asked after a while.
"Tampons and pads are some of the best bandages around," Mike replied. "If the hole is big, like from a bullet exit wound, you just stick a tampon in and you're good."
"That's sick!" Amy said, then giggled.
"Oh, it's better than that," Mike said, shifting around to find a convenient position. "You use tampons and pads for bandages. Before Lycra and Spandex, SEALs would use king-sized black pantyhose in place of wetsuits in extremely warm water. And there's an underwater demo firing device that's supposed to be waterproof, but usually isn't. The trigger of the device is a ring on the end. The way you waterproof it is to get a condom, an extra large, unlubricated condom with a receptacle tip, that's for the trigger, and put the firing device in that. With me?"
"Yeah," Amy said, grinning.
"So, sometimes, a team will be out in some third-world shithole and get a mission to, say, go into an enemy harbor and lay some explosives," Mike said, grinning back. "So the supply guy, a SEAL mind you, has to go into some third-world pharmacy . . ."
"Oh, Christ," Amy said, laughing. "Stop! You're killing me . . ."
"And ask for a case of king-sized pantyhose, several cases of tampons and maxi pads. The ones with wings are best; you can just slap them right on . . ."
By this time, Amy was laughing uncontrollably, bent over her AK with tears running down her face while other girls were drifting to the door to know what in the world, especially given the conditions, could be so funny.
" . . . and a case of extra large, unlubricated . . ."
" . . . receptacle tip . . ." Amy managed to gasp, holding up a finger to make the point.
" . . . Receptacle tip, condoms," Mike finished, chuckling and coughing. "God, I got to quit cracking myself up."
"What in the hell was that all about?" Bambi asked. "It sounded . . ."
"Oh, oh . . ." Amy said, waving her hand. "Oh . . ." Then she collapsed again.
"Just trying to bring a little levity into the situation," Mike replied. "Everyone's going around with long faces like they're all gonna die or something."
"Amy?" one of the girls said. "Mr. Ghost?"
"Yeah?" Mike said and coughed again. "Crap that hurt. What?"
"Susie's on the Internet, she's on a chatboard trying to get the word out on what's going on. And Cassie's figured out the video feed. We can go live over the Internet. We're trying to get a link to one of the networks."
"Oh, Christ," Mike said. "Look, no video of the doorway, okay? Don't let them get a look at our defenses. Keep the camera pointed at the far wall. Al Jazeera will rebroadcast and somebody will see it up top and know there's only a couple of us. If you're going to do this, lie. Get some of the girls and give them guns, just to hold. And . . . get Fox. Not CNN, not ABC. Fox."
"You sure?" the girl asked.
"Yeah," Mike replied and coughed. "Tell 'em if they get anyone but Fox, I'll kick their fuzzy bunny-hugger ass."
Chapter Eleven
"Laurie," Tom Godwin said, sticking his head in the producer's cubicle. "You have got to see this!"
Laurie Weiner stood up and walked to his cubicle. Tom had an AIM chat up and she tried to make sense of it. Most of it seemed to be about the hostage crisis, which wasn't too surprising, especially given the name of the chat room: InsideTheHostageRescue. But . . .
"What was that?" she said, scrolling up.
HostageGirl: They haven't been back in about ten minutes. Other than Rachel, so far we're okay.
DingBat111: That's good to hear. You hang in there, Girl.
HostageGirl: We're trying to get a feed out to one of the networks. We've got their video gear. Susie's figured out how to feed to the Internet. She says she needs a server link point.
"Is this what I think it is?" Laurie whispered.
"Yeah, it looks real," Tom said, panting.
"GIVE 'EM OURS!" she shrieked. "How did they get free?"
"Some guy named Ghost broke them loose," Tom said, typing furiously and hitting Send.
FoxieTom: THIS IS TOM GODWIN, A PRODUCER WITH FOX NEWS. EVERYONE GIVE ME A SECOND WITH HOSTAGEGIRL, PLEASE.
FoxieTom: HostageGirl, first of all, glad to hear that everyone is okay so far except Clarissa. That's already in the news in case nobody told you. Tell Susie, the URL link for Internet vid is 126.10.05 and the password is GoFoxy. Everybody, you can't link to that, so stay away from the URL. HostageGirl, once you do the link, we should have two-way video and audio.
HostageGirl: Thanks, Ghost said we could only link to Fox. I guess he's a fan.
FoxieTom: Who is he?
HostageGirl: I dunno, just a guy. Said he tracked us here. He killed the guards and now . . . I've got to think about what I can say and what I can't according to Thumper.
FoxieTom: Thumper?
HostageGirl: He hung nicknames on some of the girls who are helping him. Thumper's one of them. He also calls her "Bringer of Fire." He's . . . really weird. I don't care. He save my life, all of our lives. I'll forgive him everything for that. They're over by the door singing some song about "How many of them can we make die!" now.
DingBat111: COOL. That's "March of Cambreadth"! Very good song for what's going on!
"I'll look up 'March of Cambreadth,'" Laurie said, "and tell video that there's a live feed coming in from the hostages. Jesus, I can't believe I just said that!"
"Power of the Internet," Tom said, and chuckled, going back to the chat session.
* * *
"Welcome back to Fox and Friends, I'm Linda Braums filling in for E.D. Don . . . Gl . . . Hill!" the female anchor said. "The following is hard to believe but true. The hostages from Athens have been . . . partially rescued and are now using the terrorists' own video and Internet equipment to send out live pictures from the room where they were being tortured. We have a direct link to them over the Internet and are now going to be speaking to them, live. Be aware that . . . they were stripped as was seen on the horrible video the terrorists already released and they don't have access to clothing. And we cannot blur out in real time. So . . . I am speaking to Heather Carter, a journalism student at the University of Georgia. Heather, can you explain what happened?" The view changed to a shot of the face and upper chest of a young woman whose hair was horribly mussed and whose face was dirty but very pretty.
"Well, Linda, it was pretty confusing at first," the girl said, her face tight. "We'd . . . been present for Clarissa's . . ." She paused and shook her head for a second.
"Ordeal?" Linda prompted.
"I suppose that's a word to use," Heather replied, gulping and closing her eyes. "And then they took a break, a fairly long one. I think they'd decided to . . . take their time to let the word get aroun
d. Anyway, they started on Rachel . . ."
"It's probably better if we don't use names of victims, Heather," Linda said, tightly. "Not until their families can be informed."
"This is going to get tough," Heather said, grimacing. "They started on another girl. And they'd, well, they'd done most of the things they were going to do to her, short of some of the end stuff . . . when the door burst open and this guy just came in and started killing them. I mean, just killing them. One or two shots per person, almost like an execution. Mr. Halal, who was the guy leading them and doing a lot of the torturing, tried to take the girl on the table hostage and Ghost just . . . played with him. Shot all the other people, acted like he was negotiating, except he was really insulting, and then he shot him through the head. He released some of us and gave us the key and he and, well he's been organizing our defense ever since. He said this was a WMD facility, by the way, and I trust his word because he also said he used some of their chemical weapons against them. 'Tossed a VX grenade through the door' is what got back to me. I don't know which door. And he blew up the plant or whatever, we heard the explosions, then got ready to defend us. According to Mr. Ghost, the U.S. government is aware of our location and on its way. But we have to hold on until they get here. So . . . tell them to hurry." The view cut back to the Fox crew, who were looking pretty stunned.
"Heather, Brian here," one of the male anchors said, being the first to recover. "Is 'Ghost' with the U.S. government?"
"I don't know," Heather admitted. "He said he tracked us here, not how or why. Just something about being on an airplane and a truck. Getting bent, whatever that means, in an airplane."
"Is he special operations?" Brian asked. "Ranger or SEAL?"
"Uhm, Brenda said she thought he was a Ranger," Heather replied. "She used to have a Ranger boyfriend and he was always saying 'hoowah'. Mr. Ghost made us all say 'hoowah' before he'd release us."
"He what?" Linda gasped.
"He made us all give him a big yell 'hoowah,'" Heather said, shrugging and bringing nipples almost in view. "He said he needed help and if he couldn't get a big hoowah, we weren't worth saving. I think . . ." She paused and frowned, then shrugged again. "It had been . . . really terrible. Really really terrible. And a lot of the girls had just gone, like, out of it. I think he was trying to shock us back to reality or something. It helped, in a way, and I'll never think of hoowah the same again, that's for sure."