by DJ Scott
There was no need for his rifle. The grenade had exploded only a meter from the Arab. McGregor recoiled from the smell of the man’s bowels mingled with the remnants of composition B. The darkness allowed for limited detail, for which he was grateful.
Mike McGregor had never killed a man. He had seen plenty of corpses and had been in several firefights. Tonight he had killed two within fifteen minutes. As an infantry corpsman he had experienced the jitters and the bitter metallic taste that comes from the adrenalin of a combat high—but never like this. He was trembling so hard he could barely hold his rifle.
He had to get a grip. Things were probably getting worse before they got better. If they got better.
He moved quickly back down the wadi, no longer worried about being quiet. He found Johanssen next to Castelli. The Staff Sergeant was now alert with his weapon ready, but Castelli was lying flat and moaning softly.
“I was worried that grenade was incoming Doc,” said Johanssen with a slight smile. “Good work,” he added.
“Yeah, dandy. Now that the shooting’s over, how the hell do we get out of here? It’s obvious neither of you are walking out.”
Johanssen handed him one of the radios while putting on his own headset. “Let’s see what Crossbow can do for us.” He keyed his transmitter. “Crossbow, this is Lancer. Impact confirmed, but unable to avoid enemy contact. One KIA, two wounded. Request Medevac. Our corpsman will provide details on casualties.”
“Roger, impact confirmed. One KIA, two wounded. Requesting Medevac. Wait one.”
They waited, listening to the quiet of the desert.
After about thirty seconds of silence another voice came on. “Request damage assessment.”
“What the fuck!” shouted McGregor. “We’re shot to shit and they want us to evaluate the target?”
“Just take a quick look and tell them what you see,” replied Johanssen, who was also annoyed, but trying not to show it.
McGregor stood and looked towards the house. A light wind had mostly cleared the smoke and dust and he could see a large crater, actually two overlapping craters, and pieces of debris. “Looks like a direct hit, just a big crater and scattered debris. The buildings and vehicles are gone. Wait, I see the Range Rover about fifty meters from where it was. Totally burned out.”
Johanssen relayed the information.
“Roger,” the second voice said. “Be advised that medevac from your location is impossible. Syrian Government has already communicated its strenuous objection to our strike, and Baghdad has ordered no incursions into Syria for any reason. Sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? Well, we’re pretty fucking sorry too!”
“Calm down McGregor.”
“Crossbow is returning to normal operational location,” the voice said. “There will be no further communication on this frequency. Good luck. Crossbow out.”
“Crossbow,” Johanssen said quickly, “please advise our command of situation.”
He received no reply.
Johanssen turned to McGregor. “You can bet there are more of these guys to the west of the house that survived the strike and called in the information. You know what that means?”
“That someone in the Syrian government knew about this meeting, that there are more bad guys around, and that at some point even more bad guys are going to show up.”
“You really are too smart for your own good.” Johanssen gave a weak smile and then turned serious. “Doc you need to get the hell out of here—you’re the only one with any chance of making it. I want my family to know what happened to me. They deserve more than the ‘missing on a classified mission’ bullshit.”
McGregor was on one knee, leaning on his rifle. He looked straight at Johanssen. “No Staff Sergeant,” he said with slow intensity. “We are getting out together: you, me, and the Lieutenant Commander. I feel bad we can’t take Delgado, but I think the skipper will find a way to bring him back. He isn’t into this spook crap. He’ll take care of him, and hopefully of us.”
“Doc, I appreciate your spirit, I really do. But we both know that’s not happening. Now get going.”
McGregor began digging through one of his cargo pockets.
“HM2 McGregor,” Johanssen said, “that was an order.”
“Staff Sergeant Johanssen, I have officially determined that neither you nor LCDR Castelli are medically fit to command this mission. I am now in command.”
“You little bastard . . . Only a medical officer can make that determination, you know that.”
“Actually, under these circumstances, I believe the senior medical practitioner—that would be me—can make the determination. We can look it up when we get back.” McGregor then sat down next to the wounded Johanssen. “Look Staff Sergeant, we can’t waste any more time.”
Johanssen reflected on this for a moment. “All right, Doc. What’s your plan?”
McGregor found what he was looking for and pulled out the satellite phone “I borrowed this from one of the dead guys.”
“McGregor . . .” Castelli, who had been semi-conscious, seemed to be more alert now. “That thing can’t be secure. Besides, who are you going to call?”
“Sure as hell not your intel buddies back in the Green Zone. They’re the ones who stranded us here after we did the heavy lifting for them.”
Even weak from blood loss the officer bristled. “Look, McGregor, they were undoubtedly following orders, sensible orders. But you’re right; calling Baghdad won’t get us any help.”
Johansen felt in his breast pocket then groaned. “I have a notebook with dozens of cell and satphone numbers. Because of the border crossing, I left it in camp. I do know the skipper’s satphone number.”
“That’ll do.” McGregor dialed as Johanssen rattled off the numbers. “Voicemail, I don’t think we should use that. His phone is probably turned off. I’ll try Commander Jenkins, the battalion surgeon.” After punching in the number; “Same thing, and it looks like the battery is low. We can try later. Time for Plan B.”
Chapter 16
September 2, 2017 1620Z (1220 EDT)
Michigan Stadium
It was the kind of day college football was meant for. Cool for early September, a light breeze and just a few scattered clouds to make the sky more interesting.
Michigan took the kickoff and returned it to the thirty yard line. With the offensive line opening huge holes, the highly touted new freshman running back had moved the ball to midfield.
Mike McGregor turned to Al Johanssen. “You see, I told you this kid was going to be great. He has that combination of speed and power we’ve been looking for. I don’t think Michigan has had anyone like this since Tyrone Wheatley.”
“Easy Doc.” Johanssen grinned. “He’s only run two plays. Let’s at least wait until the second half before giving him the Heisman.”
Another play unfolded.
“Look at that, twelve more yards. I’m telling you Joe, he’s the real deal.”
Before Johanssen, who was starting to think McGregor might be right, could reply, he felt his phone vibrate. This was not his regular phone, it was a secure phone issued to members of the Marine Corps Reserve alert regiment. As he reached for it, he noticed McGregor was doing the same. They both saw the same message.
Fastball
Two
Delta
This simple message had worked its way from Captain Neill Washington through the Marine Corps Reserve chain of command to the duty officer at 28th Marines based in Chicago. He had the ability to notify every member of the regiment via secure cell and after contacting the commanding officer, Colonel Aaron Mark, he did so.
‘Fastball’ indicated that the entire alert regiment was being mobilized. ‘Two’ was the second most urgent mobilization with each member required to report the following morning by 0730. And ‘delta’ indicat
ed members should pack desert uniforms.
Johanssen deleted the message. “Let’s at least stay for the touchdown.”
Two plays later, Michigan scored on a thirty-eight yard sprint draw by the same young back and both men began to make their way out of the stadium.
Just outside the entrance, they saw Kelli Moore leaning on an Ann Arbor police car, and talking to one of the uniformed officers. She pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket and looked carefully at the screen. She looked up at the doctor and the big Marine and then noticed a few other people she immediately recognized as part of their battalion. She nodded and smiled.
“Detective Moore seems happy about something,” Johanssen said. “Maybe the MPs will be joining us.”
“Or maybe she was just watching a replay of the touchdown.”
As they crossed the parking lot, Mike McGregor looked at his friend. “Looks like it’s going to be a short season, Joe.”
Al Johanssen smiled grimly.
Chapter 17
September 2, 2017 1830Z (1430 EDT)
The White House Situation Room
Today’s briefing on the Russian nukes was looking to be as brief as yesterday’s. There just wasn’t much new information coming in, mostly status reports on current operations. Still, Sonny Baker had to sit through them.
Rick Suarez, who had been following the quiet efforts of NATO countries to scan their ports, went first.
“There have been a total of six incidents involving containers painted with that cesium 137. In each case there was a major response with every container showing radiation being searched plus an extensive search of the entire port facility. Several shipments of improperly-shielded medical isotopes have also turned up, as well as one shipment of smoke detectors containing tiny amounts of Americium-241. The search activity has attracted some attention, so the Dutch put out a story about stolen medical waste. So far it hasn’t created much excitement. The primary result of the cesium incidents has been to divert a lot of skilled people and technical gear away from looking for those nukes. We assume that was the intent.”
“No doubt,” replied Baker. “Looks like it worked. Anything on the people responsible?”
“Six-seconds on a security camera in Antwerp. It shows a small man in a hooded jacket leaning over a container later found to be painted with the cesium. He disappeared into a maze of containers and is not seen again. Nothing that would help with an ID.”
“Obviously this was pretty well planned. Okay, ONI, anything for us?”
Jean Kraus, representing Admiral Costello, began. “A few things. Bearpaw captured several new conversations between Admiral Grishkov and his nephew. GRU is still running the operation from their end though apparently FSB has gotten wind that something is up. They’re both concerned about the consequences of this getting outside the military.”
“You mean Putin’s still in the dark?”
“Apparently. They assume that if Putin knows the SVR and the FSB will know and vice versa. They’re betting they can either retrieve the weapons or pretend they were never lost. At this point a leak would end very badly for both Grishkovs and the GRU.”
Baker nodded at Kraus.
“GRU has information from their own sources that this Janos brokered the deal and that a hundred-fifty million euros flowed from accounts in Dubai into accounts owned by a business Janos controls, and then into several Eastern European stock markets. They were unable to trace a hundred-twenty-five million euros after they left the markets. Twenty-five million, retained by Janos went back to his business account, but then disappeared into a maze of banks in West Africa. We shared this information with NSA and CIA, but they can’t trace it either.”
“We did confirm that the one-fifty came from banks with major Saudi ownership,” the CIA Director added, “and that it had been on deposit for years. We have a few contacts in the Gulf banking community that are helping us discretely track the owner, but it’s likely this is Saudi financed.”
“Good work, both of you,” Baker said. “We’ll have to be very careful about approaching the Saudis. If we get too direct, they’ll feel compelled to stonewall. I’ll talk to the President about working some back channels.” As an afterthought he said, “Saudi financing makes an Iranian connection a lot less likely doesn’t it?”
Nods of agreement.
“One more item,” Kraus said. “We now have a frigate and a destroyer carrying helicopters with neutron detectors in the Red Sea, working the area south of the lower Suez Canal. They’re doing fly-bys of exiting ships and the technical guys tell us there is a high probability they’ll get a hit if those nukes pass through the canal. Nothing so far, though.”
“I’ll inform the President. Anything more?” Baker looked around the table. Everyone knew Baker disliked people who felt they had to speak at meetings even when they had nothing to say. There were a few shrugs so Baker headed for the door.
Chapter 18
September 3, 2017 1000Z (0600 EDT)
Navy and Marine Corps Reserve Center, Ann Arbor
The new reserve center in Ann Arbor was just south of the city on Stone School Road. There was still a Stone School, though it hadn’t been a school for many decades—at the moment it was a daycare center. Almost everyone who had been alerted arrived early.
In the women’s locker room, Captain Kelli Moore was just lacing up her desert boots when Navy Lieutenant (jg) Nicole Ellis opened the locker next to hers. The petite blond had her hair done in a complex braid that was carefully pinned up to conform to regulations. Moore assumed Ellis had never done a deployment, otherwise she would have gotten her hair cut yesterday. “You’re going to have a lot of trouble taking care of that mane,” she remarked.
Ellis glared at her, but said nothing.
Changing the subject Moore said, “Nicole, I just learned you’re not the battalion surgeon; I see you so much, I assumed you were.”
“Oh no,” Ellis said without looking at her. “I’m a physician’s assistant. Lieutenant Commander McGregor’s in charge.”
“I just discovered that. Interesting guy, but kind of a nerd. I hope he’s up to this deployment.”
“You don’t know? How do you think he got that scar on his face?”
“Whoa, Lieutenant. Don’t get excited.” It was starting to look like something was going on between the PA and the doctor. “If I recall, he said it was an accident.”
“Yeah, he stumbled into a bullet. That’s what he got his Purple Heart for.”
Kelli Moore raised her eyebrows in surprise. “When did that happen?”
“Same time he got the Navy Cross.”
“The what?” Moore’s eye were now round and her expression one of complete shock.
The PA rummaged among a stack of envelopes on the top shelf of her locker and pulled out a photograph of a group of Navy enlisted, many of whom she recognized as corpsmen with the 1/28, as well as Lt (jg) Nicole Ellis and LCDR Mike McGregor. All were wearing dress blue uniforms. Above McGregor’s left pocket she could clearly see the blue and white ribbon of the Navy Cross as well as the Purple Heart along with several rows of other decorations.
“Taken at last year’s Marine Corps Ball.” Ellis thrust it in her face. “Guess you missed it.”
“She stared at the Navy Cross. And the scar on McGregor’s face. Who the hell was this guy?
Chapter 19
June 9, 2005 0045 Z (0115 AST)
76 kilometers North-Northeast of Al Bukamal, Syria
(5 kilometers west of the Syria-Iraq border)
“Plan B?” asked Castelli.
“Watch and learn.”
McGregor climbed out of the wadi and jogged in the direction of the still smoking craters. After poking around for a few minutes, he found what he was looking for—the trunk lid from the Mercedes. It had apparently been blown clean off and was more or
less intact. God bless German engineering.
He dragged it back to the Wadi and slid it down the slope before following it.
Johanssen stared at it for a moment, then gave a forced laugh. “Let me guess, you’re going to find more parts and build us a car?”
“No, I’m building us a sled.”
He pulled his Beretta and fired two quick shots into the metal.
“I see what you’re up to,” Castelli said. “Great idea. Do you really think you can pull us on that thing?”
“We’re about to find out.” From his pack McGregor pulled a ten meter piece of paracord, a strong but light nylon rope originally used on parachutes. He doubled it up then ran loops through the bullet holes in the trunk lid and attached the free ends to his body armor.
What about Delgado?” asked Johanssen.
“Yeah,” said McGregor. This was no small thing, for every Marine expected that—dead or alive—he would never be abandoned.
Mike McGregor removed the entrenching tool from his pack and began to dig into the wall of the wadi near the bottom. After about five minutes he had a trench large enough to accommodate the small frame of Luis Delgado. He rolled him, along with his rifle and most of his gear, into the shallow grave and covered him with sand and then an assortment of rocks to mark the site. Then he took two compass bearings and a reading from his GPS, which he wrote in his notebook.
He came to attention and snapped a salute. “We’ll be back,” he whispered, taking with him only Delgado’s dog tags, canteens and magazines.
Getting Johanssen out of the wadi proved fairly easy. Pushing with his good leg while McGregor pulled, he was out in a few minutes. Castelli was another matter. Still in severe pain and getting weaker from loss of blood, he wasn’t able to help much. McGregor ended up throwing him over his shoulder and doing a fireman’s carry up the side of the dry stream bed. Once both of the wounded men were laid out on the trunk lid, the corpsman donned his body armor and began to pull.