A God in Ruins

by Leon Uris

  The Navy’s most renowned off-horse appeared in the form of Admiral Hyman Rickover, father of the nuclear submarine, who gave nightmares to his superiors and Congress.

  Marine Major General Jeremiah Duncan was a lesser maverick, but a maverick nonetheless. By the time of the Great Depression the American military had fallen into a pathetic state. There was congressional pressure to disband the Marine Corps or reduce it to giving concerts on the Capitol steps and serving as embassy guards.

  It was incumbent upon a group of Marine officers, including Duncan, to reinvent the mission of the Corps and thereby save it from extinction.

  Their thesis was simple but unique. In future wars, global in nature, tactics had to be developed to land men from the sea against fortified land positions.

  The major test in World War I had taken place against the Turkish peninsula at Gallipoli. British naval gunfire bashed the Turkish forts and emplacements for weeks prior to a landing by Anzac, British, and French forces. The Allied troops were cut to pieces, and ultimately the campaign ended in a disaster that resulted in Winston Churchill’s removal from the Admiralty.

  Away from probing eyes on the island of Vieques, off the east coast of Puerto Rico, the Marines went about developing the tactics that would become a key to victory in future wars. Naval gunfire was moved in close and concentrated on a single beach or two, forcing the enemy to retreat inland temporarily. The Marines would then land infantry, set up a perimeter, and dig in to ward off the inevitable enemy counterattack. The key was holding a piece of turf, then moving inland.

  All that was needed was a war to prove the thesis. It came along in good time.

  It has been said that Jeremiah Duncan’s first words as an infant were “Semper Fidelis.” He became the first fighter pilot ace when he shot down five Japanese Zeros in a single day over Guadalcanal, but was shot down in turn and somehow escaped alive. An ace, but he could fly combat no more.

  As a battalion commander in Korea, when he was advised that his men were surrounded, he said, “Good, that makes the tactical situation simpler.” Duncan led his mangled forces back from the Chosin Reservoir on the Chinese border to the sea in the dead of an icy winter.

  In Vietnam he was moved from field command to staff to develop and improve new tactics against a tenacious and resourceful enemy.

  Jeremiah Duncan’s chest bore a Congressional Medal of Honor, a Navy Cross, and three Purple Hearts. Known with affection throughout the Corps as Dogbreath, he now longed to retire to the Eastern Shore, where he had a big old house, a dandy fishing boat, and scads of children and grandchildren.

  His wife of thirty years upped and died tragically in a house fire, leaving him devastated and debilitated. The Corps hung on to him to get him through his bereavement.

  Jeremiah never got to the Eastern Shore. He ended up with a vague title as adviser to planning at El Toro Marine Air Base. There on the outskirts of Los Angeles, he worked another innovation, the lightning strike force.

  The Corps, along with Bell and Boeing, was developing a hybrid aircraft—the SCARAB, that could take off and land like a helicopter, then fly like a turbo-prop. It was designed to carry twenty-some Marines with medical, electronic, and specialty personnel.

  As was his wont, Jeremiah was soon bucking heads with the top brass. As a lady colonel inched into his life, he finally requested his belated retirement.

  It was no surprise when the commandant, General Keith Brickhouse, a gnarly specimen not unlike Duncan, showed up at El Toro. With a name like Brickhouse, the general had a reputation akin to Dogbreath’s.

  “So, it’s you and Colonel Dorothy, eh? Getting hitched, Jeremiah?”

  “If the Marine Corps wanted me to have another wife, they’d of issued me one. Cut to the chase, Keith, but let me advise you in advance—after Nam it took me six months to be able to write my name. Who sent you, Keith?”

  “The President.”

  “Well, you’ve got my attention.”

  “As well as Defense, State, Joint Chiefs, and the CIA,” Brickhouse continued. “I didn’t assign you to El Toro to play with the SCARAB by accident.”

  “Any damned fool could tell you we had to develop a rapid strike force. The SCARAB is interesting. Helicopter turned airplane turned helicopter and carrying more firepower than anything ten times its size, with the exception of nuclear weapons.”

  “It’s more than that,” the commandant said. “Jeremiah,

  we’re heading into an era of an entirely different kind of warfare, vomit warfare.”

  “Like?”

  “World terrorism. We must get a leg up. This Palestine Liberation Organization is just the tip of a gigantic iceberg. Playing by no rules and operating covertly, they can multiply like roaches. Every dingy little organization with a beef will feel free to call themselves Heroes of God on Tuesday and blow up a civilian aircraft and rename themselves Liberation Unit Twenty on Wednesday and take a classroom of kids as hostages. The bad news is that the Warsaw Pact nations and the Islamic states are giving them sanctuary, training camps, money, diplomatic passports, weapons. Thus far terrorist activity has been outside of the States. At the moment there is no way we can make the American public believe we are not immune. But something’s going to happen inside America, and sooner rather than later. It’s up to us to have something in the ready.”

  “Let me finish this for you,” Duncan interrupted. “The President wants me to create a small, secret, lightning strike force. Once we identify a perpetrator of a terrorist act, we will hit a preplanned target in reprisal.”

  “You heard that from you, not me,” the commandant retorted. “How do you think the SCARAB would fit in?”

  Jeremiah did not have to stretch far to grasp that one. “The SCARAB could be a big part of the Marines’ future.”

  “We’re thinking of ordering five hundred of them,” Brickhouse retorted.

  Jeremiah had enjoyed playing with the SCARAB in the tightly guarded hangar. It brought him back to a first love, aviation. He had already surmised what the craft’s future role might be. The notion of marrying a lady colonel and retiring did not entirely appeal to him. The alternative was staying in the Corps.

  “The SCARAB has potential. To do the rapid-force mission I want something faster, lighter, and with high-end missiles. I could soup the engines up. I’d want a titanium wing and install the new TAD laser bomb-guidance system,” he said.

  “I’ll get the funding,” the commandant said quickly.

  “I didn’t say I’d do it, Keith. I said I’d think it over.”

  The commandant knew that either Jeremiah would agree or he would have to be retired. He waited.

  “I want to build my own team,” Jeremiah snapped, “and I don’t want a

  fucking congressional oversight committee buggering me—“

  “Deal,” Keith interrupted.

  “I’ll give you a list of the key people I need,” Jeremiah said, already caught up in the venture.

  “If we’re staying top secret, it has to be an all-volunteer force,” the commandant said.

  “Sure, fine. I’ll volunteer them,” Jeremiah answered.

  Master Technical Sergeant Quinn Patrick O’Connell was the man to see at the El Toro helicopter command. He received new craft, oversaw electronic installations, personally ran all serviced ‘copters through their test drills, kept the manuals up to date, and pulled the best safety record in the Corps.

  Quinn’s relationship with Major General Jeremiah Duncan formally began when the general’s personal ‘copter pilot took ill. He knew Dogbreath was playing around with some kind of flying egg crate in Q Hangar and ‘coptered often to Camp Pendleton, a skip down the coast and over to a semi-mysterious Marine Corps facility near Barstow in the Mojave Desert.

  They flew together so often, a confidence between the two came naturally and was cemented when Quinn flew the boss to Vegas for a rendezvous with Colonel Dorothy.

  Shortly after General Brickhouse’s visit, J
eremiah called the commander of El Toro. “I need to borrow a ‘copter pilot for a month or so. Send me Sergeant O’Connell and put him on detached duty.”

  “I can’t spare him for a month, Jeremiah,” the commander retorted. “He’s key personnel.” “Then I’ll appreciate it doubly.” “Don’t you Dogbreath me!”

  “Shall we put this down as a request and not an order?” “I hear you, I hear you.”

  “Sir!” Quinn snapped, coming to attention before Duncan’s desk.

  “Sit down, son.”

  Oh, Christ, Quinn thought as the general reached out to shake his hand, I’m going to get my pockets picked.

  “My ‘copter pilot has the crud. I’m going to need you for a month or so. Detached duty has been cleared. I trust you have no objections.”

  “I understand your words, a month, but I don’t understand how long ‘or so’ might be.”

  “Or so means or so.”

  “I’m checking out a half dozen new men. A couple of them are real joy-stick freaks. Let me pick you a gung-ho man,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can I have four or five days to brief the new NCO at the ‘copter compound?” Quinn asked.

  “Take two.”

  “Sir, uh .. .”

  “What, son, what!”

  “On your ‘copter, sir, I’d like to select the copilot.”

  “In actual fact,” Jeremiah answered, “I’ll copilot.”

  “Ohh.”

  “I note a drop of enthusiasm in your voice,” the general grumbled.

  Receiving no answer, he bellowed, “Well!”

  “General Duncan, this here Corps holds you in the same reverence as Joe

  Foss, Marian Carl, and Pappy Boyington’s Black Sheep. Sir, it was a

  glorious day in our aviation history when you became the first American ace in a single day. However, General, World War II ended thirty-five years ago, and with these new systems you couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle.”

  Duncan’s voice went from grumble to gurgle to rumble.

  “Sir, there is a new poster on the far wall. Kindly read the top line of it from here.”

  Duncan squinted, and squinted, then drummed the top of his desk ominously.

  “What’s this all about, sir?”

  “I need you,” Jeremiah said dead-on. “I’m putting together a special all-volunteer force, about two platoons’ worth, and I want you to volunteer.”

  “Volunteer to do what?”

  “I’d rather not have to explain,” he finally said, simmering down. “The nature of our mission requires utmost secrecy. I can’t tell you unless you volunteer.”

  Quinn browsed back over their relationship, the Corps, and the present conversation. “Sir, my hitch is up in five months.”

  “Then I’m asking you to ship over.”

  “Sir, I love the Corps. It salvaged my life. When I find out what I’m good for in this world, a lot of my strength will have been born in the Marines. However, I’m not a career man.”

  “Somehow, I prayed that you would be,” Jeremiah said somewhat sadly. “You’re as smart as they come, O’Connell. You’ll be a wild-ass success and make a great fortune on the outside.”

  “I don’t believe that money is my motivation,” Quinn said.

  “And that’s why I thought you’d choose a career in the Corps.”

  “You’ve a great way of choking my windpipe, sir.”

  “Sorry. You told me you were orphaned at birth.”

 
  Yes, sir.

  “My old man,” the general said, “worked Texas ranches and, believe it

  or not, was a Baptist preacher on Sundays. We’re all looking for our father, one way or the other. Always trying to do something to make him proud of us. My father never made it big, nor did he live to see me get the first star pinned on my shoulder. First time I was supposed to retire, a long time ago, I got offers for positions not only from every defense plant, but from an airline, an oil company, a chain of ice cream stores. I received over thirty job offers, some at the kind of money I didn’t know existed. I just knew I couldn’t taste ice cream flavors for the rest of my life. What the hell could I do with money, anyhow?” “With your permission, sir,” Quinn said, standing.

  “Sure,” he answered with a wave of the hand, “go.”

  Quinn could not open the door. He tottered. “Sir.”

  “You still here?”

  “Sir, tell me the truth, just this once,” Quinn said.

  Jeremiah grunted a smile. “I’ll try.”

  “This mission?”

  “It is the highest priority at the command of the President. I consider it about as important as anything any Marine alive could become involved in. And moreover, it’s a Marine’s fantasy.”

  “I, uh, could extend my enlistment for two years.”

  “You’ve made old Dogbreath very happy,” the general said. “First thing is to get those stripes off your sleeve. I’m skipping you over second lieutenant to first lieut.”

  “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, sir .. .”

  “D L. “

  But.. .

  “There’s too much, too much .. .”

  “Back-biting, regulations, kiss-my-ass?” the general volunteered.

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re a mustang,” Duncan said in reference to enlisted men who always

  stayed enlisted at heart, no matter their rank. “When I hit the same

  fork in the road,” he continued, “I sure as hell didn’t need

  regulations on how to bow on lady’s night. So, they made me a Marine

  gunner,” he said in reference to a special warrant officer rank above the enlisted men but below the officers, like a bridge between the two. The exploding-bomb insignias on their epaulets were highly respected. “Marine gunner,” Quinn said. “I like that, sir.” “Gunner O’Connell it is,” Duncan said. “And thanks, Marine.” Quinn knew what Jeremiah meant.

  Thus, Jeremiah Duncan’s Recreation and Morale Unit was formed. RAM Company occupied a remote space at Pendleton and in the desert, and its fighters endured a regimen that would make the Navy Seals and Army Rangers cringe. These were light men so as not to add too much weight to the SCARAB load. Major Hugo Grubb, another mustang, honed them to a razor’s edge.

  Cherokee Cottrell, who claimed to be half Sioux, had been on the wagon

  for five years when Jeremiah pulled him from obscurity to pilot the

  SCARAB.

  A Harvard failure, Todd Wetmore IV, a super talent with something to prove to his family, came in as copilot and navigator.

  A weirdo, Captain Novinski, without whom nothing electronic was purchased by the Corps, found and installed and tested every system now in use or on the planning boards.

  Dogbreath got his titanium wing. It was six feet longer than the production wing of aluminum composite. Stronger and more rigid, the black wing made the craft faster, lighter, and able to carry more weight.

  The Allison turbo-prop engines were pushed, then pushedagain.

  Marine Gunner Quinn O’Connell wore many hats: backup on the electronic board, bombardier, Mayday pilot, and mostly logistics expert. He was given twenty potential worldwide targets to prepare for a counterinsurgency attack.

  All the members of RAM Company doubled as medical corpsmen.

  Jeremiah attached bomb racks to carry a mix of sixteen missiles, ultra-light, laser-guided, with explosive capacity not yet seen in combat.

  What was created was a dual-capacity rototiller that could fly as a helicopter and convert in seconds to a standard turbo jet aircraft. She had a decent subsonic speed of 500 knots and, with spare fuel tanks, a range of two thousand miles. She could carry two dozen men plus pilots and topped out at an altitude of twenty thousand feet.

  Every square inch and every pound allowable held a basket of systems, from laser-targeted lock-ons to ground-view.

  She carrie
d her own ordnance, crafted to fit her limited space and weight capacities. Her demonstrations were awesome, a lethal bombardment followed by a landing or ground hovering as twenty Marines debarked out of a rear ramp.

  Nearly a year passed. The SCARAB was worked into higher levels of performance, as were the men of the RAM team.

  In Europe in particular, terrorists kept upping the level of violence with increasing daring. Outside America, her buildings, businesses, and citizens were targeted even though the nation itself had not undergone an attack. This, everyone agreed, was only a matter of time.

  The inevitable happened. An Air Force Lear jet crossing the Atlantic from Germany and carrying an American ambassador and an American NATO general blew up in midair.

  A series of incredible breaks linked together .. .

  In Frankfurt, an Israeli Mossad agent identified Iranians entering Germany and followed them to a rundown hotel in the foreign workers’ part of town. The Mossad informed the CIA.

  Air Force Lieutenant Sumner Smith was officer on duty at the small-craft section of the Rhein-Main air base. Contacted by the terrorists, Smith had agreed to plant a briefcase bomb for a hundred thousand dollars.

  The pilot of the Lear jet was able to send a Mayday call at the time of the explosion.

  In a heightened state of alert, German police were able to catch the terrorists, six Iranians, at the airport and the autobahn hastening to leave Frankfurt.

  Lieutenant Smith’s wife, a German national named Helga, discovered the hundred thousand dollars. In a nasty marriage, she took the money to the police.

  Four of the Iranians confessed, as did Lieutenant Smith.

  The president of the United States clamped on a lid of secrecy. There would be no public announcement. If pressed, they would say an aircraft was missing and they were investigating.

  With confessions in their pockets and further confirmation, the President saw a window of opportunity to strike back!

  “Jeremiah Duncan here,” Duncan growled.