65 Below

by Basil Sands

  Marcus’s face reddened as anger seethed within him. “No!”

  Turning back to the receiver, he replied, “He says no, sir.” He turned back to Marcus and asked, “What is your background that makes you think you saw North Koreans out there?”

  Marcus rolled his eyes impatiently. “Twenty years of Marine Force Recon, that’s what. I just retired last summer.”

  Into the phone, the country boy staff sergeant said, “Twenty-year Marine. Force Recon, he says. Yeah, could be.” The staff sergeant nodded his head in agreement to something he was hearing. “Well, sir, I’ll ask him.”

  He turned again to Marcus and wiped tobacco drool from his chin. “Could you point it out on that map for me? The location where you saw them? ”

  He motioned to a map on the wall that showed the boundaries of the whole of Eielson Air Force Base, as well as parts of Salt Jacket and Moose Creek.

  “Definitely,” Marcus replied. Relief eased across his tense body as he felt that they were finally taking him seriously. He walked over to the map, found Johnson Road, and ran his finger a short distance up the map, then off to the side, following approximately the trail he had driven that morning. His finger stopped at the spot at which he saw the Korean soldiers. “Right there. They are in this area, right here.”

  The sergeant put the phone receiver back up to his face and said, “He’s got it, sir—section J.” He paused, squinted at the map, and pointed toward the section numbers on its border. “What is that number there, sir?”

  “Six,” Marcus replied.

  The staff sergeant turned back to the phone and repeated, “Six. J6 on the wall map in here. Yes sir, I know. I don’t see any either.”

  Marcus heard the voice on the other end get loud, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “All right, sir. Will do. Out here.” He hung the phone up and turned back to Marcus.

  “Well?” asked the retired Marine. “Is he coming or what?”

  “No, sir, he is not coming.” The sergeant shook his head. “The area you pointed out has no bunkers in it, sir. That is flat out wilderness in there. I don’t know what you think you saw, but there is nothing out there for no North Korean Special Forces to be interested in.”

  Marcus could feel his blood beginning to boil. “Look, you! I know what I saw, and I am telling you that you need to get someone up there. I am Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, USMC Special Operations Command. I would not make something like this up!”

  “No, sir,” the staff sergeant replied. He wiped his sleeve across his chin again and continued. “You ‘were’ Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, USMC. You are now Mr. Marcus Johnson, civilian. The war is over for you, Mr. Johnson. Now go home and chill out.”

  Marcus’s face became hot. Veins bulged and pulsed in his temples. He slammed his hands down on the counter, barely resisting the urge to throttle the ignorant country bumpkin. The staff sergeant jumped back in alarm and put his palm on the grip of the pistol that hung from his belt. He scooted back as far as he could and stammered, “Now, you just get out of here, Mr. Johnson, or I’m going to arrest you for assaulting a police officer.”

  Anything more Marcus did or said would only end with him spending a night in jail. He wheeled around and left the guardhouse.

  He stormed across the parking area, steam rising from his hot, flushed skin in the frozen night air. He leaped into the waiting jeep. He slammed it into gear and shot back out to the highway. All four tires of the jeep spit a stream of sand and gravel against the wall of the guardhouse as he rocketed forward.

  Marcus had to find someone who would both listen to him and react quickly. He fired the Jeep off toward Fairbanks. Half a mile out of Eielson, he was going nearly eighty miles per hour when he passed a state trooper coming the other way.

  “Oh, great! Just what I need now,” he shouted, angry that he hadn’t seen the police car coming sooner.

  Much to his surprise, the patrol car just kept going, as if the trooper hadn’t noticed him.

  “Well, there’s a stroke of luck. Cop must’ve busy looking at his donuts.”

  As the trooper car disappeared in the distance behind him, Marcus ran through a list of possible contacts in his head. Nearly all the people he could think to call in a situation like this were either in Camp Pendleton or Washington D.C., but he didn’t have access to them anymore since he was retired. Even if he could get through, it was after 20:00 on the east coast, and nobody was in the office.

  Then an idea occurred to him. Although it was a long shot, there was one group he knew in town that may be able to help him if he could get there before that office closed.

  Thirty minutes later, at half past five, Marcus arrived at the gate of Fort Wainright US Army post just north of Fairbanks, home of the 1/25th Stryker Brigade Combat Team. Rather than the Stryker Brigade, he was there to see a tenant of the base.

  He pulled up to the guard shack, and a young soldier with an M-4 rifle slung over his in forward tactical position raised an arm, signaling him to stop. Marcus complied and showed his ID card to the guard, who smartly snapped to attention and waved him through the gate. Marcus followed Gaffney Road, the main road through the base. He drove past Basset Army Hospital, past the AAFEES BX/PX/Commissary complex, and past several sections of base family housing until he came to a non-descript concrete building nestled between a cluster of old barracks buildings near the airfield at the rear of the base. A ten-foot-wide by six-foot-tall wooden sign hung from two four-by-four posts.

  3rd Platoon, E Company, 4th Marine Reconnaissance Battalion, Reserve

  Marcus knew it was a long shot, but if no one was there, there should still be a contact number on the door for emergencies. He knew several of the men personally, including the commander and the senior NCO. Some of them had been his students at the Quantico sniper school or the Force Recon school. They may not be able to help him directly, but they could at least lend him some credibility and help get things rolling.

  As he pulled up, Marcus saw in the yellow glow of an overhead lamp a Marine, in a digital camouflage uniform, step out from the door of the building. The man stopped in his tracks and watched as the Jeep pulled up and came to a stop next to him. The Marine was in his late twenties. He wore staff sergeant stripes pinned on his collar. The edge of a thick scar protruded above the neckline of the wool sweater he wore underneath his camouflage blouse.

  Marcus got out of the Jeep and said, “Hey, Devil Dog. Who’s in charge here?”

  “Who wants to know?” the Marine answered bluntly.

  “Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, 2nd Force Recon.”

  “You got some ID?”

  He showed the Marine staff sergeant his ID card. In the light of the lamp, the man looked at Marcus for a moment.

  “I know you. You taught some classes I took at the SEAL school in Coronado a couple years ago.” He returned the ID and held out his hand to greet his superior. Marcus took the hand and shook it. “I’m Staff Sergeant Beckwith. I’m the S-3 here. Right now, everyone is deployed to parts unknown. That leaves me in charge. What do you need?”

  “There’s live threat in action at the moment on Eielson, and I need to get the info to someone who can act on it.”

  “Sir, if there’s a threat on Eielson, you need to contact their base security. I can’t do anything out there. Besides, I have no manpower.”

  “I did contact Eielson security—they blew me off. I don’t have any standing there. I figure you may be able to hook me into the right contacts, Marine.”

  The Marine eyed him cautiously for several seconds, weighing what he was being asked. Then he exhaled a cloud of steam that billowed from his mouth. “Let’s go back inside, Top.”

  Marcus followed the Marine inside the building. Staff Sergeant Beckwith led him down a short hallway. Beckwith’s boots clopped heavily on the pale green linoleum floor. The thump echoed off the standard military eggshell-white walls. In the entire twenty years of Marcus’s career, he had witnessed only two
other shades of paint used on military office walls: gray and one other shade of white. It was Spartan frugality in the extreme.

  Beckwith turned to the right, opened a gray metal office door labeled “S-3”, and flipped on a light switch as they went in. He continued to a nineteen sixties-era metal office chair behind the sole desk in the room and sat down, motioning to another ancient chair for Marcus.

  “What’s the threat, Top?” Beckwith referred to Marcus by this familiar term related to his rank of E-8 Master Sergeant, the second highest enlisted rank in the military.

  Marcus went over the details of what he had witnessed on the trail. He ended the narrative with the encounter with the tobacco-chewing Air Force security policeman. “Of course, I can’t really blame him. Some guy showing up in the dark and claiming to see North Koreans lurking in the woods would throw me off, too.”

  “Well, Top, it does seem somewhat far out there.” Beckwith adjusted in his seat. “But I know you, and your reputation, and will take your word for it. Like I said, though, there’s not much I can do myself. But … I do know some guys who might be able to look into it a bit further.”

  He reached over to a black plastic telephone on the corner of his desk, pressed the speakerphone button, and dialed a six-digit extension. After a short pause, the line rang twice, then a voice answered in a typical rote military phone greeting.

  “Ft. Wainright Naval Reserve Squadron. Good evening sir or ma’am, this is an unsecured line. How may I direct your call?”

  “Let me speak to Chief Wasner. This is Staff Sergeant Beckwith.”

  “Wait one.”

  There was a pause, and then a different voice came on the line. “Wasner.”

  “Hey Chief, hate to bother you after hours and what-not, but there is a situation your boys may like to be part of. You got time to meet with me and another Marine at your place?”

  “What about?”

  “Can’t say over the air, but it’s important. The Marine with me is Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson.”

  “Johnson? From 2nd Recon?”

  Marcus’s face lit up at the sound of a familiar voice. “Hey! Wazzup, Wazzy? Thought you were rid of me forever, didn’t you?”

  “Holy high-protein cow turds! Is that you, Mojo?” Wasner exclaimed.

  “Yep, it’s me, Wazzy,” Marcus answered.

  “Hell, yeah! Get your butts over here. If Johnson’s in it, there’s got to be some fun ahead.”

  “We’re on the way, Chief. Give us ten minutes.” The staff sergeant pressed the speakerphone button a second time, and the phone call disconnected. He rose from his desk and started for the door, Marcus right behind.

  “You know Chief Wasner?”

  “Absolutely,” Marcus replied. “We did about half a dozen missions together and shared a couple of training groups at Coronado. He’s one of the best SEALS in the teams. And he makes a killer home-brewed stout, to boot.”

  “He called you Mojo.”

  “My middle name is Orlando—Marcus Orlando Johnson. Mojo to my closest friends.” Marcus paused for effect, then added, “You may continue to call me Top.”

  “Aye, aye, Top,” Beckwith responded.

  “I’ll follow you over to Wasner’s office in my Jeep,” Marcus said as they headed out the door.

  Ten minutes later, they pulled up to another building that looked almost identical to the one they had just left on the other side of the Army base. The large, white sign in front of the non-descript building was emblazoned with the emblem of the US Navy Reserve Arctic Inland Training Command.

  Master Chief Warrant Officer Harley Wasner stood outside the front door waiting for them when they pulled up. As the men parked their vehicles, Wasner approached Marcus’s Jeep.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in camel dung! It is you! I thought they’d shelved you in some old federal warehouse back east, with a ‘do not disturb under penalty of unimaginably violent death’ sign tacked to it.” He threw his arms out and gave Marcus a bear hug, eliciting a deep grunt as he slapped his friend loudly on the back.

  “Yeah, well, so did I. At least, I was hoping to retire, that is. I don’t know about living in a box in a warehouse, though.” Marcus replied. “Fate, as it turns out, has decided otherwise. Let’s step inside and talk.”

  As they moved in, Marcus asked, “So, what are you doing up here, anyway?”

  Wasner replied, “My boys and I are here for a month of arctic training while between deployments.”

  “Naval training in the interior of Alaska?” Marcus asked. “Don’t they know there’s no ocean for five hundred miles from here? For that matter, all the rivers are harder than concrete for another five months. Leave it to the staff wonks to come up with a plan like that.”

  “Hey now, Marine! Easy does it. This was my idea,” Wasner replied.

  “Well, I never took you for a wonk, but I guess people do get goofy in their old age.” Marcus smiled as he jibed his friend.

  “I may be two years older than you, but you’ll still never be able to catch up with me, you grubby little leatherneck turd.”

  Staff Sergeant Beckwith walked behind the two older men, watching and listening to the display of banter as they moved down the hall toward Wasner’s temporary office.

  Marcus continued as they entered the office. “As much as I’d like to sit back and yuck it up for a while, there’s some business going on that needs our immediate attention.” He turned to Beckwith. “Shut the door, Staff Sergeant.”

  The younger man did as told and then joined the other two sitting at a gray metal desk in the center of the room.

  Marcus retold the story of the North Koreans on the back of the Air Force base. He also added the account of what happened the night before at Linus’s store with the two Albanians. Wasner listened attentively to the whole thing without speaking.

  When Marcus finished, the Navy Chief Warrant Officer leaned back in his chair. “Well, that Air Force sergeant was right in one respect. You certainly are crazy. But not in the way he was thinking.”

  He sat upright and continued, “If there’s one thing I know and trust, it’s Mojo’s mojo. If you saw these baddies back there, they are there. And if the Air Force doesn’t want to do anything about it, then I believe that grants us imminent domain rights to the subject in question. We are, after all, federal employees, just like them.”

  Staff Sergeant Beckwith asked, “Why not take it to Homeland Security? It seems to me that there’s probably a link between those Albanians and the North Korean guys. If this is domestic terrorism, that’s up their alley, don’t you think?”

  “One thing you will soon learn, young man,” Wasner said, “is that Homeland Security, the FBI and all those guys, are in this whole war bureaucracy way over their head. If you want instant action, they are not the way to go. Their highly capable agents, many of whom come from our own ranks, are up to their eyeballs in paperwork and require the permission of their bureaucratic civilian bosses before they can take a crap. They may not even be able to take a cursory look into the situation until the tangos are long gone with whatever they came for, or worse, have killed a lot of innocent people in their beds.”

  The younger man nodded in his understanding and said, “Well, if you don’t mind a tagalong, I haven’t had a good adrenaline rush since Iraq.”

  Marcus looked at him. “You sure? This is an unauthorized mission.”

  “That’s easy to fix. I’m the acting CO up here until the major gets back next month. It can quickly become an authorized mission as needed.”

  Wasner stood up and let his face spread in a broad smile. “I knew there was something I liked about you, Beckwith.” With that, Wasner picked up the receiver from the black telephone on the desktop and dialed an extension. “Moore, get the gang into my office ASAP. We’ve got a party to go to.”

  Wasner turned to a file cabinet behind his desk and pulled out a topographic map of Eielson Air Force Base. He spread it out on the flat surface of the desk. He a
nd Marcus worked out the details of where they were going.

  Chapter 11

  Flashback

  Wednesday, May 13th, 1998

  Stonehouse Barracks

  43 Commando

  Her Majesty’s Royal Marine Corps

  Plymouth Naval Base, England

  Marcus’s first PT session with the men of 43 Commando was brutal. The pain wasn’t due to the headache and tiredness from the previous night’s drinking—the British Royal Marine officers seemed to want to show up the American. After a brief introduction to the captain and the three lieutenants of Mike Company, there was a flurry of end-to-end exercises that quickly had the whole unit sweating.

  The session started off with pyramid push-ups—press-ups, in British terminology—which involved varying distances between the hands and alternately increasing numbers of repetitions until they finally ended after a total of two hundred and fifty presses. Then came a cluster of abdominal exercises, including a hundred each of crunches, flutter kicks, leg lifts, and the infamous “Hello Dolly” exercise that requires the exerciser to hold their feet six inches off the ground while he opens and closes the legs for the prescribed number of reps.

  After completing the gut-wrenchingly painful repetitions, the instructor, an athletic-looking sergeant in his mid-twenties, subjected the troop to a series of mountain climbers and squat thrusts, followed by a ten-minute high-step in-place run.

  This had all only been a warm up. Following everything they had already done, the captain sent the men back to the barracks to change into their marching kit. They came out fifteen minutes later with full battle uniform, thirty-two pound rucksack, web gear, and rifle. As soon as they assembled, they were led in formation out of the PT field and onto a dirt road where they enjoyed a leisurely twelve-mile forced march. The pace never got below 4.5 miles per hour, but never increased enough to break into a jog.