65 Below

by Basil Sands

  Tomer leaned in close to Wasner’s face. His voice came out in a low, hoarse whisper. “Don’t think that just because you’re friends with a deputy director and may be banging an Alaska State Trooper you can get away with breaking the law, bub. She may have an exceptionally nice ass, but she won’t be able to shake that thing in court to defen…”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Marcus spun around and heaved Tomer back into the log wall, his long, thick fingers clenched around Tomer’s throat. The FBI agent found himself suspended in the air, feet dangling six inches off the floor, held only by Marcus’s strangling one-handed grip.

  Tomer’s face turned an even deeper red as he gasped for breath. He reached up with both hands to pull Johnson’s fingers from his throat, but couldn’t break the iron-like hold.

  “Nobody is banging that trooper.” Marcus growled through clenched teeth. His voice cut the air with the quiet ferocity of a senior drill instructor. Marcus jabbed his left index finger into Tomer’s chest like a short steel rod. “And you will never insult her again.”

  Marcus drove the point deep into the agent’s mind by slamming his head against the wall with a flip of his powerful wrist. “Now, there are eight dead men in the woods about thirty miles from here. I suggest you get some backup and go check it out. And if you ever open your mouth about anything that happened in this room, you’d best think hard before it comes out of your lips.”

  He released Tomer. The FBI agent collapsed to the floor, gagging and gasping for breath. The purple hue in his face faded as the denied oxygen gradually perfused back into his blood cells.

  Marcus towered over him. “Get your people out here to go check out that site,” he commanded. “We’ll leave someone to lead them to the location when they get here.”

  Marcus turned toward the room. Lonnie rose from Sgt. Choi and walked toward them.

  “What did he tell you?” Chief Wasner asked Trooper Wyatt as she approached.

  “He’s a sergeant in the People’s Army of North Korea. He’s not really a commando. He’s a technical specialist who designed a device that could sniff the air for a specific chemical compound.” She looked back at Choi and said, “I told him that if he gave us everything he knew, we would untie him, and that we would try to get him immunity from trial and hide him here in America.”

  “Ah, yes,” Wasner exclaimed. “Leave it up to a girl, and not only does he get to keep his balls intact and burn free, but he gets a ‘get out of jail free’ card, too.” He smiled at her sarcastically.

  “We have to act fast. The others who got away have some really nasty bio-chemical weapon with them, and he wasn’t sure, but thinks they’re planning to use it right here in Alaska.”

  Tomer recovered from the altercation and spoke into his cell phone. He hung up and rejoined the group with a newfound humility. “A team is on the way—two FBI and one more trooper. Where exactly is this site?”

  Marcus turned to face him, but Tomer wouldn’t look into his eyes. “I’ll leave a pair of the SEALs here to lead you to it.”

  The air of belligerent superiority with which Tomer had entered the room was gone. Lonnie had not heard their conversation, but had seen Marcus assault on the agent and had assumed what had happened. The personality change was very welcome.

  “All right,” Wasner said, “what else did Choi say?”

  “The substance was created a long time ago. He wasn’t sure how long, but it was very old, like maybe the sixties or even older. He said they knew of it through a man who had been a spy here in the early seventies. He was a soldier in the US Army and worked with a chemical weapons unit. There were several truckloads of chemical and biological weapons that had been disposed of after a UN treaty made them illegal. The government was basically covering up the fact that they had the stuff. The spy told them he had been in the unit that drove the trucks onto the back of the base and put it all in those bunkers, then buried them.”

  “How did they get to it, then, if it was buried in a bunker? Aren’t those things usually several feet thick with concrete?” Tomer asked.

  “The Halloween earthquake was centered only about thirty miles north of here. The fault line ran right underneath the bunker. The spy—Choi only knows him as Mr. Lee—contacted contacted his command people in North Korea and told them about the possibility that the earthquake may have cracked open the bunker. Nature had provided them with the opportunity to get this particular weapon. I understand you guys have a sample of it?”

  “Yeah, the little bugger tried to smash the vial open on us when we caught him.” Wasner pulled the black plastic eyeglasses box from his coat pocket and handed it to Lonnie.

  She inspected it, then pulled a Ziploc freezer bag out of the small supply pouch on her belt. She carefully put the box in the bag and zipped the top over it.

  “Marcus, do you have a towel or something I can wrap this thing in, and some tape?” she asked. “I really don’t want to risk breaking it before I can get it back to town to have the forensics guys take a quick look at it.”

  “Yeah,” he replied and went into the kitchen.

  Tomer asked, “Does he know where the men went who got away?”

  “Only that they went to a house on Farmer’s Loop road. He’s not sure where, because they had been told not to return to the same house as before, and their emergency rendezvous was yet a different place. Only the officers knew the next house, and only one of them is still alive.”

  Marcus returned with a thick, red bath towel and two 30-gallon black plastic trash bags. He took the Ziploc bag from Lonnie and set it in the center of the towel. Then he folded the towel in half lengthwise over the vial. He folded the long ends toward the center, then rolled the whole thing up in a thick, tubular bundle and taped over the entirety of the cloth.

  As he packed it all up, he said, “We have a picture with the license plate of the Suburban they drove out. Your folks can try to find that vehicle in town and maybe we can catch them before they get away.”

  “They are already looking for the Suburban,” Lonnie said. “Bannock called me earlier with the information. I’ll call them back to say they should look around Farmer’s Loop Road.”

  Marcus placed the tape-wrapped bundle inside one of the large trash bags and sealed that with more tape around the whole mass. That bundle went into the second trash bag, and was likewise taped up.

  Wasner added, “Make sure to tell your cop friends that these guys are the real thing. They are all armed and trained professionals. Don’t expect any of them to surrender peacefully. The real commandos among them are going to be committed to the death.”

  Marcus handed the package to Lonnie. She took it out to her cruiser. As she walked, she keyed her radio and relayed the information to AST headquarters.

  “All right guys. Let’s move,” Wasner said. “Philips and Andersen, you two stay here and lead the cops out to the site. Bell, you ride with Trooper Wyatt. If the prisoner gives you any trouble, hit him with the Taser. Take the gun from Stingle.”

  “Shouldn’t Forester go with the guy, Chief? I only know a couple of bad words in Korean.”

  “No. Wyatt is fluent, and I need Forester with us if we catch up to the other guys.”

  “Aye, aye, Chief. I just hope no one sends a picture of me in the back seat of police car to my mom….she’d have a fit.”

  Bell was a Mormon boy from Utah. He was always worried his mom would hear of something bad he did. The twenty-six-year old warrior seemed more afraid of his mother than any horde of militant extremists or assassins he had ever confronted.

  “Bell, I don’t know how your mother even sleeps at night, with you do in this line of work,” Andersen said.

  “Oh, she ain’t worried about me dying in battle at all. She’d probably be proud if I had a hero’s funeral, and brag all over town about her son, the decorated SEAL in the flag-draped box. But if she was to hear of me getting drunk or arrested or such—man, she’d fight her way through a whole battalion of
screaming Taliban just to give me a whooping!”

  Laughter rang in the cold night air as they headed outside, clouds of steam rising from their breath.

  Two of the SEALs untied Choi and led him to Trooper Wyatt’s cruiser. Bell sat in the front with Wyatt. The protective glass between the seats prevented Choi, who sat meekly in the back seat, from doing anything harmful to them.

  The other SEALs piled into their F350 pickup trucks, having stowed their gear while Choi was being interrogated. Wasner got into the Jeep with Marcus. They left the snowmobiles behind for the investigation team to take into the woods.

  Once in the vehicles, the team formed a long, white caravan as they headed to Fairbanks.

  A complete mobile biological weapons lab would be up and running in the parking lot of the public safety building by the time they arrived, thanks to a call Tomer made to the Army biological warfare unit. They were standing by to take to a look at the contents of the vial immediately.

  Chapter 30

  Tuesday, June 30th, 1998

  Senga Village

  30 Miles North of Kambala

  Sierra Leone, Africa

  14:00 Hours

  Once Marcus’s strength had returned and he was able to walk, his level of fitness recovered remarkably fast. Sambako had successfully cleaned the infection from his wounds, and been able to keep them clean. Within less than four weeks of the ambush, all that remained of the life-threatening injuries were rippled, white scars that striped the back of Marcus’s legs.

  Marcus had started doing work around the village. The sun darkened his skin to the point that in a crowd, he was able to blend quite well, as long as no one studied his face too hard and saw that his features were not indicative of purely African lineage.

  Talk around the village was that Sergei had escaped being captured by the Nigerian forces and was prowling the area. Sarandoka, a small village fifty miles to the east, had its inhabitants massacred and was burned to the ground. The people of Senga were in a state of terror. Many had already packed their belongings and were planning to make the trek across the jungle hills to a refugee camp thirty miles away, on the other side of the border in Guinea.

  Sambako was pleased with Marcus’s progress, and expected to see his patient, who had since become his good friend, leave soon to find the way back to his own home.

  “You are much better, my brother,” he said in his deep voice. “You must start your journey to find a path home to America. You should leave before Sergei’s men arrive.”

  “I will leave. But not yet,” Marcus replied.

  “Not yet?” Sambako asked. His voice rose in surprise. Marcus had told him much about home and had spoken frequently of his love for Lonnie. Sambako, being a pastor by training, listened intently to Marcus’s stories and counseled him at length. He had fully expected the Marine to want to rush home quickly to marry this wonderful woman who was waiting for him in Alaska.

  “Why would you not want to leave? Have you changed your mind about your woman?”

  “No, not at all. She can wait a little longer, though.” Marcus stopped and squatted down, surveying the land past the rows of small houses at the edge of the village. “I definitely want to go home, but I can’t leave, with Sergei roaming around here.”

  “There is nothing one man can do alone against his army!” Sambako protested. “He now has almost two hundred men following him, thugs and murderers, some of them trained soldiers.”

  “And there are dozens of children and women in this village who will die if that army comes here,” Marcus responded. “I cannot let that happen without a fight.”

  “I understand,” the minister said. “You are a man like David.”

  “David? From the Bible?” Marcus asked. “I’m not looking to kill a giant with a stone, I just want to make sure these innocents get to safety before the giant kills them.”

  “Yes, exactly. David was more than a boy who killed a giant. He was a warrior who ruled Israel and drove back his enemies until Israel expanded from the Euphrates River to the Red Sea. For more than forty years, he fought like a beast in battle, yet was filled with mercy for the innocent and would go out of his way to protect his people and allies, as opposed to simply conquering his enemies. He was a warrior, whose enemies feared the mention of his name. The Bible says he was a man after God’s own heart. Did you know he was also a poet? He wrote most of the book of Psalms, which is full of songs and poetry.”

  “Well, I’m sure I am not a man after God’s own heart. But if He helps warriors protect the innocent, then I need to get to know Him better,” Marcus replied.

  “You should get to know Him now, Marcus. Your life will depend on it,” Sambako said with sincerity.

  “I only know what I learned in Sunday School at the little Baptist church back home,” Marcus answered. “Maybe you can pray to Him for me.”

  “My prayers will help some, but only those from you will truly help you,” said the African minister. “And I suggest you start making them right away. I heard from the village elders today that some of Sergei’s men were seen about ten miles south of here yesterday. They were most likely a scouting party looking for good villages to raid. It is only a matter of time before they arrive.”

  “I need a weapon and ammunition. What’s around here, in the village?” Marcus asked.

  Sambako nodded pensively and answered, “Several of the men have AK-47’s. There always seems to be a supply of those at hand. But we are not an army here, not even a militia. The weapons may not be well maintained.”

  “Show me what you have. Both in weapons and men who know how to use them.”

  Sambako called together the men of the village and told them that Marcus was going to help them defend the village, and, if necessary, lead them in an escape.

  Of those left in the village, there were only about twenty-five boys and men healthy enough to fight. Several of the older men offered their rifles for Marcus to use. When they brought them out, he carefully inspected each one to ensure they would actually work when needed. Most were in very bad shape, with rusted barrels and receivers. Two were in fair condition and had been cleaned at least a few times in the past year. One that was offered was immaculate. Temebe the goat herder, a wiry man in his late thirties, presented an AK-47 that looked smooth and glossy from fresh coats of oil that had been wiped continuously over it.

  “How is it that your weapon, Temebe, is so clean? Of all of these, yours is the one most often in the field.” Sambako said.

  “I have two weapons I use in the field, my brothers. Both are like this one,” the goat herder replied. “As you said, mine are always in the field, not in some closet waiting for the future. They are with me always, and therefore I always think of them. I have never lost a goat to a wild animal or to a thief, because these weapons are my mates.”

  “Where did you serve in the military?” Marcus asked.

  “Is it this obvious still?” Temebe replied.

  “Yes, it is, Marcus observed. “You were a professional, weren’t you?”

  “I was in the Legion Etranger, the French Foreign Legion, for five years in the 1980’s. I served in Chad, Malaysia, Sinai, and Angola.” He opened his shirt, revealing a dark tattoo of the Wing & Dagger emblem of the Legions Parachute Regiment emblazoned above his heart.

  “Would you be willing to help these people escape to the refugee camp safely?”

  “That is why I am still here,” replied the goat herder. “I had already planned to be a rear guard if we were attacked. Since you have survived your wounds, that job will be much easier, I think.”

  Sambako was curious. “Temebe, you have never mentioned before that had you served in the French Legion. You have lived with us for many years now, since you came from your home village. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “My home village had banished me. They sided with the rebels at the beginning of the war. I couldn’t justify fighting with them, so I left.”

  “This mu
ch you did tell us before, but why did you not trust us to know that you were a soldier?” asked one of the village elders.

  “If I said I was a soldier, especially a Legionnaire, word would have spread and one side or the other would have forced me to join them. I am on neither side in this war, and only want to raise my goats in peace,” He replied.

  Marcus nodded. “You are a wise man, Temebe.”

  With a small amount of discussion, all the men soon agreed that it would be suicidal to attempt to resist Sergei’s army. Instead, the entire village, a total of less than eighty remaining people, would make for the border of Guinea as a group, with the armed men guarding the retreat. Temebe would lead on point, Marcus would be the rear guard.

  The route they agreed to would take one full day of walking, through twenty miles of hilly, wooded backcountry until they reached the border. It would be another day to the northwest before they came to the refugee camp that meant safety.

  That night, Marcus and Temebe posted guards at key points of the village. They planned to move out in the darkness two hours before dawn. Most of the animals would be left behind, except for what was needed to feed the group. With most of the goats and donkeys still in their pens, if Sergei’s force attacked that morning, they would be temporarily fooled into assuming that the people were still there with their animals, thereby buying some time for the escape.

  Throughout the night, the guards reported that all was quiet. No traces of the Soviet or his men were seen or heard. At just before four am, Wednesday, July 1st, Marcus sat down and wrote a short letter to Lonnie. He didn’t know if he would make it out of this alive, and if he didn’t, there was no way of knowing that she would ever get the letter. He wrote it anyway.

  Lonnie,

  You cannot know how hard these past two months have been. I should rephrase that—I’m sure they have been hard for you too, wondering what has happened to me. If you get this letter, I have probably been long dead. But just in case, I wanted to let you know what happened, so you wouldn’t think I forgot about you.