Standing in the Storm
Page 4
“They think you are weak, Gift of Allah.”
The Emir pointed a finger at him. “I’ve told you before about your smart mouth.”
“So fucking shoot me. I’m too old to care any more. They don’t fear the Caliphate and believe they’re strong enough to challenge you, probably as a prelude for moving into Phoenix.”
“You said that I had two choices. Let’s assume what you say is true. What do you recommend I do?”
“Two paths split the road, but I don’t see where you’ve got a choice. You must either do nothing, which would be monumentally stupid, or you must move against them with every man and vehicle you can muster. You must use overwhelming force to crush your enemies, to drive them before you and listen to the wailing of their women.”
“You quote our beloved leader.”
“I quote myself. I wrote that whole stanza for him. Some blood and fire now will mean less war in the coming years.”
“War is good. It is the nature of Man to fight,” the Emir said. “Did not the Most Blessed New Prophet also say that?”
“Stop it, Richard. I’m getting tired of having you repeat my words back to me.”
“I’ve told you never to call me that.”
“Like I said, shoot me.”
“I might just do that.”
“Good. Put me out of my misery. It’s hot as hell and every muscle in my body hurts… but assuming you don’t, you have to crush these people. You can’t let this go unchallenged, but that doesn’t mean you have to be reckless. Take some time to prepare for war, to manufacture weapons and train soldiers and gather stores of food. One should only attack when one is either ready to strike a first, decisive blow, or when one has been provoked and has no choice. Since we don’t have the first option, we must settle for the second. But remember what America’s last great general said about that… if you attack, attack to destroy.”
“Schwarzkopf?”
“Angriff.”
Hands behind his back, the Emir paced the room. It had grown dimmer as the sun set, but he did not call for lamps or candles. “So I have no choice but to attack, unless I wish to be seen as a coward?”
“I can’t control circumstances, but that’s how I see it.”
“Can’t you? I wonder. All right, go. Get some dinner. Shall I send up a girl?”
“Not tonight.”
The old man half stood, half fell out of his chair and slumped off down a dark hallway. The Emir watched him go, as though if he stared hard enough at the old man’s back, he might be able to read his thoughts. For his part, once enveloped in the friendly embrace of darkness, the old man shook his head.
Chapter 3
I have not fled, I am not done,
Don’t burn me on your pyre;
I do not fear the rising sun,
And my rage will not expire.
Fragment from anonymous Viking saga, circa 900 A.D.
0330 hours, June 30
Joe Randall rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was still on restricted duty because of his neck injury. Not being one of the on-call air support crews for the day’s lurps, he could have slept as long as he wanted. And Randall loved to sleep.
But it was impossible with all the noise in the hallway outside his quarters. Unable to go back to sleep, he slipped on his flight boots and stumbled off looking for coffee.
While waiting his turn at the coffee urn, Alisa Plotz and Andy Arnold slid in behind him, dressed for action. Alisa was his wingman, although they had not seen each other since the attack more than a week before.
“Damn, Joe, you look worse than usual,” she said.
“I’ve missed you, too, Alisa. Why are you dressed out at such an ungodly hour?”
It struck Randall that two weeks ago time of day had been irrelevant, with no day and night to regulate their circadian rhythms. That had all changed when Overtime went active.
“We’re on call,” she said. “Four Apaches, two Comanches.”
“Whoa… you’re my wingman. Who’s piloting the other Comanche? Tell me it’s not Wang.”
“Wang’s not the pilot, but he is the co-pilot.”
“And?”
“I’ll let the pilot tell you himself.”
She pointed to Randall’s best friend and the co-pilot for Tank Girl, Bunny Carlos, who was in full flight gear and walking their way. When he got close enough in the noisy mess hall, right off the hangar deck, Randall blocked his way.
“No.”
“Yes,” Carlos said, nodding his head in confirmation.
“You’re not flying Tank Girl, you prick.”
“It wasn’t my idea, Joe.”
“I don’t care whose idea it was. Nobody takes Tank Girl up except me.”
Everybody within a twenty-foot radius had stopped to watch the argument. Carlos stepped back, straightened his spine, and then leaned forward at the waist. Randall knew exactly what those body movements meant: he had pissed off Carlos.
Too bad.
“You’re the best pilot in the brigade,” Carlos said. “Nobody’s disputing that, so what are you bitching about? They gave me the mission because I’ve flown a combat sortie after wake-up. I fly Tank Girl same as you do, you know. She’s not your personal property. I needed a co-pilot so I picked Wang. Simple as that.”
Standing in his robe amid a crowd of squadron mates, all dressed in flight gear and mechanics’ coveralls, Randall felt naked. He needed coffee.
“If you crash Tank Girl, make sure you die. Otherwise I’ll kill you.”
0337 hours
Nick Angriff scraped crust from the corner of his eye, blinked, and went back to shaving. Steam from his shower hung in the bathroom. He enjoyed the wet warmth and flexed his right thumb. He would never admit how much the arthritis in his hand bothered him, but the steam helped.
A knock on the outer door of his quarters prompted a sigh. He wrapped a towel around himself and cracked the bathroom door open.
“It better be important,” he called out.
The door opened further and Sergeant Schiller stuck his head in. “My apologies, General, but you said any time, day or night.”
“Green Ghost?”
Schiller nodded. “Came in about ten minutes ago. Looks worse for wear.”
“Tell him my office in five minutes. And bring us some coffee, J.C.”
With his personal quarters nearby, Angriff arrived at the Crystal Palace in less than five minutes. Green Ghost sat on the couch waiting for him.
“You look like Pigpen,” Angriff said as he sat behind his desk. Schiller had a mug of coffee waiting for him.
Green Ghost sipped one of his own. “Pigpen?”
“The dirty kid in Peanuts. Left a cloud of dust when he walked…? Never mind. Where the hell have you been?”
Green Ghost ignored the question. “Looks like an op is launching. How long do you have?”
“Five minutes. Ten, tops.”
“We trailed the stowaways and were about to move in when they vanished. Poof. Vanished into the night. We found flat-soled prints and horse tracks, but no other clues to what happened. I decided to extend the patrol and see what we could see.”
“On foot?”
“The Range Rovers were being detailed. I do formally request we find some horses. We wound up north of where the gunships saved those women and kids, and followed a highway back. Four days ago… no, it’s five now. Five days ago we ran up on three guys in a car.”
“Living people in a running car?”
“Roger that. We tried to take prisoners, but they opened up on us with automatic weapons. M16s.” He let that significance sink in. “Two died in the fight, but one guy hung on for a minute. Before he died, he said to tell some guy named Sati that he went out fighting. He also said that he prayed to the prophet.”
“Muslims don’t pray to Mohammad. They pray to Allah.”
“Right. But then he said something about the glory of the new prophet.”
“Anything else?”
Schiller knocked at the door. “Sorry, sir, but they’re moving out soon.”
“Right,” Angriff said. To Green Ghost, he added, “We’re sending out recons in force and I want to be there to see them off.”
“Which group do you want me in?” Green Ghost said.
“The group that stays here and sleeps for a day, and then gets to work on being my S-5.”
Chapter 4
They hide together in ambush;
they watch my every step;
they lie in wait for my life.
Psalms 56:7
0412 hours, June 30
Overtime Prime had eight ground-level access points large enough for vehicles, four on the western side of the mountain and four to the east. The middle two on each side were twice as large. The thick blast doors of reinforced titanium could withstand all but a direct hit by a medium-yield nuclear weapon. A veneer of stone covered the exterior, making the doors invisible from more than a hundred yards away.
The four long-range patrol groups lined up in the artificial glow of the tunnels. With engines off to save fuel, they waited for the lights to dim and the doors to open. Mess attendants walked between the Humvees and LAV-25s with carafes of coffee and MREs for anybody who wanted more breakfast.
Orders were to move out in company strength. Such a large force should not only be strong enough to shoot its way out of any trouble, but it provided the perfect live-fire training exercise. Since building unit cohesion was a priority, the more troops who could take part in such a maneuver, the better. Three companies were Army and one, taking the southwestern course, was Marine Recon. Each company had specialist troops attached, both snipers and engineers.
At exactly 0455 hours the lights went out, including flashlights and cigarettes. When the vehicles fired up, the driver’s faces appeared as disembodied specters. Red, blue, and white instrument lights reflected from their helmet visors.
The doors separated at precisely 0500.
Hundreds of faces peered out of the tunnel at the eastern sky, where the first light of dawn haloed the mountaintops on the valley’s far side. For most of them, it was the first fresh air they had breathed in half a century.
Nick Angriff stood by the southwestern portal, smoking his ever-present cigar and encouraging the troops. He told dirty jokes or calmed nervous drivers. Even though he’d worked past midnight and it was not yet dawn, he refused to show the effects of lack of sleep. His people were going in harm’s way and he was going to be there to see them off. He did not get in the way of the commanders on the spot, did not disagree or countermand anything they said or did, even though a few times he wanted to. Instead, he was the father figure they could all come to with their fears and concerns.
Task Force Kicker would be lurping to the southwest. It comprised a company from his one and only Marine battalion. He wanted everyone to know that, although he was Army, the 7th Cavalry was one team. The message could not have been clearer; service rivalries died with the country that bred them. He cared for every man and woman under his command, regardless of service branch.
Task Force Kicker was Dog Company of the 7th Marine Reconnaissance Battalion, reinforced. Dog was the fourth of six line companies, with one headquarters company. Before the Collapse, standard Marine light reconnaissance battalions had featured one platoon designated for deep recon missions. Because of the unknown nature of what they would face, the 7th Battalion had an extra line company, with an entire company for deep recon. Dog was the specialized unit and the entire company was moving out that morning.
The company was also larger than average, with six officers and 144 other ranks. Usually commanded by a captain, Dog Company had Lieutenant Sully as commander due to a shortage of more senior officers. The company’s other officers were second lieutenants, and Dog was short two sergeants and two corporals. The company had a total of twenty-six LAVs with various armament configurations. Most of the LAV-25s mounted the M-242 Bushmaster chain gun. Six Humvees supplemented them on the lurp. No trucks went out that morning.
Norman Fleming wrote the day’s Rules of Engagement. Initiating combat either required for civilians to be in imminent danger, or in self-defense against hostile forces. In case of the latter, retreat was preferable if practical. Offensive action was at the commander’s discretion within the ROE. If combat proved unavoidable, taking prisoners was desirable but preservation of assets took priority.
Once engaged, enemy forces must not escape to betray the presence of the brigade. In other words, if spotted by forces presumed hostile, run first, shoot second. But if you start shooting, don’t stop until you’ve killed or captured them all.
At 0501 hours the driver of the first Humvee gunned his engine and lurched into the morning shadows. The rest of the company followed at regular invervals. The faint sunlight burned pink on a bank of high clouds, but despite the fresh, cool air, the day promised to grow hot. Angriff stood to one side and flashed thumbs-up to every Humvee or LAV-25.
“What’s the word, General?” one LAV driver yelled over the roar of his engine.
“Weatherman’s calling for a metal storm!”
Within a minute, dust swallowed the armored column, blotting out the red glow of tail lights in the darkness. Angriff stared after them, smoking, thinking, praying. Once finished, he wheeled and strode back inside. Colonel Walling awaited him with the day’s schedule.
“That’s the last of them,” Walling said. “No problems here or with the other three teams, so it’s a good beginning, General.”
“No plan survives contact with the enemy. We’re a long way from the short rows, but a good start beats a bad one. Come on, Walling, let’s get to the Crystal Palace and patch into the comm.”
“Sir, you’ve got a full schedule today, starting in the hydroponic labs.”
“What’s the matter with you, Walling? You’re wound tighter than Dick’s hat band. We’ll get everything done, but there’s only one first day of operations and that’s today. So you do whatever you have to do, but I want to be on that comm if they find something. If we can do that from hydroponics, fine.”
“General Angriff, General Fleming is in the Castle; if they find something, he will let you know immediately and will give a full report. Operations are his responsibility, sir.”
Walling had been walking behind Angriff to the Emvee and almost slammed into his back when he stopped and turned around. Pinching his collar, Angriff said, “My stars say it’s not going to happen that way, Colonel. Not when I had three, and definitely not now, when I’ve got five. I’m not going to interfere in tactical operations, but I will be patched into the comm network at all times. If you can do that, then I’ll follow your schedule. If not, I’ll be in my office.”
O523 hours
Joe Randall leaned against a neatly organized worktable. Arms crossed, he stared at his beloved helicopter. Thirty feet away, Bunny Carlos sat in Tank Girl’s pilot seat, tapping his foot, looking anywhere except at Joe.
“Hey, Bunny, did I tell you—”
“Yeah, Joe, you told me. Whatever it is, you told me.”
Randall scowled. Carlos tried to whistle.
“Morgan’s going to be here soon,” Randall said.
“Is that a threat?”
“You know it.”
Chapter 5
Take me by the hand and take me where you go;
Show me all your wonders, show me all you know.
Sergio Velazquez, “Take Me By the Hand”
1308 hours, June 30
“These people fled their home quickly,” Govind said. Without aid of binoculars, he watched the tiny caravan plod across the desert from a mile away. “Someone pursues them.”
“How can you know that?” said his youngest brother, Gosheven. “I can barely see
them from here.”
The third member of their triad, Gopan, slapped Gosheven across the back of the head. “Stop being a child and start being a warrior. You know his eyesight is better than anyone in the tribe. If your chief says it is so, it is so.”
Govind stared for several more seconds without speaking. Something in his peripheral vision caused him to glance right. In the far distance, a dust cloud rolled up from the desert.
“What is that?” Gopan said. “Sand storm?”
“No.” Govind shook his head. “It’s a line of vehicles. A lot of vehicles.”
“What do we do?”
“We watch.”
1323 hours
Lieutenant Martin Sully thanked God he’d brought his own binoculars with him to Overtime. He’d purchased them for use in the Middle East, because they compensated better for shimmering heat rising from a desert floor than did the Marine issue ones.
Creosote bushes and saguaro cacti hid his target from view, but that was no problem. It moved at the slow pace of the skinny animals dragging it across the desert. Keeping it in view was no more complicated than scooting a few feet in either direction.
Lying prone on a small hill overlooking the bowl-shaped depression below, he ignored a beetle that crawled on the back of his hand. Only scorpions and giant centipedes concerned him, and while they were real dangers in the Sonoran Desert, Sergeant Meyers had the detail of keeping them away from both him and the snipers flanking him.
Most of the snipers were on his left, except for Lara Snowtiger, the only female sniper in the brigade. Nobody knew much about her, except she was Native American. Some said she’d been the best shot in the Corps before she went cold. All Sully cared about was that she’d scored second best of all the snipers, missing top score by a single point.