There was a small thud against the door. Then some voices. The four froze, not moving a muscle. A soft glow appeared on the door, then a puff of smoke followed by a stream of sparks. An acrid cloud of smoke seeped into the vault and eddied around the ceiling.
“Get down!” Gunny ordered needlessly. All four crouched behind the table, protected from the steady stream of sparks shooting into the vault. There were four simultaneous clicks as four safeties were flipped to “fire.” Sweaty hands nervously gripped the weapons.
A cut was being made at the very top of the door, cutting through the heavy steel bar there. After a moment, the bar was cut, and the torch shifted to the locking bar on the floor.
There was a shout of triumph, then gloved hands came in to grip the door at the new opening. Gunny motioned to the other three, and they came up, weapons aimed. As the door was pushed open a crack, Gunny opened fire, followed by the other three a split second later.
At least one set of hands was hit as the other two sets jerked back. There was some furious shouting down the passage and footsteps running from further down toward the other offices. They could hear an excited exchange right outside the door. A hand appeared around the edge of the partially opened door and threw in a round object.
“Down!” shouted Gunny as the four crouched behind the table. A horrible four or five seconds followed, which stretched for an eternity. There was a deafening blast as the grenade detonated. Gunny and Van Slyke immediately sat up, weapons over the edge of the table. Three men tried to rush in, but their concerted burst dropped all three in their tracks.
“Good shot, you two. Thanks.” Loralee coldly looked down on the gunman.
The voices outside stopped. Gunny knew they were regrouping, ready to try and end it all right there in the bottom deck of the embassy. All four turned to the opening and raised their weapons.
Loralee Howard, diplomat’s wife and sister to a Marine, Private First Class Peter Van Slyke and Gunnery Sergeant Jacob McCardle, United States Marine Corps, and Michael Eduardo, President of the United States of America, lifted their weapons and faced their incoming fate.
(from The Few)
THE RETURN OF THE MARINES:
TALES OF THE MARINES IN THE NEAR FUTURE
VOL 1: THE FEW
VOL 2: THE PROUD
VOL 3: THE MARINES
GLOSSARY
Colonel Jonathan P. Brazee
USMCR (Ret)
Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Brazee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Acknowledgements:
I want to thank all those who took the time to pre-read these three books, catching my many mistakes in both content and typing. My old roommate, Allan Whiting, CDR, USNR (Ret), and merchant mariner extraordinaire (when he is not discovering comets and such, that is), gave invaluable insights as to the merchant fleets. From VFW Post 9951 in Bangkok, I need to thank Ricky Reece, MacAlan Thompson, and Bill Bernstrom for their proofreading and fact-checking. I need to thank Mike, a reader from Amazon who has left comments on my other books and gave me pre-publication comments on this one. Another reader was Ann Bunch, whose reviews and insights were extremely helpful. Then there are the Military Times Forums where the Naval Aviation members fixed a number of mistakes, and from ArmyRangers.com, I need to thank PocketKings and Worldweaver for their assistance in getting my Ranger facts and terminology correct. My editors, Dr. Bob Rich and H. Ray kept me on the straight and narrow. All remaining typos and inaccuracies are solely my fault.
THE FEW
Prologue
The Military Reform Act of 2018, which merged most of the Marine Corps into the Army, consolidated the various service intelligence agencies, and brought logistics and procurement under one joint agency, was primarily passed as a means to lower the federal budget.
Without the Islamic Renaissance, however, it is unlikely that there would have been support to pass the act. When the leaders of all major branches of Islam, inspired by the efforts of such men as Prince Ghazi bin Muhammad of Jordan and Sheik Ali Gomma of Egypt, announced an end to terrorism as a means to promote religious causes, the US military seemed at once too expensive of a luxury to maintain.
The prime directive of the fatwa was that no violence could be conducted against innocents. That meant no more indiscriminate bombings, no more indiscriminate attacks, no more kidnappings, torture, and executions. Suicide was announced as a sure step into hell, as expressed in the Qur’an. Any Muslim who ignored this fatwah would be hunted down and killed as being false followers of the Prophet.
There were other parts of the Renaissance as well, such as the re-establishment of the university at Timbuktu (once the greatest university in the world), equal (if separate) rights for women, and a movement to the non-aligned sector of world politics. The rest of the world wondered if this was merely fodder for public consumption or if it was for real. Some Islamic religious leaders decried the fatwa and issued their own, but the public had grown tired of the years of violence and continued poverty when the rest of the world improved its standard of living. Western forces in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Sudan drew back to their bases. Navy ships off the coast of Iran and Malaysia withdrew. The world watched as small flurries of violence erupted and as stubborn imams and their small forces were overwhelmed by local military forces joined by farmers, businessmen, students and shopkeepers. A few weeks of spasms, and calm entered the scene. It seemed the Renaissance was for real.
Within a year, all US forces in the Muslim world were deployed back to the US and the final cost of the War on Terror was being tallied.
That cost was high: years of deploying forces abroad, years of expenditures in equipment; years of military men and women coming home in body bags; years of increased security on the homefront. Years of politicians trying to justify the sacrifices.
With the removal of Islamic Extremism as an enemy, there wasn’t a strong, obvious reason to keep a large military to a public weary of years of fighting. Who was the enemy? Why keep such a large military? A resurgent Russia was not considered a military threat to the US, and China’s “threat” was economical.
Now, some politicians saw their opportunity to make their mark on the nation. A triumvirate of three legislators, Congressman Thomas Eddy (D-NY), Senator Katherine Brooke (D-MO), and Senator Michael Eduardo (R-CA) felt this was their opportunity. Although coming from different directions, all three had the same goal—a drastic reduction in the military. Congressman Eddy had always felt that violence was not the answer to anything, and that the show of military force always damaged the interests of the nation showing the force. Although he toned down his rhetoric somewhat to get elected, he was still an opponent of militarism. Senators Brooks and Eduardo thought that the vast expenditures made on the military could be used either in other programs or to reduce the budget.
Together, these three fairly junior politicians, with behind-the-scenes support from politicians in greater positions of power, were able to ramrod through the act. Large numbers of servicemen would be de-mobilized. Units were to be disbanded. Weapons programs shut down. Bases closed. And the Marine Corps? The Marines would cease to be.
The Marines might not have been on the skyline to get disbanded h
ad it not been for Senator Eduardo. The Senator published report after report on how much savings would be realized without a separate Marine Corps. He pointed out that in the War on Terror, Marines and Army units had been used interchangeably. One Army Division, one Marine Division. Same mission. With only a handful of former Marines still in public office, it seemed as if Eduardo would succeed where Harry Truman had failed.
Although not a former Marine himself, Secretary of State Zachary Dischner’s father had been a Marine, and Zach remembered his father’s pride at being part of the “Frozen Chosen.” Truth be told, he also liked having his own military, in a sense, with the Marine Security Guards at his embassies. He approached then President Holt and suggested that they shouldn’t let Eduardo gain too much traction with this. By keeping alive the Corps as the Presidential and Embassy Guards, they would seem in touch with the needs to reform the military, they would somewhat appease those who served in the Corps, and would be able to have their own praetorian guards, so-to-speak. President Holt liked the idea of special presidential guard, but he liked more the idea of throwing a fly in the ointment of Eduardo’s rise.
When the Act was finally signed, the Corps was alive—barely. Reduced to a single regiment, one battalion was to serve as embassy guards around the world, one at the White House and Camp David. The Marines would keep Quantico and the museum at the Washington Navy Yard. The Marine reserves would be reduced to the staff at the museum and a very small IMA detachment. Of the 180,000 active duty and 120,000 Reservists, most would be either released or transferred to one of the other three services. A select few would be retained as Marines to man the regiment.
Chapter 1
Early Tuesday Morning, Marine House, New Delhi
Gunnery Sergeant Jacob McCardle, USMC, sat in his skivvies on his easy chair in his quarters and sipped his Thums Up Cola, savoring the sort of cough medicine aftertaste that so many other Americans detested, but he sort-of liked, weird spelling of “Thums” notwithstanding. The cool air from the wheezing air conditioner rendered his room bearable, but only just. He glanced at his watch, and with a sigh, he realized it was time to get dressed.
He checked his dress blues blouse one last time as it hung on the hanger. On his blouse were the dual “toilet bowls” of a Marine basic marksman, the Marines’ lowest level of basic shooting competency. Twice, Gunny Mac had qualified sharpshooter, but both times, he had fallen back to marksman the next year on the range. Of the 16 Marines in the detachment, only the Gunny and PFC Ramon were “dual stool.” Above his shooting badges were the ribbons denoting his good conduct medals (seven awards), his National Defense Service Medal, Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, Iraq Service Medal, and the ubiquitous Embassy Duty Service Ribbon. Not really that much for 22 years in service, he thought, but at least he kept the Marine uniform when so many others had not.
Satisfied with his blouse, he carefully took his trousers off the hanger, trying not to wrinkle them, and cautiously stepped into the legs and raised them up to his waist. He zipped them and fastened the belt, then slid into his shoes. Lifting his blouse off the hanger, he slowly put it on and fastened the buttons. The tightness of the fit around his belly was more evidence that he might be putting on a little weight. He wondered if he was going to have to finally give in and get the blouse re-fitted. Well within Marine weight standards, Gunny was none-the-less unhappy with the overall “softening” of his physique over the last couple of years.
Gunny Mac stepped to the mirror for one last check on his appearance. Getting ready for an inspection was always harder on the inspector. Each Marine getting inspected had one set of eyes checking him or her out—his. But he had each and every Marine checking him out as well. And for this inspection, the stakes were even higher. Although he had seen the former president many times while on White House duty, he had never seen this president, and he had never seen a president in another setting. Personally, Gunny Mac would never forgive the president for his part in the dismantling of the Corps while a senator, but the man was his commander-in-chief, and the office carried a solemn weight in its own right. And the fact that the company XO would be there as well only added to the pressure. Gunny Mac was up for one of the two E-8 slots open this year, and there were a lot of other gunnies seeking those same slots. If this didn’t go off well, he could kiss E-8 goodbye forever.
He took one last swig of the Thums Up then walked out the hatch and into the passageway. He looked at his watch—two more minutes to go. Down the passageway and out the main entry of the Marine House, he could see the ceremonial honor guard easing into position. The detachment had gone on a port and starboard watch to get ready for the visit, and the ceremonial guard was merely the planned off duty watch plus LCpl Saad. Four Marines were in the color guard itself, and four were in the cordon. The rest of the detachment would be on post when the president arrived. Gunny had already inspected them and sent them off to relieve the honor guard so they could get ready. Normally, for a POTUS visit, the other detachments in neighboring countries would send augmentation, but there had been problems with the Indian government and entry visas, so the New Delhi detachment had to make do with the personnel on hand.
The honor guard had been practicing for a week. Every one of the actual guard had already served at the White House and had performed honor guard duties time and time again for visiting dignitaries and ceremonies. So this should have been no problem. However, no matter how much the Corps had changed, some things never did. So they were instructed to practice and practice for their thirty seconds when they might be in view of the president.
The hatch to the duty office swung open and Captain Leon-Guerro walked out. The Company C XO had been hovering around for three days, trying mightily to let the Gunny do his job but worried that some detail would slip through the cracks.
Gunny knew that Captain Leon-Guerro was a Guamanian, a third-generation Marine. His grandfather had been a general, and it was accepted among the other Marines that that had been a major factor in his getting into the Corps. Slots for junior officers after the dismemberment were very hard to get, and Captain Leon-Guerro hardly looked like a stereotypical 8th and I Marine. At 5’4”, the captain was one of the shortest male Marines in the company. But he wasn’t a small man. His chest and arms were huge, and his legs were like logs. No one who saw him doubted his raw animal strength. It was common knowledge that he had played for the American Eagles Rugby team as a loosehead prop while in school, and it wasn’t hard for Gunny Mac to imagine him charging down the rugby pitch in search of a victim.
The company headquarters was located in Nicosia, so the captain (or any officer, for that matter) was not normally at the detachment. Due to the presidential visit, however, he had come to watch over things. Gunny thought the Captain was OK, if somewhat prone to worrying. And he appreciated that the captain stayed mostly out-of-the-way and let the Gunny do his job. Major Morrisroe, the company commander, might have come instead, but he had chosen to go to Amman to oversee that stop in the president’s itinerary. Gunny rather preferred having the captain come, if I had to be anyone. Major Morrisroe was rather demanding and hard to please, and he just didn’t want to have to deal with that particular stress-bomb along with the rest of the rigmarole.
Captain Leon-Guerro seemed to have a permanent warrior’s scowl on his face, but he was actually quite soft-spoken. He had the habit of chewing his fingernails when under stress. As he spied the gunny and walked over to him, he was chewing away.
“Gunny Mac! I need to talk to you.”
Gunny came to almost-attention and faced the captain.
“I just got a call from Major Ingersoll in Amman, You are not going to believe this. The advance team told him that the president did not want the Corps Colors in the color guard. Only the US Colors. They had to ditch the Corps Colors at the last second.”
Gunny Mac’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be shitting me, sir?”
“No, It’s true. LtCol Duhs told him to cal
l us and give us the word. No Marine Colors today.”
Gunny Mac felt as if he had been poleaxed. “That doesn’t make sense, sir. We had the Marine Colors at the White House and Camp David. We’ve used them here. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But we have the word from CO. We’ve got to lose the Colors.”
“So we go with three Marines? The US Colors and two honor guards?
“That’s what they want.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Gunny Mac said as he came to full attention, performed a left face, then marched down the passageway to the awaiting team, scowling as he went.
Opening up the front hatch, Gunny walked out onto the parking lot where the Marines were in a semblance of a formation. Staff Sergeant Child brought them to attention.
“Guard, atten—HUT!”
Gunny Mac decided to inspect them first, then give them the news. He marched over to Staff Sergeant Child who saluted.
“Honor Guard formed and ready for inspection!”
“Very well.”
Gunny Mac looked at Staff Sergeant Child. Joseph Child. A modern day Marine hero, of sorts. The only living Marine of the modern era to receive a silver star when he was the lone survivor in his detachment of the attack on the embassy in La Paz. At 6’3” and 220 pounds of muscle, it wasn’t hard to imagine him dragging the ambassador into the crypto room and holding off the attackers with a chair until the Bolivian police arrived to restore order. Walnut-colored skin, square jaw, and now with a slight scar from the attack crossing his chin, he was the poster-book Marine. Literally. He was the Marine currently on the posters still used by recruiting. Enlisting weeks before the dismemberment, he was technically “Old Corps” even if he didn’t hit the fleet until after the dismemberment. He was the only Marine in his San Diego boot camp class to keep the Marine uniform. Brighter and more intelligent than just about everyone else, his future looked promising. Many thought him to be on the track for Sergeant Major. Gunny Mac tended to agree with that thought.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 1
