He sensed more than saw the doors open. A moment later, his target looked startled, shouted something over his shoulder, and raised his weapon. Sgt Anthony Niimoto smoothly squeezed the trigger. They rifle kicked, the vents chuffed, and there was an explosion of blood on the man’s chest as he fell back into the crowd.
Another man had an ancient AK leveled and was firing into the courtyard. Sgt Niimoto swung his weapon around as a burst of fire came out of the embassy. Squeezing the trigger again, Sgt Niimoto watched the round hit the man lower in the chest, but he, too, fell back. Through the scope, he could see one more man jumping onto the same concrete block the first man had been standing on. Taking a breath, he squeezed the trigger once more. Kick. Chuff. The man’s face burst into a pink mist before he fell back into the now panicking crowd.
Taking a quick glance back, he could see Kramer disappearing under the awning, carrying Seth on his shoulders. A couple more steps and he would be safe. Tony scanned the crowd again, but no one stood out as a target. People rushed the wall and gate, pointing and gesturing, but none were an immediate threat.
Sgt Niimoto leaned back and took a deep breath. He had just killed three men. Yes, he was a Marine. Yes, every Marine is a rifleman. But he never thought he’d have to kill anyone. And right now, he felt elated. Maybe he would feel something later, feel some regret. But now, he felt like he had just caught the perfect curl, had just sunk a 40-foot buzzer beater. He felt great.
Admittedly, the distance involved was not that great. But he was shooting at a severe down angle and with increasing shadows, and he had shot quickly. He had done well. And it looked as if no one had realized they were taking fire from the bell tower.
Sgt Tony Niimoto edged back down some and went back to scanning the milling crowd.
Chapter 12
Tuesday Afternoon, US Embassy, New Delhi
Gunnery Sergeant McCardle rinsed his mouth with water, swishing it back and forth before spitting it out into the sink. He turned around and surveyed the office.
Ms. Howard, er, Loralee, had sat Van Slyke down and was dabbing at his face with some paper towels, first aid kit open and ready, a look of concern in her eyes as she surveyed the damage. Van Slyke’s undamaged side of his face was away from the gunny, so he could not see how the PFC was taking this, but his body was still. Gunny shook his head in amazement.
Towards the left, SSgt Child and LCpl Wynn were still laid out on two desks. Saad was watching over Child, holding his hand. That hand, once so powerful and full of purpose, lay limply, with a pale, sickly, grayish cast. But Child’s chest rose in a seemingly normal fashion, breathing life into the body. His blouse had been taken off, and bandages covered his chest and neck. Gunny wondered who had put them there, taking care of Child. He had been so busy, he hadn’t even had time to see to the wounded. Lying next to Child, the rise and fall of Wynn’s chest did not seem as strong. Blood seeped from under her, snaked its way to the edge of the desk, and dripped to the deck, pooling in a small puddle of red.
The president and Major Defilice were by the television, watching CNN and making quiet comments to each other. MAJ Defilice was still in his t-shirt, uniform trousers, and issue shoes. The president was in a very nice pair of navy trousers, a white shirt, and shoes that probably cost more than the gunny made in a month, yet they huddled together, circumstances putting them on an equal footing. The president’s upper arm was bandaged over his shirt, but he didn’t seem to be in too much distress. Behind them, Mr. Dravid stood, trying to remain unobtrusive but watching the television as well.
LCpl Steptoe was hunched over the receptionist’s desk, working on the PDA. His concentration was evident, making him oblivious to the entire scene. The hatch to the office opened, and the remaining Marines trooped in. Ramon and Rodriguez looked somewhat subdued, but both Kramer and Fallgatter looked elated. Fallgatter had his M18 at the ready, his eyes darting around the room.
“Rodriguez, go back down to Post 1. Stand by and be a runner for Sgt McAllister. Let me know if anything comes up.”
Rodriguez nodded and left the office.
Gunny walked over to Steptoe and asked “How’s it going?”
LCpl Steptoe did not even look up, but replied, “Good, Gunny. Sgt Crocker has a password protect, but I think I can figure it out.”
“OK. Good. Let me know as soon as you have something.”
He made his way back to the president and Major Defilice. “Sir, we’ve got the PDA, and we should be able to talk to someone soon.”
The president looked around over his shoulder at the gunny. “Good job, sergeant. Tell me, was anyone hurt getting it?”
He stared at the gunny with a look of concern on his face.
“No sir. Everyone got back fine.”
“Good, good,” he said before pausing. “Let me know when I can talk to Washington.”
PFC Rodriquez came back into the office and said, “Gunny, Sgt Mac says the Canadian ambassador is back on the landline wanting to know what’s going on. What should she tell him?”
“Ah, crap! OK, OK. I’ll be there in a second.”
Loralee stopped bandaging Van Slyke’s face and said, “Don’t tell him too much, Gunny.”
“What do you mean, ma’am?”
“Do you really know who is over there? Most of the diplomatic community and half of the Indian government were waiting for the reception. Who over there had a hand in this?”
Gunny Mac gulped. That was a valid point. No sense making it easy for anyone who wanted to do them ill.
“I’ll be careful, ma’am,” he said as he left the office and made his way to Post 1.
“Buzz me in, Sgt McAllister.”
He entered the post and picked up the landline.
“This is Gunnery Sergeant Jacob McCardle. Who am I speaking with?”
“I am Ambassador Tilden from Canada. What is happening out there? How is the president? How is Ambassador Tankersly? We have a lot of scared people over here, and we want to know what is going on.”
“Sir, the president is secure, and we have initiated our emergency procedures. Please remain calm, and help will arrive. You’ve got the food and drink for the reception, so please make sure everyone is hydrated and ready for further instructions.”
“I want to speak with the president,” the ambassador told him.
“I am sorry sir, but that isn’t possible now. The president is in a secure location. I am sure you can appreciate the situation.”
There was a slight pause before the ambassador said, “Yes, I guess I do. But we are going to need some help here, and soon.”
“Sir, you have SSgt Harwood there. He can assist you or get word back to us here as need be. I have to go now, but we’ll be in touch.”
He handed the phone back to Sgt McAllister who took it with a wry smile. Gunny Mac walked back into the office. The president looked up expectantly. Gunny started to walk over to him.
“Gunny! I’m through!” shouted LCpl Steptoe. Gunny hurried over. “He used the ‘redsox2013’ as his password.”
“Redsox2013?”
“Yes, the last time the Sox won the series. I knew he had something like that. I’m dialing my friend now.” All eyes turned toward him as he waited. “Dang, it’s his answering service . . . Hey Trollbane, this is Elanadril. This is urgent. Call me back on Crocker’s PDA. We’ve got big trouble, and we need your help.”
“Elanadril?” asked Ramon, with a raised eyebrow.
Steptoe looked flustered as he said, “Don’t ask. Hey, the good news is that the low freqs are not getting jammed. The bad news is that he isn’t answering.”
The president left the TV and walked over. “Can you call anyone else on that? Can you call the White House?”
“Uh, no sir. Not on Sgt Crocker’s. I have it set up only for this call. If I had my PDA, I could do it.”
“And where is your PDA?”
“Back at the Marine House. We aren’t supposed to have extraneous gear for an honor guar
d or something big like this.”
“But you have this PDA,” the president went on.
“Yes sir. Sgt Crocker, well, uh, he didn’t always follow the rules.”
The president paused and actually smiled. “Well, thank God for small favors,” he said as he swung around and went back to the television.
The PDA in Steptoe’s hands buzzed. He grabbed it as everyone in the office crowded around. “Hello, hello! Is this Trollbane?”
The bored-sounding voice came over the small speaker in the device. “Yeah, Elanadril. What’s so important that you have to call me when I’m taking a dump? The dragon’s burning your fields again?”
“Have you seen the news? The Indians have stormed the embassy here, and we’ve got the president here, and we’re stuck in the embassy!”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
The president leaned over to speak directly into the PDA. “Son, this is President Eduardo. I want you to listen up, because we need your help.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“Trollbane, look at your news ticker. This is for real,” Steptoe said.
There was a pause, then a “Holy shit! And this is you? That’s really the president?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“What do you want me to do, uh, sir?”
Gunny Mac picked up the PDA. “Mr. Trollbane, this is Gunnery Sergeant McCardle with the security detachment. We need you to make a call for us. You need to call the White House.”
He suddenly realized he didn’t have the number for the White House.
”Mr. President, what is the number?”
The president looked confused. “I don’t know. I’ve never called the number. Someone else around me always has a phone.”
“Mr. Trollbane –“ began Gunny.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“It’s Mike. Mike Dupris. ‘Trollbane’ is for gaming.”
“OK, Mike, I want you to search the net for the number for the White House. Don’t hang up this connection, but use another phone to call it. Tell them we have the president here, and he needs to talk to them.”
“OK, wait a minute while I go to another computer.”
All nine conscious people in the room looked intently at the PDA while sounds of movement and low whispers too indistinct to make out came over the speaker. Finally, “I’ve got it!” broke out. “Let me see, uh, here . . . OK I’ve dialed.” They hunched closer to the PDA, then the unmistakably brash tones of a busy signal could be heard. “It’s busy.”
“Keep trying son!” ordered the president.
And Mike, aka Trollbane, did keep trying. For 30 more minutes. The line remained busy. Not even a voice tree, much less an operator, was available.
“There has to be another number we can use. Sir, isn’t there another high priority number?” asked Major Defilice.
“Of course there are numbers like that. But I don’t know them. My military aide has some. My staff sec has some. My secret service agents have some. But none of them are here.”
“Gunny, what about Col Lineau?” asked PFC Ramon. Col Jeff Lineau was the Commandant of the Corps, the top Marine. “He should be able to reach the White House.”
“Yes, but our dedicated comm lines back to Quantico are down, and I really don’t know his number.”
“I can get through.” She moved up to the PDA. “Mike, try dialing this number. 703 555 4543.” She looked up at the rest. “In case I was going to be late from liberty,” she said with a shrug.
There was a pause, then the wonderful sound of a connection.
“Private Smith, Headquarters Company duty. This is an unsecured line. How may I help you ma’am/sir?”
Gunny moved back up and spoke into the PDA, “Private Smith, this is Gunnery Sergeant McCardle in New Delhi. I’ve got the President of the United States with me. Listen carefully. I want you to go to the Commandant’s office and get Col Lineau. Do not, I repeat do not hang up the phone. Just place the handset on the duty table there. Then, I want you to go to the Commandant’s office and get Col Lineau. Bring him back to your post and put him on your phone. Do it now. Do you understand?”
There was dead silence on the other end. Gunny could almost imagine Private Smith wondering if the small chance that this was true outweighed the consequences of if this was some sort of prank.
“Aye-aye, Gunny!”
Gunny could hear the phone being placed on the table, then the sounds of footsteps running off into the distance.
Chapter 13
Early Tuesday Morning, HQMC, Quantico
Colonel Jeff Lineau, the 42nd Commandant of the Marine Corps, sat in his office with Sergeant Major Mike Huff and Lieutenant Colonel Tye Saunders, his XO. None of the men were saying much at the moment, but had their eyes glued to the television and the scenes from India.
As the satellite shot panned over the scene from above, the body of what had to be Capt Leon-Guerro could be seen lying on the deck along with the rest of the prone figures. The Marine Corps was small, and most Marines knew each other by sight. Truth be told, Col Lineau never had high hopes for Frank Leon-Guerro, but that really didn’t matter now. He had proved the temper of his steel.
And now the question was the status of the rest of the detachment. Nothing much could be seen on the television screen, and attempts to reach the detachment via pulse and phone lines came up empty. There had been another Marine down, probably Sgt Crocker, but a short time ago, someone had dashed out and grabbed him. The angle and resolution weren’t good enough to see just who had come out. And several Marines had earlier helped the president get inside as well. So at least a few Marines were alive and well. Hopefully more were, too.
Col Lineau looked around his office. Once the office of the Security Guard Battalion Commanding Officer, it was now the office of the Commandant. Of course, his duties were little more than the CO of old, but he was granted the somewhat honorary title of Commandant (or the “’Dant,” as the Marines tended to refer to him). And now, he felt helpless as he watched what was unfolding on the screen.
Col Lineau had joined the Corps before the dismemberment. A Naval Academy graduate, he had intended on being a Navy pilot, but weak eyes and an admiration of the Marines sent to be company officers and instructors at the Academy impressed him, and he chose green instead of blue upon graduation. He had his goals though. Truth-be-told, he had harbored dreams of becoming Commandant while a second lieutenant back at The Basic School in Quantico, but he had never thought it would unfold this way. A tour as an infantry platoon commander with 3/5 at Pendleton, then as the recruiting station ops officer in Des Moines followed TBS and IOC. He then went to Amphibious Warfare School, finding time to meet and marry the former Alicia Hera, a student at William and Mary. He reported to 2/4 at Camp Lejeune, taking command of Golf Company, where he led the company into Iraq, earning himself a bronze star and making a small name for himself.
Additional staff jobs followed, along with a promotion to major. He received a Legion of Merit while serving in a joint billet with Joint Task Force Horn of Africa , something rare for his rank. When he made lieutenant colonel, he was given command of 1/8 “America’s Battalion,” which he led into the Sudan. It was here, while at the tip of the spear, that the Marine Corps was shattered. He brought his battalion back to Lejeune, decommissioned it, and waited along with everyone else to discover their individual fates. And Jeff was one of the lucky ones. He was offered one of the few O-5 positions left in the Corps, and became the S-3. Over the ensuing years, as retirement and one heart attack took those senior to him, he moved up and was promoted to Commandant four years ago. He was looking to retire in 53-days-and-a-wake-up, ready to go back to North Dakota with his wife and going south during the winter to spoil the grandkids.
He looked over at the other two Marines in the room. LtCol Saunders still wore the gold wings of a naval aviator on his chest, the only Marine left who rated them. An Osprey pilot before d
ismemberment, he’d asked to be retained in the Corps despite there being no aviation billets. Being a Marine meant more to him than flying. He was retained, and his tour as the commanding officer of Bravo Company in Europe proved to him that his decision was the right one.
Tall with deep chocolate skin, he made an imposing figure. But he was usually soft-spoken, a man whose faith was the prime mover in his life. If he were not a Marine, he could have been very happy as a missionary. Tye Saunders hid nothing from view. What you saw was what you got. And what you got was good.
Now he was hanging up the phone after yet one more try to contact the detachment. He looked at the colonel and quietly shook his head.
Sergeant Major Mike Huff was along slightly different lines. A radio operator in an infantry company whetted his appetite for adventure, and he followed that with tours in both battalion and force recon. He had combat experience with Force, and a silver star attested to his valor. Mike had confided in the colonel on a few occasions when they had shared a cold one after work that he never should have made it so far. He’d had a number of liberty-type incidents, about which he would only hint, which should have gotten him non-judicial punishment at the least, but he always had friends in high places who saw the potential in him, and his “punishments” for his transgressions were never official.
SgtMaj Huff still had the wild side to him, but he cared deeply for his Marines, and his ability to inspire their loyalty proved that those early benefactors had it right.
Admin had been undergoing an inspection, so the entire staff had stayed late. Otherwise, Colonel Lineau would already have been home asleep. When the news of the attack first broke, he had called his boss, Rear Admiral Chance Cates in N3. Chance had actually worked under him while at HOA, and, to be honest, there was not much love lost between them. He was told to stand by, and that was what they were now doing.
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