The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “You’ve got that right. I hope Master Guns Chung put the fear of God in them before they took off. He’s in the lead vehicle, right?” Col Lineau asked.

  “Yes sir, and Captain Krieg is in the rear. Master Guns will probably blow out the tires of anyone who tries to pass him. When they get to Andrews, they’ll go in Gate 4. I hope they’ve been cleared, sir.”

  Colonel Lineau glanced at the Sergeant Major who nodded slightly. “Yes, Four, they’ve been cleared.”

  Actually, Colonel Lineau seemed perhaps most surprised by this than by any other of the wheeling and dealing that had occurred over the last couple hours. From his experience, the Air Force tended way to the right on standard procedures. But somehow, the Sergeant Major, in that weird brotherhood/mafia of E9s, had paved the way for his Marines to get on the base with POVs and personal weapons, park next to the ball field, then get on a bus to the tarmac to meet the incoming C17 Col Lineau had managed to wangle that from an Industrial College of the Armed Forces classmate who was now at TRANSCOM. There had been too much wheeling and dealing, too much going outside of channels. His career was almost certainly over after all of this, but he was due to get out in 52 days and a wake up anyway, so WTF? It was the right thing to do, even if he wasn’t quite sure what they would do if they ever got that far.

  The hatch opened and LtCol Saunders walked in. Col Lineau looked up at him expectantly and not without a little bit of dread. If Tye did not come through, then all the other rushed plans might turn out to be an exercise in futility.

  A smile broke out on LtCol Saunders’ broad face as he said, “Sir, I’ve got them. Four Ospreys on loan to the Indonesian government for piracy interdiction. Don’t ask me how, but they are on the way to U-Tapao. I’ve got two Coast Guard pilots on their way who are qualified, and I’ve got an old squadron mate of mine who’s now flying for the DEA heading to LAX to catch a flight to meet us there, too. The Indonesian pilots can’t fly further than Thailand, so I am still trying to scare up some co-pilots. But we’ve got the birds.”

  A tremendous feeling of relief swept over him. Nothing was for certain yet, and he hoped the situation would resolve itself. But at least the Marine Corps was not standing by when its own were in trouble.

  “Good job, Tye. Great job, I should say. OK, we’ve got to move. We’ve got less than an hour to wheels up, and I still have a call to make.”

  A chorus of “Aye-aye’s rang out as Marines started hurrying out of his office. Col Lineau picked up the secure phone and called a number that patched him through a series of com links before ringing in the stateroom of RADM Joshua Conners, Commander, Carrier Battle Group 31, aboard the USS Reagan.

  “Josh, it’s me. We’re on. We’ve got the Ospreys.”

  “OK Jeff. Then let’s do it.”

  “We’re wheels up at 1000 local. We should arrive at U-Tapao around 1600 on the 4th. Give us an hour to get on the Ospreys, then 4 hours out to your pos. So you need to be less than 1,500 miles from Thailand by then. Can you swing it?”

  “Well, I just reported that we are having a little shaft problem which is slowing us down. I expect that we’ll have it fixed in, say 23 hours or so?”

  “Thanks Josh. You know, I really appreciate this.”

  “Yeah, I know.” There was a pause, then, “Well, I guess it’s been a good career.”

  “You were slated for your third star. You had better places to go. I’m stuck at my terminal rank, and anyway, I’m out in 52 days and a wake-up. You’re delaying a fucking carrier battle group for us. They could court martial you.”

  “Life’s a bitch, then you die. So what? When we took an oath that July so many years ago at the Academy, we took an oath to the nation, but really also to our armed forces, and to each other.” There was another pause. “Who would of thought it? Our Plebe Summer’s two biggest shitbirds. You’re the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and I’ve got two stars.”

  “Yeah, who would have thunk it. Well, I’ve got a bird to catch. See you in a few!”

  “God speed , Jeff, God speed.”

  Colonel Lineau hung up the phone. He picked up his body armor and put it on, then his deuce gear. Strapping on his 9 mm, he took a look around the office before a thought struck him. Over 180 years before, another commandant was leaving Washington for battle. He walked over to the computer and quickly typed, then printed out a page. He left his office and went to the front hatch where he could see the duty van waiting for him. He walked out, closed the hatch and locked it. Turning around, he taped the paper he had printed to the hatch. He turned again and hurried to the van.

  On the paper was the simple message, word for word the same as that on the note left by Archibald Henderson:

  Gone to fight the Indians.

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday Evening, US Embassy. New Delhi

  Gunny McCardle sat in an overstuffed office chair, feeling he should be doing something, but not knowing right then just what that something was. He looked over at the president who was sitting with Major Defilice and Loralee, sipping the tea that Mr. Dravid had recovered from the ambassador’s office, looking for all the world like British imperialists without a care in the world. Mr. Dravid stood attentively just behind the president.

  LCpl Saad came up to the gunny and bent over to whisper, “What about him?” tilting his head towards Dravid.

  Gunny knew what he meant, having some of the same thoughts himself. He looked over at Dravid, serving tea as if nothing had happened. A slight man in his early 50s, he had a touch of gray coloring his hair and dark, smooth skin. Gunny has seen him at various social functions serving the guests, and he knew that Dravid was a favorite of the ambassador, but other than that, he really knew nothing more about him. And now here he was, three feet from the president while a mob of his countrymen milled around outside having already killed and probably wanting to kill again.

  He had considered restraining the man but hadn’t decided it was necessary yet. But there was no use in taking chances.

  “Just keep an eye on him, OK?” he said.

  Saad nodded and moved around in back of the man and sat down.

  “Steptoe, come here,” Gunny called out. LCpl Steptoe got up and came to stand in front of him. “Great job with the PDA, by-the-way. Everything still OK with it?”

  LCpl Steptoe hesitated before answering, “Uh, well, we are still connected. But I wonder how long the battery will last. The charge is half full now, but I don’t have his charger here.”

  “Can we use anything else? Somebody has to have a charger in one of these desks,” Gunny asked.

  “This is proprietary gear. It can only be charged with its designed charger. I can probably jury rig something to charge the battery, but I have to open this up and take out the battery to do that. And that means no comms while I’m doing it, and I might not get it back together right without the right tools here.”

  Gunny McCardle took a second to digest that. “OK, well, watch it and let me know when it starts getting low.”

  The president stood up and shouted, “Sergeant! What the hell is going on? I want Washington back on the phone, now!”

  Gunny almost rolled his eyes but managed to stop the motion. He nodded to LCpl Steptoe who nodded back and went over the president to make the connection. Gunny chose not to listen in this time.

  He called LCpl Kramer over and said, “Kramer, take Ramon . . .” before hesitating and looking around the office. “No, take Saad and stay in the Cultural Affairs office across the passage.”

  PFC Ramon had grabbed her weapon upon hearing her name, but when Gunny changed his mind, she sat back down with a scowl.

  “Stay back from the window so no one can see you, but look out and watch. I think the people at the consulate will be moving out shortly, but let me know when that happens. I don’t want to be relying on CNN for this.”

  Gunny sat back and half-listened to the president shouting angrily on the PDA. He was wondering just what he was missing, what he could
be doing now. What he should be doing now. He was trained for this, but “this” was nothing he had really imagined would happen.

  He looked over at SSgt Child lying on the desk and wondered for the umpteenth time if maybe Child would have been a better Marine for the situation. Well, there was no getting around it. He was in charge, and it was up to him to take care of things until someone else got there to relieve him.

  PFC Rodriguez came into the office and said, “Gunny, it’s SSgt Harwood. He wants to speak with you on the landline.”

  Gunny got up and followed Rodriguez back to Post 1.

  He picked up the phone. “Yeah, Mark. What’s your status?”

  “We’ve got the hatch secured. And they are calling for me now. I’ve got to go. But you need to go and open your end of the tunnel.”

  “Why?” he asked his staff sergeant.

  “Well, I thought we’d better secure the hatch from the inside, too. So Chen took this guy Drayton and did that, but now they need to get out of the tunnel, and that’s up to you.”

  “Peyton?” he misheard. “Who the hell is that?”

  “I gotta go, Gunny. The Indian Army guy is motioning me to put down the phone and get in line.”

  “But . . . well, OK. Get out of there. Don’t do anything stupid and make sure you get word when you can back to Battalion.”

  There was no answer. SSgt Harwood had already hung up and left.

  “Rodriguez, come with me.”

  They went the closed hatch to the tunnel. Gunny McCardle pulled out his 9 mm and knocked on the hatch. There was an immediate pounding back.

  “Cover me,” he told Rodriguez while he undid the locks and opened the hatch.

  Sgt Greg Chen stepped up the last step and out into the passage followed by a thin young man in a suit coat with a red tie half-stuffed in the front breast pocket. Gunny had never seen the man before and instinctively kept his 9 mm at the ready.

  The man handed Gunny a paper bag and stuck out his hand. Taking the bag, Gunny McCardle had to holster his 9 mm to take the proffered hand.

  “Drayton Bajinski, USAID Dacca. Pleased to meet you. I thought you might want some of that, so I brought it along.“ He pointed, indicating the bag.

  Gunny looked in the bag and saw a mishmash of what might have been at some time some very nice reception finger food. He looked back up.

  “Sgt Chen, why is there a civilian with you?”

  Sgt Chen replied, “Gunny, they were always asking for SSgt Harwood, so we knew he had to leave with the rest. But I might need help in the tunnel, and Drayton here had already been helping, so he sort of came along.”

  “Gunny,” the man said with emphasis on the title as if he had just had the term explained to him, “don’t blame Greg here. I bulled my way here, no doubt. I don’t want to sit in some sort of detention center while they figure out what to do with us, and it sounded more exciting to be here with you. So here I am.”

  He positively beamed at Gunny McCardle.

  “Exciting?”

  “Yes, sir! I think so, and I can help. I’m pretty resourceful.”

  “Well, you’re here now. No getting around it. OK, let’s get back. Rodriguez, you go back to Sgt McAllister.”

  The gunny, Sgt Chen, and Drayton trooped back to the Admin Section’s office.

  Everyone else was gathered around the television when they entered, but Drayton immediately went up to the president and offered his hand. “Drayton Bajinksi, USAID Dacca. A pleasure to meet you sir.”

  Reflexes took over, and the president shook the offered hand. “Pleasure to meet you, too.” He looked perplexed. “Where did you come from?”

  “From the reception, Mr. President, or what would have been the reception, at least.”

  “Were any of my detail there? Did any of them make it?

  Now it was Drayton’s turn to look perplexed. “Your detail sir?”

  “My secret service detail! Did any of them make it?”

  Drayton looked over at Sgt Chen, who stepped up. “I think so sir. I know a couple ran out, and I think they got hit. But another one, he was going to try and run out and get over here, but his boss, I think, held him back. Wouldn’t let him go. I think the others had to leave when the Indians came and got everyone. ”

  A look of anger slowly spread over the President’s face. He looked over at Sgt Chen and said, “I had secret service agents over there, and you didn’t think of bringing them over here with you? These are trained professionals in this, not glorified security guards like you!”

  Sgt Chen stepped back a pace and looked at Gunny Mac, arms splayed out with hands forward indicating confusion. “I . . . uh, sorry sir. Nobody told me nothing about bringing—”

  Loralee interrupted while watching the television. “Looks like something is happening . . .”

  LCpl Saad stuck his head in the door, announcing, “Gunny, they’re on the move.”

  Everyone started for the door, but Gunny said, “Saad, stay here with SSgt Child and Wynn.”

  The rest moved across the hall and into the office.

  “Sir, please stand back from the window. Without the lights on in here, no one should be able to see us, and the windows are supposed to be one way, but no use giving anyone any ideas,” Gunny told the president, who nodded in agreement.

  All of them stopped about ten feet back from the window and looked out across the courtyard. The darkness made it a little hard to make out, but a long line of people were being escorted by Indian soldiers along the front of the consulate and over to the front gate. Many of the diplomats glanced fearfully at the bodies still lying on the ground. Apparently the army did not want to tempt the crowd, because they kept the gate closed. They had leaned what looked like a garden-variety stepladder up the face of the gate, and those with Gunny could see the top of a ladder that was going down the reverse side. Slowly, each well-dressed member of the diplomatic community made his or her way up the ladder where a soldier helped them reverse and back down the other side.

  This took a long time, considering the number of people to make it over the gate and the lack of physical prowess most of them had. It was almost dark when SSgt Harwood, the last person, got to the top of the gate. He turned around and made a quick salute in the direction of the embassy and disappeared over the other side.

  About a dozen soldiers climbed back into the compound and took down the ladder. They arrayed themselves along the edge of the fence, facing in towards the embassy with their backs to the crowd and coming to their best parade rest. They were on guard, but keeping the mob out or keeping them in was the question.

  “Well, I guess that is it,” intoned the president. “Looks like we’re here for the night.”

  He turned around and walked back to the Admin Section’s office, the rest filing along behind him.

  Chapter 19

  Tuesday Evening, Phuket, Thailand

  David Littlehawk sat on the couch in the suite at the Royal Phuket City Hotel, watching the BBC. He had been given a room, but he chose to sit in the suite which was serving as the Rear Party (or would the “Missing Movement Party” be more accurate?) headquarters. He and several other sailors were glued to the television, watching the same video clips over and over, listening to the commentators and the expert guests give their take on what was happening. Littlehawk was kind of partial to CNN, but the hotel did not carry it, so BBC it was.

  Regardless of whatever legal trouble he might be in for missing movement, he had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had trained extensively to be the best pilot he could be, and now that the nation might need his skills, he was sitting in a hotel suite in Phuket watching events unfold on the BBC. This was not supposed to be how things happened. He took a sip of his now-warm coke, then leaned back, hands behind his head, looking at the white ceiling.

  The Rear Party OIC, LTJG Warren, hung up the phone. “Hey, listen up! It looks like we are going to get almost all of you back to the Reagan.”

  Lt
. Littlehawk felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through his body as he jumped up off the couch. “We’ve got some Ospreys passing through, and the powers-that-be decided to order them to touch down and pick up you guys and get you back onboard. Grab your trash, ’cause they’re going to get here in about 50 mikes, and we’ve got to get you back to the dock where the birds will touch down, Thai clearance willing. We’ve got, um, let me see, 96 boat spaces, so that’s almost everybody.

  “Petty Officer Kent, did we prioritize the list yet?” the j.g asked his assistant.

  Kent shook his head.

  “OK, well, then we have to do it on the run. I want the first bus to leave in five mikes, so let’s try to get the highest priority folks on it, but just get it filled and off to the port. You three sailors,” he said, pointing at them, “start pounding on hatches and getting people up out of the rack now and down to the lobby.”

  Littlehawk moved closer and grabbed the j.g. by the arm and asserted, “I am priority. I have to get on the flight.”

  “Sure lieutenant, sure. Just get down to the lobby and get Kent to manifest you.”

  Littlehawk rushed out of the room and pelted down the stairwell, ignoring the elevators. Bursting out into the lobby, he vaulted a couch in front of reception, thoroughly startling an elderly couple trying to check in as he rushed to get in position by the front door. By God he was going to be the first one manifested and the first one on the bird. As a fixed-wing jock, he had a fatalistic fascination with that whirly contraption that some people called an aircraft. That fascination did not extend to ever wanting to get onboard an Osprey, though. But at this stage of the game, he would strap a rocket to his butt if that was the only way to get back to the Reagan.

  Down in the dumps five minutes ago, he was brimming with enthusiasm now. History was not going to pass him by. He was getting back to his ship.