Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc

by Brown,Dick

  “I’ll talk to him and see what he can do and give you a call.”

  “Thanks, Rachael. You’re a good friend.”

  Two days later

  It was a hot ninety-eight-degree day in August. Jack looked out of his cool seventy-two-degree second-floor office at the growing facility he had built up from a couple small hangars. Six new hangers had been added to the flight line as well as a new paint hangar. His engineering department had beaten heavy hitters Boeing and Lockheed in head-to-head competition for surveillance systems contracts. All this was built for Rod to take over when he was gone. Now he wasn’t even sure Rod was alive. His private line blinked urgently with each ring. His reverie shattered, Jack rushed to his desk and picked up the phone. “Harry?”

  “Hello, Jack. I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you, Rachael said you’d called. I’ve got a real fight on my hands. That goddamned Secretary of Defense is driving us crazy. He acts like he’s the President. You wouldn’t believe the stuff he’s done, going behind the President’s back to get us into the Vietnam War big time . . . hell, he’s sending half a million troops to South Vietnam and carpet-bombing North Vietnam because our de facto President won’t stand up to him. The man’s crazy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, I watch the news, Harry. Look, I’m sorry he’s riding you hard, but I’ve got a different problem and I need your help. So calm down and listen a minute.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to unload on you like that. Okay, what can I do for you, my friend?”

  “You remember that spy plane the Russians shot down a couple of years back on the Turkish-Armenian border?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And do you remember Rod Miller, the kid you took to the White House a few years back? He was a console operator on that plane. And I can’t find out a damn thing about what happened or if there were any survivors. The Air Force, the State Department, and the Pentagon have stonewalled me for over two damned years. I want to know if he’s dead or alive. Can you dig around and find out anything about him and the crew?”

  “Hmm. Jack, they buried that deeper than dog shit on the White House lawn. I don’t know how much I can help, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got some favors owed me by some staffers over at State. Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you. I know how you feel about that boy. Trust me, I’m going to do everything I can to help you, okay?”

  “Thanks Harry, I knew I could count on your help. I’ll talk to you later.” Jack hung up the phone, more relaxed than he had been in months.

  Good news

  “Jack, are you sitting down?”

  “No, I’m down in the systems test hangar. I’m using a beta test model mobile phone the engineering department is developing. What you got for me, Harry?”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Give me the good news first.”

  “After filtering through all the bullshit over at State, I finally collared an assistant to the undersecretary who was pissed off at his boss about something.”

  “Skip the details, Harry. What do you know?” Jack yelled into the handheld device, twice the size of a traditional telephone receiver.

  “He’s alive, Jack! Rod’s alive. They don’t know exactly where he is in Soviet Armenia, but the Russians are holding him as a spy. The CIA made contact with some locals from near the crash site.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Don’t know any details. There’s some scuttlebutt about negotiating a spy swap for one of theirs we have, a spy named Vladimir Bogomolov. That’s all I know.”

  Jack stood in shock for a moment, then with a deep sigh of relief said, “That’s great news, Harry. What’s the bad news?”

  “State doesn’t know where he is being held, and as far as they know, he’s the only crew member who survived. They aren’t really talking yet, still sparring for position. And even if they start negotiations, it can take a long time.”

  “Sorry to hear about the other crew members. But if the CIA is getting intel, why hasn’t there been any attempt to rescue Rod?”

  “Things are a little crazy up here right now, Jack. Everybody’s all caught up in the situation in Vietnam and State was kind of waiting around to see what the fallout was going to be after Russia’s premier got the boot. He was a hard bargainer and State hopes his replacement will be more reasonable to deal with. The Pentagon is playing catch-up with armaments and the logistics of supporting a full-scale war being waged by State and Defense with the SecDef pulling my strings to get Congress on board. They just don’t have enough information and there isn’t the desire by the administration to try a blind rescue. The last thing we want is to piss off the Russians. You know what happened when Hitler opened a second front against Stalin in our war. The Russians kicked his ass.”

  While Harry explained, Jack made his way back up to his office where he could think in peace and quiet. “You know, Harry, I really don’t give a shit if the Russians get pissed off. That little chess game they want to play is way down in the noise level of international relations. So what you’re saying is a United States Air Force E-4 Airman isn’t worth the cost and risk of a rescue effort. And they are waiting for the political waters to calm down in Russia before any meaningful contact will be made for a trade. That about right?”

  “Sorry, Jack, that’s about the size of it. I’ll keep my ears open. And I’ll do a little prodding to see if I can’t stir up some interest in getting your boy home.”

  “Thanks, Harry, keep me posted.”

  “Will do, pardner.” The line went silent.

  Jack switched off his mobile phone and leaned back in his executive chair with a sigh. He glanced out the window into the gathering dark clouds blowing in from the northwest. If the government didn’t think Rod’s life was a high enough priority, Jack sure as hell did. He didn’t tell Harry that this was personal on two fronts. Getting Rod home safely was priority number one, but that aircraft was one of his company’s contract products. It was the prototype for a whole fleet they would modify with electronic eyes and ears for the Air Force over the next four years. And that made it extremely personal.

  Rescue scenarios began to form in his head as he watched the clouds roll in closer. He would finance the rescue operation himself if Harry would agree to feed him intelligence on the location and strength of the forces holding Rod. Through his secretly held oil business connections in the Middle East, he had intelligence resources of his own on the ground. The combined information should make a clean extraction possible. There was an available pool of former Green Berets and Army Rangers who had worked as mercenaries in several African countries. Jack’s mind was made up. He unlocked his personal wall safe and retrieved a small black three-ring binder. His fingers danced on the telephone keypad as he read off the numbers.

  Chapter 29

  Northern Turkey, two months later

  Huddled in a barn near the Araz River that divided Turkey and Armenia, a squad of international battle-hardened commandos hired by Jack had put the finishing touches on Rod’s rescue plan. The Alpha Strike Team, as they called themselves, had studied a map of Armenia spread over a large makeshift table. Tacks marked their assembly area and targeted destination deep in Armenia. Their crude command base was twenty kilometers south of Sasnashen, the crash site of the reconnaissance aircraft.

  Each of the eight-man crew had special skills: Electronics and radioman, Jack Slade; interpreter and explosives expert, Wolfgang Bach; point man and weapons expert, Bjorn Swinson; medic, Randy Kincaid; sniper, Kenny Boyles; explosives expert, Logan Anderson; pilot, Larry Smith; team leader, Capt. “Tex” Randleman. Each man was also capable of taking over any other team member’s job in case of casualties. Each rescue team member was armed with a modified lightweight AR-15 assault carbine capable of firing 600 rounds per minute, equ
ipped with grenade launcher, suppressor, and flash guard and carrying six 100-round magazines. In addition to his AR-15, the sniper carried a specially modified M14 sniper rifle with a telescope and twenty-round clip. Each member carried a Colt .45 sidearm as well. They were a force to be reckoned with and were prepared for almost any engagement they might face.

  Capt. Randleman rolled up the map and addressed his team. “I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this mission is. But you are a handpicked team capable of pulling this off and I intend to bring all of you home in one piece. Let’s move out and get this show on the road.”

  The crew grabbed their gear and silently filed out of the barn to board the almost invisible black assault helicopter with its running lights off. With gear and weapons secured, the chopper lifted off slowly. Whop, whop, whop. The rotary blades slapped the night air. Its engines strained to lift the rescue team skyward. Its nose dropped as it swung north, skimming just above the tree-line in pursuit of the coordinates for the crash site of the C-130 spy plane.

  “Keep us low, Larry, below the Russians’ radar,” Randleman told the pilot. “This is pretty rugged terrain, lots of hills and mountains to hide behind. About the only level landing spot is the clearing where the big bird crashed.”

  The vibration was a familiar, almost comforting sound to the combat veterans, who’d spent the last year fighting as mercenaries in Ethiopia against Somalia over a border dispute. When a treaty was signed by the two countries, their job was finished.

  “Okay, team, listen up,” Capt. Randleman’s Texas drawl growled into the intercom. “We’ll disembark at 0200 hours at the crash site, from now on called ground zero. Recon the perimeter looking for any clues to positively ID the aircraft. A small village is near there, and our intel says they are friendly and can be trusted. They hate the Russians, too. Check your gear and be ready to launch as soon as we touch down. Intel places the prisoner about five kilometers from the crash site in a small Russian outpost with a complement of about thirty troops.

  “We’ll have to move fast without a sound. We don’t, I repeat do not, want any casualties. Understood? I don’t want to be responsible for starting World War III. But if fired on, we will return fire and engage the Russians with all available firepower. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the team responded. “Our ride will return to ground zero at 0400 hours. The chopper will be on the ground for only five minutes, I repeat, five minutes, after which we will be airborne, we hope before the Russian radar paints us. Everybody clear on that?”

  They nodded.

  “It will be the only stage out of Dodge, so don’t miss it,” the captain said. “Now, gentlemen,” he commanded, “let’s go have some fun.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the Swedish weapons expert responded first.

  The rest of the crew chorused a loud, “Yes, sir!”

  “Captain, approaching ground zero,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.

  “Saddle up, men. Bjorn, take point. Jack, radio silence until I give the all clear.”

  “Roger that.”

  The chopper feathered down to a soft landing, kicking up a dust storm.

  “Synchronize at 0200 hours,” Capt. Randleman shouted. “Regroup here at 0400 hours.”

  The chopper hunkered down and idled its engines as the team dispersed from the side door. Dressed in all black, they were invisible to the naked eye.

  Quickly sweeping the area, they found a piece of the vertical tail stabilizer with a partial number uncovered by the downdraft of the chopper blades. They placed it on board. Most of the debris had been removed. Capt. Randleman waved the chopper off after only a few minutes. It rose like a giant bird lifting slowly off the water until it disappeared over the trees into the night.

  Wolfgang, the interpreter, signaled Tex with his flashlight. “Captain, I have a friendly. He said he was on his way home after working late at his restaurant.”

  Skeptical at first, Capt. Randleman was quickly assured the man was trustworthy when he told him he was one of the first to reach the crash site after the front half of the fuselage slammed into the earth. He’d seen the lone survivor’s chute snagged on the lower limbs of a tree about twenty meters from the crash site. He’d helped the survivor down, cutting him free from his entangled parachute in the tree. The old man intended to hide him, but the Russian soldiers came too quickly and took him away, he explained.

  The elderly Armenian, Narek Dachjian, said in broken English, “I give Russians food for prisoner from my small village restaurant. I draw map to Russian camp. Sorry only one survive, imprisoned there.” He pulled a rumpled piece of paper and pencil from his shirt pocket. His shaky hands drew a squiggly floor plan and all the guard stations and the exact location of the prisoner’s room, with an ‘X’ on each guard station.

  The team reassembled and set out at a fast pace to reach their five-kilometer objective, not knowing what they would face when they arrived.

  A cloudless sky with a full moon revealed a small guard shack at the main gate of the walled compound. The rescue team stayed in the shadows alongside the gravel road as long as possible and crept around a sharp bend leading to the front gate.

  Capt. Randleman raised his arm to halt the team. “Bjorn, recon the site. Everybody else take a quick blow. We’ll wait here for your report.”

  Moving quickly, point man Swinson circled to the rear of the compound in a low crouch. He scanned the building and fence for security cameras and sensors through his night-vision goggles, sighing with relief when he found none. Being exposed by floodlights on a clear night was a risk he had to take. No shadows to hide behind. He scaled the double-thick, cinder-block wall, snipped the rolled razor wire with his cutters, and dropped quietly to the ground. Steel bars secured all the windows. The only way in was through the front or back door. He discovered potential escape vehicles in the motor pool garage if needed.

  Capt. Randleman was getting a little antsy after fifteen minutes. He walked to the edge of the tree-line shadows. As soon as he flipped down his night-vision goggles, he spotted Bjorn headed back.

  “Everything’s just like the old man showed us on the map. It’s a small unit and everyone is asleep, even the guard at the front gate. There are only two ways in and out. I recommend we breach the rear door. It’s closer to our guy. I established his location in the room at the northwest corner of the building. All the windows are barred. The rear door is unguarded and the guard stationed outside his room is asleep or passed out in his chair next to the door. Looks like they had a party tonight. Lots of booze bottles in the TV room. I found the electric cable and communications line outside on the rear wall, easy to cut. The security is pretty primitive. As far as I can tell, guards are their only security. I couldn’t find a single camera and my scanner didn’t pick up any motion detectors on the perimeter. What’s your call, Captain?”

  With the team huddled in the shadows alongside the tree-lined road, Capt. Randleman shared Bjorn’s information. “We’ll scale the rear wall at ten-second intervals. Jack, you secure the communication lines. We don’t know the physical condition of our guy, so we have to expect the worst. Bjorn, keep eyes on the perimeter and locate any available transportation for a quick exit. Advise me of the transportation status ASAP. Logan, you make sure the main gate’s open and the guard doesn’t wake up to spoil our little surprise party. The rest of you come with me. We’ll neutralize the guard at our guy’s door if necessary. Randy, give the prisoner a quick body check. If he can’t walk, help him. Carry him if you have to. Radio silence is rescinded once we are inside the compound walls, but only when absolutely necessary. Let’s move out and take this guy home.”

  The element of surprise was in the team’s favor. It had been over two years since the shoot-down incident, and the Russians weren’t expecting a rescue attempt. The rear door lock was easy for L
ogan, the explosives expert. The heavy-drinking Russians had partied hard that night and were sleeping it off as the rescue team crept into the compound building. They moved silently by the passed-out guard, still holding a vodka bottle in his lap.

  The team entered the room as quietly as a cat. Capt. Randleman clamped his hand firmly over Rod’s mouth and two team members held him down when he struggled. A wild-eyed Rod fought with all the strength his lean body could muster. His thrashing arm broke loose from Logan’s grip and knocked over a small table lamp next to his bed in the sparsely furnished room. He thought the grilling and torture had begun all over again. At this point he didn’t care if he lived or died, he just wanted it to be over.

  “Stop struggling,” Capt. Randleman hissed into Rod’s ear, still keeping a tight grip over his mouth. “We’re Americans. We’ve come to take you home.”

  When Rod realized he was being rescued, and not going to be executed, he stopped resisting and began to weep. “God, I’m glad to see you. I thought the Russians had come to kill me.”

  The commotion from Rod’s room aroused the guard, who sent his bottle crashing to the floor when he stood up. Awake, but not steady on his feet, he saw the heavy door to the prisoner’s room standing ajar. He shouted, “Who’s there,” and rushed through the open door with his AK-47 raised only to be dropped by a quick judo chop to the forehead by Logan.

  A soldier coming out of the head had heard the glass break and the guard shout. He noticed that only the battery-operated emergency lights were on. He alerted the other soldiers and grabbed his weapon. Cautiously, he crept down the dimly lit hall to see what the commotion was about. By that time, the team had Rod in tow, headed for the back door. The hung-over Russian fired wildly at the dim shadows fleeing the building and woke up the rest of his comrades in the barracks bay.