Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc

by Brown,Dick

  The rescue team returned fire on full automatic, cutting the Russian to ribbons and ripping several more troops pouring out of the barracks wing. Gun smoke permeated the hallway, making target acquisition even more difficult as both sides shot blindly at each other because Boyles had knocked out the electricity. The dim emergency lights were operating on old batteries that lasted only a few minutes.

  Bjorn found a jeep-type vehicle that was much too small. He heard the firefight and hurriedly hot-wired the only truck that was big enough to carry the seven men. The rescue team was badly outnumbered, but laid down suppression fire to cover their escape. And for good measure, they tossed a couple of concussion grenades as they exited the rear door.

  “Bjorn, tell me something good, it’s hot and heavy here,” the Captain yelled into his headset.

  “Comin’ to get you, Captain, be ready to climb aboard my truck on the move.”

  “Roger that.”

  “How’s our man holdin’ up?”

  “He took one in the leg, but he’ll make it. Anderson got it in the shoulder, doesn’t look too bad. Swing around to the east side of the building. We are headed toward the front gate. Did you take care of the gatekeeper?”

  “Affirmative. I see you. Have to make a U-turn, stand fast.” The truck kicked up a wall of dirt turning so they could climb aboard and make a mad dash for the main gate.

  The captain jumped into the cab. Kincaid and Anderson climbed into the bed of the pickup first. Anderson used his good arm to help Kincaid pull Rod from Bach and Boyles and into the truck. As soon as the last two hopped into the pickup, a slap on the top of the cab by Boyles signaled Bjorn all were safely aboard. Bjorn floored the accelerator and steered toward the main gate.

  Russian soldiers poured from the front entrance with their AK-47s on full auto fire. Bullets found their mark and shattered the rear window. Holes appeared at an alarming rate in the cab of the truck. The team in back hugged the floor of the truck bed, avoiding the whizzing bullets chasing the speeding truck. They roared through the gate Bjorn had opened when he neutralized the guard and left the compound and the irate Russians in their dust.

  “I have to give Larry a heads-up on our situation. He’s going to have to come sooner to pick us up. Slade cut all their electrical power and communications lines, but I don’t know if they have any other radios or means to call for help.” Capt. Randleman punched the necessary numbers in his secure satellite phone and waited. “Randleman here. Larry, you’re going to have to move the extraction time back and leave right now. We’re checking out early. We exited hot from the compound in a pickup at about seventy miles an hour as best as I can tell from the Russian speedometer. Follow my GPS signal and call me as soon as you are within one kilometer of ground zero. We’ll turn the lights on for you to sit down by. The Russians may be listening, too, so hurry. Are we clear, Larry? Good. See you soon. Out.”

  The rescue team reached ground zero before the chopper, which had a longer distance to travel. “We had better set up a defense perimeter around the landing spot and wait here for Larry. He should be here any minute,” the captain said to Bjorn. He approached the riders in back of the truck, who were relieved after a bumpy ride on the gravel road.

  “Randy, what’s the status of our guy?”

  “He took a round through the outer thigh that went through clean. He’s lost some blood and muscle tissue but is stable, Captain. Anderson has a shattered collarbone. Both can travel as soon as the chopper arrives.”

  “Good work, Randy.”

  The team dismounted and formed a defensive perimeter to wait for their extraction. Narek Dachjian, who had waited for the team’s return, approached the truck. Capt. Randleman and Bach greeted him. “Thank you, sir, for your help in rescuing our airman from the Russians,” Bach relayed to the man.

  Capt. Randleman reached inside his Kevlar body armor and retrieved a brown envelope with ten thousand dollars’ worth of Armenian currency in it. “Our appreciation for your help,” he said, handing the envelope to the elderly man.

  “No, no.” He held up his hands. “Thank you, Americans. I was little boy when Turks kill all people in my village. American Relief Committee saved me and hundreds of children from being killed. Kept us safe in orphanages to live and grow up to have our own country. Now Russians take over our land. We hate Russians as much as Turks. Want repay American kindness. Give food for young American. We love America,” he said and placed his hand over his heart. “We listen Voice of America, risk being arrested,” he added with a toothless grin.

  “Thank you again for your help and kindness to our young friend. Our helicopter is approaching and we must go before the Russians discover us. It would be best if you got rid of the truck. It wouldn’t go well if the Russians found it here.”

  “Do not worry, my friend, I will take care of it,” he said emphatically.

  Capt. Randleman stepped back and threw a crisp hand salute to the man.

  Narek Dachjian shielded his eyes from the dust stirred up by the helicopter and shouted to the crew as they boarded the chopper, “I am Christian. I wish God’s blessings for you and safe journey.”

  Point man Bjorn Swinson waved a final goodbye as he closed the side door. The engine roared and the massive machine strained against gravity to lift the crew to the safety of Incirlik Air Force base in Turkey, the home of the secret reconnaissance wing.

  There was still the danger that the Russians had discovered the helicopter’s intrusion and could shoot down the team before they reached the safety of the Turkish border, twenty kilometers away.

  Once they were airborne, Capt. Randleman checked on Rod’s wound, debriefed him on the operation, and relayed a personal message. “Mr. Workman hopes you are well and looks forward to your homecoming as soon as possible.”

  Mission accomplished

  “Harry, thanks for smoothing things over with the White House, State Department, Air Force, and Pentagon. I really appreciate all you’ve done. I received a call from Incirlik saying the mission was a success and all team members came home safely. Without your intel help, we couldn’t have pulled it off. I’m sorry to have put you in such a tight spot with my private little war, but I didn’t have any other choice. What can I do to repay you?”

  “No problem. The Secretary of the Air Force is a good friend of mine. We go way back. You understand there is to be no celebration, newspaper reporters, TV interviews . . . nothing whatsoever when he gets home. Since he was being held as a prisoner past his enlistment date, he will be given an honorable discharge. He’ll also pick up a pretty nice check for back pay and hazardous duty when he musters out. As far as not being in contact with his family, he was on an important secret assignment and couldn’t reveal his whereabouts. That’s the cover story. I know it’s weak, but it’s the best we can do. As far as the government’s concerned, this little rescue mission never happened. Just like the Russians said the shoot-down never happened.”

  “I understand. You have my word on it.”

  “Good, because it will be my ass if any of this gets out. And yes, there is something you can do for me.”

  “So, what is it that I can do for the most powerful senator in Washington?”

  “Don’t need any more favors for a while,” Harry said, laughing. “Just let me know how your friend is recovering in a few weeks when you privately debrief me on your little mission.”

  “Will do, my friend.” Jack hung up and began the countdown, waiting for Capt. Randleman’s debriefing call. He stood up, stretched his arms, and paced behind his desk. He started to open the cabinet and pour a glass of Jack Daniels Black Label but thought better of it. He drank the last drop from his coffee pot. The phone rang, startling him. He almost dropped his cup to grab the phone.

  “I’m a little early, Mr. Workman. Hope I’m not interrupting your dinner. It’s a l
ittle after four in the morning here.”

  “Hell no, Tex. Is everybody okay?” Questions swirled in Jack’s head faster than he could spit them out.

  “Right as rain, sir. You want to talk to your boy? He took one in the leg, but I think he’ll be glad to hear your voice.”

  “Jack, are you there?”

  Paralyzed at the sound of Rod’s voice, Jack just held the phone in silence. Finally, he found his voice. “Rod, how are you son? Tex said you were hit. Are you okay?” His voice was shaky.

  “I’ll be okay, it’s only a flesh wound. A couple of weeks on crutches and I’ll be good as new. Man, that crew you sent for me was amazing. They walked in, grabbed me, and shot their way out of that compound. It was like the Fourth of July. I didn’t realize I had been hit until I tried to run. Two guys helped me get out, put me in a truck, and doctored my leg. When they grabbed me in my sleep, I first thought they were the Russians coming to kill me. I didn’t think I’d ever come home again.” Rod’s voice cracked.

  Jack was unable to contain his emotions when Rod broke down. The two friends wept softly into their phones, half a world apart.

  Chapter 30

  Highland Park

  “Let’s go for a ride. I have a surprise for you,” Roger said. He’d just finished a breakfast of black coffee, French toast, and a Texas omelet at the Toulouse Café in Highland Park Village. Cass had orange juice without finishing her Eggs Benedict.

  Waiting in front of the French restaurant for the valet to bring their Mercedes Benz convertible around, Roger continued his mysterious game with Cass. “When we get in the car, I have to blindfold you.”

  “Why? What are you up to?”

  “I know I’ve been really busy getting the business off the ground, especially with this new club we just acquired. You’ve been a good sport about my long hours, so I want to make it up to you. We have looked at several houses here in Highland Park the last few weeks. Just humor me and go along with the blindfold, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  It was a beautiful September morning, perfect for the tennis workout at the Highland Park Country Club they had planned. Cass’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail, ready to give Roger a clinic on her power serve and wicked backhand. Trimmed out in an all-white blouse, tennis shorts, and sneakers, she was anxious to get on the court. Roger was also dressed in white: Polo shirt, shorts, and socks to go with his white Nikes. The hardtop was off the Benz and the rich, young couple motored down streets of beautiful mansions as if they already belonged there.

  “We’re almost there. Take that scarf from around your neck and blindfold yourself. Come on, be a good sport . . . no peeking.”

  Cass removed the scarf and tied it tightly over her eyes. “Okay, I can’t see a thing. Now what?”

  Roger turned the car into a long circular driveway and stopped in front of the 8,250-square-foot Norman French mansion. He hopped out of the car, ran around, opened Cass’s door, took her hand, and pulled her up from the low seat. He gripped her shoulders and turned her to face the mansion. “Now you can take off the blindfold!”

  The scarf fell away from her face and Cass blinked a few times to adjust her eyes to the daylight. She shaded her eyes with her hands and looked at the mansion. “Oh my God, what is this?”

  “Our new home. I signed the papers yesterday,” Roger said proudly. “What do you think?”

  “I . . . don’t know what to think. You didn’t even ask me if I liked it enough to tour the house when we looked at the listing. I thought we had eliminated this one on price, Roger. Five million dollars! We can’t afford this, we’re already in debt up to our necks from the clubs you bought.”

  “Damn, Cass, you really know how to spoil a surprise. I thought you would love it. It’s bigger and nicer than your rich, old grandpa’s house. I know he checked me and my finances out, making sure I was rich enough for his prize granddaughter. Don’t you get it? We’re the new wealth and power now. We can have anything we want. Can’t you at least pretend you like it?”

  “I do like it . . . I love it. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but . . .”

  “No buts. It’s ours and we are going to show those phony Bois D’Arc blue bloods how to really live. We move in Monday, how’s that for efficiency?”

  “Monday? We don’t have any furniture. Our apartment furniture won’t fill up two rooms of this house.”

  “Not to worry, my princess. It comes completely furnished. That was part of the deal. All we have to do is move our clothes over here and begin living the life you’ve always dreamed of. The one your family expected for you.”

  “Okay, you win.” Cass said with a big sigh, then threw her arms around Roger’s neck and sealed the deal with a kiss. “Can I see the inside now?”

  “Let’s go.” Roger dangled a ring of keys, grabbed her hand, and pulled her through the massive custom-carved front door.

  Cass skipped and danced her way through the three-story, eight-bedroom, seven-bathroom mansion. “The living room is bigger than our apartment!” she said. Finally, exhausted by climbing and descending the spiral staircase enclosed in the brick turret, they ended their tour in the garage. It could comfortably house four vehicles. At the rate, Roger was acquiring his expensive collection, it would be full soon.

  “Wow, I need to sit down. This is overwhelming. I love it, I truly do, but are you sure we can afford it?”

  “Let me worry about that. We’ll be fine,” he said briskly.

  “With that beautiful walnut-paneled office and a desk bigger than the President’s, you can work at home and not spend all your days and late nights at your office. And I won’t have to spend so many lonely evenings with only a bottle of wine for company.” Cass turned and gave him a wet kiss while she pressed her lower body against him. “We could check out that monster four-poster bed,” Cass said suggestively, tugging him toward the bedroom. “That will be a better workout than tennis.”

  Chapter 31

  Love Field, Dallas

  One of those Texas Blue Northers from Canada had blown in with high winds and a thirty-degree temperature drop. A phenomenon that happened frequently in the hot, muggy weather. The wind swirled around the airport, which sat in the middle of multiple high-rise buildings that had grown up around it over the years. It caused quirky downdrafts that made landing difficult in this kind of weather.

  The weather outside wasn’t lost on Jack as he stood before the big arrival and departure board as he had a dozen times in the last half hour. American Airlines Flight 903 was still listed on time. He paced back and forth impatiently, glancing through the glass wall overlooking the runway at the windsock that flipped crazily from north to east as the wind shifted quickly. Finally, the PA speaker came to life. “American Airlines Flight 903 arriving at Gate 13.”

  He was relieved that Rod’s plane had landed safely, but the next ten minutes were the longest he’d ever known. When the Gate 13 doors finally opened, a flood of passengers poured through. Families rushed to loved ones with open arms. Sweethearts hugged and kissed as the noise level amped up. Rod was among the last passengers, limping through the door on crutches. Looking pained, Jack suppressed the urge to muscle his way through the onrushing crowd.

  “Over here, son,” Jack shouted, waving above the other passengers.

  Rod nodded and slowly made his way toward his friend. He was a mere shadow of his former athletic self. Gaunt with no coloring in his face, he was withdrawn and unsteady on his crutches.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Jack said and followed with a vigorous bear hug that almost made Rod drop his crutches. It was an unusual display of emotion for the reserved old veteran. But Rod showed no emotional response.

  “You really had us worried.” He stepped back and grasped Rod’s shoulders, trying to avoid hitting his crutches. “You don’
t know how long I’ve waited for this moment. Come on, we’ll pick up your duffel bag and get you something to eat. Your mother’s beside herself.” He continued rapid fire without giving Rod a chance to speak.

  Rod held up his hand as if to say stop and squeezed in a response, “I’m really not hungry, Jack. I ate on the plane. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to go home to my family.”

  “Sure, son,” Jack replied, a little disappointed in Rod’s response. “Sorry, but this old man is excited for the first time in over two years. The government was so tight-lipped about what happened to you, Harry Langtree had to call in all favors owed to him on the Hill to find out where you were. There was talk of a prisoner exchange for a Russian spy we have and more double-talk.”

  Rod’s reaction to finally being back in Texas was reserved. His response to Jack’s excited greeting was a silent nod. He was a changed man after his experience at the hands of his Russian captors. Grief over the loss of his friends had not worked itself out during his captivity. The constant interrogation and mental torture hadn’t allowed him to grieve—until now. It began without warning and rose to the surface during his flight, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

  Three months later

  The security of being home with his loving family helped Rod work through grieving for his lost friends and the stressful years of constant physical and mental torture. He spoke to his crew’s parents, giving them the closure of knowing their sons died bravely, performing their duty for the safety of their country. It relieved some of the guilt of being the only survivor. He had put his crutches in the closet weeks after he had actually needed them. It was getting easier for Rod to make it through each day. He had regained his weight and shed the constant fear and depression from his two-year ordeal.

  “Son, it’s time. I think you need to get out of the house, it will do you a world of good.” Rod’s mother spoke softly across the breakfast table, with no trace of her stroke-induced speech impediment. “Meet some friends, go out to the country club. Mr. Jefferson will be glad to see you and tell you about Junior’s success in professional football. Everyone was worried and asked about you.”