Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “Sergeant Major, are you saying that the location of the Range Rover is the key to Anderson’s whereabouts?” Trimler asked. The big NCO only gave a short nod in reply.

  “We still don’t know the size of the opposing force,” the lieutenant colonel said.

  Kamigami gave him an inscrutable look, hiding his thoughts. “The number of vehicles is the clue,” he said.

  “But we can’t be sure,” the lieutenant colonel protested, a hard doubt about the wisdom of the mission behind every word. “We need better intelligence.”

  “Then we go in with maximum surprise,” Trimler said, “and maximum violence.” He had brought the mission down to the basic way Delta worked.

  Udorn, Thailand

  Nearly twenty years of neglect had extracted a heavy price and the air base was a shabby image of what it had been. Captain S. Gerald Gillespie wandered down the longabandoned flight line and tried to see the base as it had been in its prime. But the former American base at Udorn, Thailand, had changed and the captain could not visualize the ramp when it had been packed with a wing of F-4s, the premier fighter aircraft of its day, and over four thousand American servicemen. “So this was the home of the Triple Nickel, the MiG killers,” he mumbled to himself and again, he looked down the ramp, now only seeing a vast empty expanse of concrete with grass growing between the cracks. He was looking at an abandoned parking lot.

  He looked back in time and called up images of a World War II movie with B-17s taxiing out to takeoff for a bombing mission over the Third Reich. Then he changed the scene to Udorn, with images of F-4s taxiing out of revetments to marshal up for a MiG sweep over the skies of North Vietnam. It worked, and for a brief moment, he was there, launching with both the Eighth Air Force in World War II and the 555th Squadron in Vietnam as the nerve-shattering roar of F-4s blended with the howl of radial engines from an even more distant past. “Damn,” he muttered, “and I’m only a rotorhead.”

  A shout brought him back to the present. “Gill! We need your body.” The captain turned to see E-Squared sitting in a pickup truck with Hal “the Beezer” Beasely, the AC-130 aircraft commander. Gillespie gave a last look down the flight line as he crawled into his seat. “We got a hot one,” E-Squared told him.

  “More training?” Gillespie asked.

  “Not this time,” E-Squared answered. He drove rapidly to the Air America compound at the far end of the base that was in much better shape and still occupied by Americans.

  “I wonder what in the hell the CIA’s still doing here?” Gillespie wondered.

  “Don’t ask,” E-Squared told him. The veteran C-130 driver had been in special operations most of his career in the Air Force and knew that wherever they went, the CIA was sure to be there. But it wasn’t something they talked about. The exterior of the building they entered was as shabby as the rest of the base. But once inside, things changed. The interior was modern, clean, and plush. “Whoever works here likes their creature comforts,” E-Squared observed. They were escorted into a briefing room.

  “What’s the Old Man doing here?” Gillespie whispered when they entered. Their commander, Colonel “Duck” Mallard, was sitting in the room with a few members of his staff.

  “This ain’t a training exercise anymore,” E-Squared told him.

  Mallard waited until they had all found seats. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have been asked to go in after one of the hostages. Now don’t you all go wetting your pants over this,” he cautioned them. “Our job is to insert a team from Delta Force, maintain cover with an AC-One-thirty gunship, and provide an MC-One-thirty as an airborne command ship. Not much in it for us. But we can start to work and select potential landing zones around the target area and find equivalent training sites. A contingent from Delta Force will arrive tomorrow and we’ll start training immediately.” He turned the meeting over to his chief of intelligence, Lieutenant Colonel Leanne Vokel, who went over the details.

  Near the end of the meeting, E-Squared raised his hand. “What’s the threat in the target area?” he asked.

  “The only reported threat is small arms fire,” came the answer.

  “Intel is always wrong,” E-Squared said, sotto voce.

  1943

  Zaragoza, Spain

  The man called Leonard stomped across the small room and focused his gaze out the dirty window. The Andorran smuggler called Felipe who had helped them cross the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain had been gone for over forty-eight hours and he did not want Chantal to see his worry. “Waiting is the hardest part,” he said. The tone of his voice told more than he intended. The wind hammered at the window and a swirl of dust scurried across the floor toward the bed where Zack lay wrapped in blankets. Chantal rose from the edge of the bed and joined the British agent at the window. Her frustration matched Leonard’s worry, for there was nothing she could do for the wounded pilot.

  “He’s dying,” she said. The words ripped through her and tears ran down her cheeks. “We must get him to a hospital soon. I don’t know what’s wrong with his leg and can’t tell without an operation. His blood circulation is not correct.” The dome of Zaragoza’s cathedral on the banks of the Ebro River caught her attention and, for a moment, she wondered if prayer would help. “How dependable is he?” she continued. The Andorran had safely gotten them as far as Zaragoza, but the dirty, foul-smelling man did not inspire confidence in her.

  “These things always take longer than we want.” He wouldn’t tell her the truth about the Andorran.

  Chantal conceded the point by falling silent. She turned back to the feverish pilot. “Not much longer,” she whispered.

  Three hours later, they heard the familiar heavy tread of the Andorran as he climbed the rickety stairs outside their room. He shuffled into the room carrying a small suitcase and collapsed into a chair. “It’s arranged. We take him to hospital. A doctor and an army officer will be waiting.”

  “Why an army officer?” Chantal shot at him, worry driving her words.

  Felipe shook his head in resignation. “This is Franco’s Spain. Nothing out of the ordinary happens without the army knowing. It is quicker this way.”

  “The fascist bastards,” Leonard growled.

  “I don’t understand,” Chantal said.

  “Spain is controlled by fascists,” Felipe told her. “Franco won the civil war in 1939 with the help of Mussolini and Hitler. Now they call Franco the Caudillo, the Leader. He rules the country with an iron, and very bloody, fist.”

  “But I thought Spain was neutral,” Chantal said.

  “Switzerland is neutral,” Leonard replied. “Not Franco.”

  “Things change,” Felipe said. The two men glanced at each other. “Fortunately, everything has a price in Spain.” The Andorran picked up the suitcase and opened it. He fished out a Dutch passport and handed it to Chantal. “You are now Chantal van Duren, the sister of Jan van Duren.” He nodded toward the unconscious Zack. “You will take him to the hospital and explain how you and your brother were traveling to Portugal to visit relatives when he was hurt in a bombing raid. Since the wound appeared to be healing you continued on your way but now complications have set in. It has all been arranged.” He handed over a small bundle of travel papers, exit permits, and official clearances to go along with the fake Dutch passport. “The Spanish authorities will think you are like so many others trying to escape the war. Keep your story simple.” He passed over a small bundle of pesetas. “If you have to, offer small bribes as necessary ‘fees’ you are willing to pay.” Then he handed Chantal the suitcase. “Take a bath and change into these.”

  Chantal examined the contents of the suitcase. “These are very nice traveling clothes,” she told him. A blush crept across her cheeks. “I’ve never worn underthings like these.”

  “Use the bath on the bottom floor,” the Andorran said. “It’s been arranged.” Chantal closed the suitcase and hurried out of the room.

  “Why the clothes?” Leonard asked in English.

&n
bsp; “She’s the bait to make it all happen,” Felipe answered. His voice had lost its rough edge.

  “I think you mean she’s the bloody ‘price,’” Leonard swore.

  With an effort he did not know he was capable of, Zack pushed through the fog of his fever and concentrated on Chantal. Speak German, he told himself, and remember who you are—Jan van Duren. He could not take his eyes off Chantal as a nun guided his wheelchair into the hospital. The new clothes that Felipe had produced had transformed her into a sophisticated, dark-haired beauty and the fashionable trench coat accentuated her trim figure. She moved with an assured charm and grace that mesmerized the young American and he wanted to tell her that he loved her. He fought that impulse down but resolved to mention it at the first opportunity.

  A crisp-looking Spanish army officer met them and gave their passports a cursory inspection. He seemed much more interested in Chantal than their travel papers and spoke in Spanish to the waiting doctor. The doctor then spoke to the nuns who wheeled Zack into an examination room. Zack twisted to say something, he didn’t know what, to Chantal but the door had closed behind him. Two orderlies lifted Zack onto the examination table and cut his trouser leg up the seam. The doctor then peeled the bandages back and gently probed Zack’s wound while keeping up a constant flow of Spanish. The soft modulated tones of that language were reassuring. Then he was transferred to a gurney and pushed back into the hall. He twisted to see Chantal but only caught a glimpse of her back as she disappeared down the long hall with the army officer. Then he was moved into an operating room.

  “Señorita,” the army officer said as he opened the door into the ornate chambers that served as the province commander’s personal offices, “you are being afforded a rare honor. General Alfonse de Larida y Goya seldom speaks to civilians. It is a matter of pride with him.” They entered a large, marble-floored room that was richly decorated with antiques and paintings. Chantal recognized two Goyas and wondered if there was any connection with the general’s last name. A tall and lean, silver-haired man stood up from behind his desk. The younger officer clicked his heels and gave a short bow from the waist. “General Goya, may I present Mlle. Chantal Dubois, the daughter of the French ambassador to the Netherlands.”

  Chantal was stunned and she fought for her breath. Slowly, she turned and looked at the young officer, fighting for time to think. The calm and urbane way he had cut through her cover and the nonreaction of the general were ample warning that she had been betrayed. For a moment she could not think clearly as her mind was overwhelmed with the implications of that betrayal. It had to be Felipe. All her doubts about the man were confirmed. She forced her panic to bend to her will and nodded graciously. “In these times it is often best to travel incognito,” she announced. She was going to say more, improvise a story, but decided against it. Simple and understated was better. It was now up to her to save Zack—and herself.

  “Indeed?” the officer said.

  The general focused his cold brown eyes on Chantal and said nothing. His face was a rigid stone mask as he studied her. Then he gave a sharp jerk of his head and the army officer escorted her into a sitting room next to the general’s office. He motioned for Chantal to sit down and snapped his fingers. A steward in a white coat pushed a tea trolley between them and automatically poured the officer a cup of coffee. “Tea or coffee?” the officer asked.

  “Tea,” she answered. The silence was heavy as the steward poured her a cup. “How did you find out?” she finally asked, her voice amazingly calm and controlled. She was looking for a key to her problem. How much had Felipe told the Spanish?

  “The Andorran told us,” the officer answered companionably. “We also know about your other two friends. The wounded pilot”—he paused and looked at her over his cup of coffee as if she was expected to take special note of what he was saying—“is being operated on and will be released as soon as he is strong enough to travel. He and the other Englishman are of no concern to us as long as they do not break our laws. After all, Spain is a neutral.”

  To this, Chantal raised an eyebrow and said, “Indeed?” giving the word the same inflection as the officer had used only moments before.

  He smiled, seeming to enjoy the exchange. “I do hope you appreciate the, ah, situation.”

  “I believe I do,” Chantal said.

  “That is good,” the man continued, “for certain ‘accommodations’ still need to be made. That is why we are talking here—in private.”

  “And these ‘accommodations’?” Chantal asked. She expected to hear a large sum of money, probably in gold, mentioned.

  “The general, as you can see, is an old man who requires certain comforts to sustain him in his arduous duties as the province governor. We have found that when these comforts are provided, the province is more smoothly regulated.” The man set down his cup and crossed his legs, his immaculately polished riding boots reflecting the afternoon light. He folded his delicate hands together in his lap. “The general prefers to share his bed with young, shall we say, inexperienced maidens.” Chantal visibly stiffened as a pure, intense loathing for the man sitting opposite her flared. She reined in her feelings, determined to maintain her dignity. She would not lower herself to the level of this charming, ever so civilized, degenerate. He may wear a uniform, she thought, but he does not compare with the others. A strong image of the German major in the Hauptbahnhof at Cologne and his battle-hardened eastern front veterans flashed in front of her. They may have been the enemy, she decided, but they were soldiers. She had this man’s measure and feared him. “We are told,” he continued, “that you are such and the general obviously approves of you. We have a doctor waiting to confirm your, ah, condition.” He let the full implication of what he was saying sink in. “Of course, your cooperation would make it possible for your traveling companions to be ignored and permitted to continue on their journey.”

  Chantal reached out and set her tea cup on the coffee table. Her hand was shaking. “If you need some time to think about it….” The officer rose to leave. “Of course, we must ask that you remain here.”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ve made my decision.” She also stood up. “The doctor?”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, a most wise decision. Of course, it is not necessary for you to say anything to the general. In fact, it is preferred.”

  “Easy lad,” Leonard said, waking Zack from his nightmare. “You’re safe.” Panic raced through the American until his surroundings made sense. They were traveling again. This part of their journey had started when Leonard and Felipe had checked him out of the hospital in Zaragoza the third day after the operation on his leg, bundled him into a car, and driven four hundred miles to the west. His breathing slowed. They were far from Nazi-occupied Europe and safe inside the neutral, but friendly country of Portugal.

  Felipe, the Andorran smuggler, was standing by the door. “Zut,” he said, “you do talk in your sleep. But no one hears you, I think. God only knows why not. What is this ‘tosh’ you shout?”

  Zack was still groggy and confused. “It’s a word, that’s all.” That triggered another thought. “When is Chantal going to get here?”

  “Soon,” Felipe answered.

  “You said that at the hospital,” Zack shot at him. He was angry at her prolonged absence and now that they had reached Portugal, was certain that the Andorran was lying to him. He tried to stand up, determined to confront Felipe and, if necessary, beat an answer out of him. But he was too weak and sank back onto the bed.

  Leonard felt his forehead and was relieved to find no trace of fever. The Spanish doctors had done their work well and straightened out the jangled mess of arteries and veins in his leg, restoring proper circulation to the limb. He glanced up at Felipe and then back to Zack. “She won’t be joining us for the rest of the journey,” he said.

  “But you told me…” Zack stammered. A sense of betrayal mingled with a taste of bitter loss as he stared at
the two men.

  “This is a hard business we’re about,” Leonard explained. “She stayed behind to give us time to escape.”

  Now anger washed over the American and engulfed his other emotions. “And just how in the hell could she do that?” he shouted.

  “You don’t need to know,” Felipe said.

  “Look,” Zack tried to shout, but he was too weak to sustain the effort, “I’m not worth that type of sacrifice.” He fell back against his pillow, exhausted.

  “You’re right, lad,” Leonard said. “You’re not. But he is.” He nodded toward the Andorran. A hard silence came down in the room. “You’re here only because he wants to take you along with him.” The look on Zack’s face was ample indication that he was totally confused.

  “Explain it to him,” Felipe grumbled. He picked up a suitcase and left the room. The perpetual sour odor that followed him like a cloud evaporated once he had left.

  Leonard took a deep breath and started speaking in a low voice. “I could have never moved you out of France without Felipe…he’s my control. The situation is rapidly changing in both Spain and Vichy France and he is instrumental in making those changes happen. You couldn’t have heard, but Franco is pulling his Blue Division of forty thousand men from the eastern front.”

  “I didn’t know the Spanish were fighting with the Nazis in Russia,” Zack said.

  “Few people do,” Leonard grumbled. “Now Franco is convinced the Nazis are going to lose the war and he wants to be more ‘neutral.’ Even the Vichy are getting twitchy and looking for a way to approach the Allies. That’s why Felipe has to get to England…to help ‘arrange’ that rapprochement.” He gave a cynical French pronunciation to the last word, letting Zack hear his contempt for the Vichy French. “They should hang all those bastards. I hope de Gaulle will.” Then almost as an afterthought: “I don’t know why Felipe decided to take you along with him. You’ll have to ask him.”