Brotherhood Protectors_STEELE RANGER

by Jesse Jacobson

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Twisted Page Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Brotherhood Protectors remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Twisted Page Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.

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  Chapter 1

  March 30, 2003

  “Yes sir,” Captain Doyle said. “We’re on our way.”

  The Commander hung up the phone. He paused momentarily to rub his eyes. This was not the first time he had been redirected during the early stages of a mission. Doyle was the Company Commander of the 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment.

  “Sergeant Major,” he called out. “Could you join me for a moment?”

  Sergeant Major Sam Steele approached and saluted. Doyle returned his salute. Steele had served with the Rangers for 12 years, based out of Fort Benning, GA. There were a lot of things Doyle respected about Steele. He was fearless and followed orders without question, though he was also analytical; he would tell you what was on his mind when asked. At 6-foot-4 and 230 lbs., he was physically imposing and led his men from the front. When he barked a command with his deep, resonating voice, his soldiers jumped. He was near the end of his third tour in the Middle East. They were currently deployed in Iraq.

  “We have a change of plan,” Doyle said.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Steele replied.

  “We are to take and hold the Haditha High Dam,” Doyle said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Steele asked, exasperated.

  Steele knew all about the dam. It was an earth-filled dam on the Euphrates River, located 185 miles northwest of Baghdad. It was about five and a half miles long, creating the Lake Qadisiyah man-made reservoir. It had been considered a key strategic piece of the Iraqi infrastructure. Its purpose was to create hydroelectricity, and to regulate the flow of the Euphrates. It also provided water for irrigation. It was the second-largest power system in Iraq, behind the Mosul Dam. Taking and controlling the Haditha Dam would be a major accomplishment, but Steele also knew it would come at a steep price. The Haditha Dam was well-protected and the Iraqis would not let it go easily.

  “How much time will we have to prepare?” Steele asked.

  “We go in tomorrow,” Doyle said.

  “Tomorrow?” Steele replied in a questioning tone.

  “Something on your mind, Sergeant?”

  “May I remind the Captain that we have been preparing for a mission in the middle of the Iraqi desert. That’s the mission we are equipped to complete.”

  “I know,” Doyle responded. “We are receiving an extra platoon, two sniper teams and an Air Force combat controller.”

  “That will put us at just over 150 men,” Steele noted. “Do we think that is enough support?”

  “It is what it is,” Doyle responded. “We’ll have air support. We are promised additional reinforcements in two days.” He unrolled a map and placed it on a makeshift table made of a 4x8 sheet of plywood positioned atop two saw horses. He pointed at the area of the dam on the map.

  “We are about 33 miles from the dam, now. We’ll split into three groups: one will secure the southwest corner of the dam; one will secure the northeast corner and the third will overtake the power station control buildings.”

  Steele had no doubt that they would succeed, but he was still frustrated. He had worked for over two weeks to prepare his men for a desert mission that included training drills and equipment acquisition. Now all that work and preparation would be thrown out and he would be taking his men into a dangerous situation with less than 24-hours to prepare and adding men who had not never with his unit before.

  Even though he believed they would prevail, the lack of training time could easily result in American casualties that might be avoided if given time for preparation.

  Twenty-two hours later, the first shots were fired. Iraqi resistance was fierce, bombarding the Rangers with more than 350 155 mm artillery shells during the next 36 hours. Captain Doyle called in airstrikes which took a little wind out of the Iraqi sails, but the Rangers were unable to completely push back the Iraqis for two full days. The other bad news was that reinforcements had not yet arrived. The good news was, that despite being utterly exhausted, the Rangers experienced only four casualties, none of which were life threatening.

  Steele had led his men to the top of the dam, where the Rangers were met with heavy resistance. They faced Iraqi mortar tubes, RPG launchers and machine gun fire. Aided by snipers, Steele and his unit won the day and advanced, taking control of the dam.

  Five days into the battle the Iraqi stronghold had retreated but pockets of resistance remained a danger. During a sweep Steele and four of his men went room to room in the primary control building.

  They were down to three rooms when Steele saw the Iraqi soldier. Steele held up his fist. His men froze in place behind him.

  “Suicide bomber!” one of his men cried out.

  The Iraqi soldier held an automatic rifle in his right hand. A bomb had been strapped around his upper torso. He was wide-eyed, sweating and scared. Steele had seen the look before and knew that the Iraqi was prepared to die. It was Steele who had broken into the room first, followed by four of his men.

  “Everyone, back away!” Steele commanded.

  He began pushing the men out the door when the Iraqi soldier discharged his weapon twice. Steele took both rounds to his back. He fell to his knees using his remaining strength to push his men out into to the hall, closing the door shut behind them. He locked the door to prevent them from coming back in. He slumped to the floor.

  “Sergeant!” screamed one of the men. “Open the door.”

  “Run!” he called back. “That’s an order!”

  “No, Sergeant!” cried one of the men. “We will not leave you.”

  Steele grimaced in pain but barked, “The bomb is gonna go off. Move—now!”

  Steele noticed a heavy metal desk laying on its side about eight feet away. He thought it might shield some of the blast he knew was coming any second.

  Another bullet from the Iraqi whistled over Steele’s head. He rolled onto his back, his entire body searing in pain. The Iraqi screamed something in his native language—something the Sergeant didn’t understand. He looked at Steele, held the detonator up, and smiled.

  The Iraqi soldier let out a blood-curdling scream and began firing his weapon.

  Steele managed to muster strength enough to rise to his feet. He heard the click of the detonator. He dove for the desk. The explosion was catastrophic.

  Chapter 2

  November 13, 2017

  Elaine “Vandy” Vanderbilt sat in the makeup room of Entertainment Tonight studios. This would be her first media interview since her private and professional world began to crumble just a few weeks earlier. The news of the FTC investigation into her company had gone viral. That, along with the humiliating— and very public—end of her marriage and the deterioration of her relationship with her daughter, had taken its toll on her.

  She was close to the breaking point and had been for a few days. Her nerves were shot. She hadn’t been sleeping. Prescription medications had not worked, leaving her disoriented and confused. She was exhausted. Yet, everyone wanted a piece of her: CNN, FoxNews, ABC, CBS—everyone. The amount of misinformation on social media was staggering. The clamoring for interviews with her from the major networks and cable news channels had been endless. Paparazzi were everywhere she turned.

>   Ignore them, her Uncle Randall had said—they were vultures. They would be proven wrong soon enough, he insisted, confidently. Face them, Pam urged. Public perception was everything, she said. In the end, her chief of staff and best friend, Pamela Putnam, won the day. She had advised Vandy that her best option was Entertainment Tonight. No one was going to lob softball questions at her, Pam had conceded, but Marina Mayes would likely be easier on her than Anderson Cooper or Tucker Carlson.

  Burying her head in the sand was not an option, Pam had told her. She had to address questions head on or the media would continue to make up their own version of events. Even though the truth was ugly enough, what was stirring in the media had been worse—much worse.

  “I’m so proud to be able to do your make up,” a young woman said to her as she was touching up her base.

  “I’m sorry,” Vandy replied. “I was deep in thought. What did you say?”

  “I was just saying how proud I was to be able to do your makeup for the show,” she repeated. “My name is Tiffany.”

  “Thank you, Tiffany,” Vandy responded. “I appreciate your kind words.”

  “I’ve been a big fan of yours for, like, forever,” Tiffany gushed. “You are everything in a woman I aspire to be. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re successful and plain-spoken. That combination is so rare. Such a role model.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not feeling much like a role model,” Vandy said, “but thank you.”

  “I read the article in Rolling Stone last year where the author described you as Megan Fox meets Sara Blakely and I thought to myself, that’s the most perfect analogy ever. What an incredible woman Blakely is. And Megan Fox is like--well, she’s Megan Fox. What did you think of that analogy?”

  “Just to be mentioned in the same sentence as those women was a huge honor,” she said, and she meant it. Sara Blakely is an American billionaire businesswoman, the founder of Spanx, an intimate apparel company. Vandy was both surprised and impressed that Tiffany actually knew who Sara Blakely is.

  “Don’t be silly,” Tiffany said. “You are beautiful and successful.”

  “Thank you,” Vandy replied.

  Tiffany leaned in and whispered, “Marina wants to use you to boost her ratings. Be very wary of Marina Mayes.”

  “Why?” Vandy asked.

  “Because Marina Mayes is a shit.”

  Vandy flashed her a look of confusion, “You want to expand on that?”

  Tiffany looked a little confused before answering.

  “She’s a massive pile of steaming shit?”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you,” Vandy said.

  “They are telling me there’s two minutes before you are on,” Pam Putnam said, bounding through the door. Pam had been with Vandy from the beginning of her career, fifteen years earlier, when she was one of the top five fashion models in the world. Pam had been her publicist in those early days. She was now 48-years old, an ex-model herself. Though the years were beginning to treat her unkindly, with an extra ten minutes in makeup, she could still turn the heads of most men, and she was still a size two and in great physical shape.

  Pam had been divorced for years and had not remarried. Really, she had not dated much, nor had she shown much interest in doing so. Instead, she chose to devote herself to Vandy.

  “I’m not ready for this,” Vandy said, looking at herself in the mirror. Tiffany had done a great job of covering the dark circles under her eyes. She was only 34 years old and widely regarded as beautiful, but lines had begun to form in the corners of her eyes. Her platinum blonde hair, once silky and flowing, seemed more straw-like to her now. The pressures of her job had been taking its toll and beginning to age her prematurely.

  “Why couldn’t you just get me an interview on CNN with the rookie news anchor that covers business, what’s-her-name?” Vandy asked.

  “Angela McVee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because no one watches her program,” Pam said.

  Vandy sighed, “Works for me.”

  “Remember our talking points,” Pam said, ignoring the remark.

  “I will.”

  “One last thing. I know we’ve talked about this a dozen times, but you cannot use foul language.”

  Vandy rolled her eyes. She had a reputation for being direct, many would say blunt, but also a ‘potty mouth,’ as Pam would put it. A Hollywood reporter once wrote that, “Elaine Vanderbilt once made Quentin Tarantino blush.”

  “I’ll be good,” Vandy said.

  Pam led Vandy to the green room, where she met a staffer named Maurice, a 30-something African-American male with serious eyes and soft features.

  “At the next commercial break, I’ll take you out to Marina. You’ll sit on the chair to her right. When we go live, the camera will be on Marina alone as she sets the stage and introduces you. When she introduces you, the camera will pull back, show you both, and the interview will begin. Got it?”

  Vandy gave Maurice a thumbs-up sign. Maurice touched his headphones as a voice came through. He looked away as he listened.

  “Oh, and Marina asked me to remind you, no foul language,” he added.

  “I got it.”

  “It’s time,” he said.

  Maurice led her out onto the stage. Marina Mayes was receiving a light makeup touch up as Vandy made her way to the seat. Marina was quite attractive herself. Perhaps five years younger than Vandy, Marina had long, flowing red hair, full lips and a tiny waist. Her skirt was two inches too short for the stool she sat on, but that was probably by design to highlight Marina’s shapely tanned legs. By contrast, Vandy opted for a more professional look, wearing a powder blue suit with the skirt extending to about three inches above her knee. She wore a peach colored blouse, a design she created herself.

  After the makeup person left, the hostess extended her hand, “Marina Mayes,” she said.

  “Elaine Vanderbilt,” came the reply.

  “Is it okay if I call you Vandy?” Marina asked, seeming to be disinterested in the answer.

  “Everyone does,” she replied.

  Marina sized her up for a moment. She had an expression on her face that Vandy thought was disdainful, almost evil, as she looked up and down Vandy’s frame.

  “Wow, you are more beautiful in person than you are in magazines,” Marina said in a tone that made Vandy feel exactly the opposite.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “You’re quite the beauty yourself, and smart too.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think you really know anything about me.”

  “Not true. I looked up your bio,” Vandy said. “Telecommunications degree at UCLA; MBA at Stanford; field reporter for CNN and now lead anchor at Entertainment Tonight. Very impressive.”

  “I work hard,” she said. “I feel I can do anything.”

  Except perhaps live in direct sunlight, Vandy thought. She smiled.

  “We are live in ten seconds,” the floor director called. He counted off the last five seconds and pointed to Marina.

  “Our next guest needs little introduction,” Marina said, flashing a perfect set of brilliant white teeth. “Elaine Vanderbilt is the founder of the PACNY clothing line, which recently overtook Pierre Cardin as one of the top ten clothing lines in the world. She is a former fashion model who parlayed her looks and her brains into a multi-billion-dollar enterprise. Ms. Vanderbilt has been voted one of People Magazine’s top 50 most beautiful people twice in the last five years.”

  Marina shifted in her seat and looked to a different camera, “But recently a dark cloud has formed over the Vanderbilt world. Early last month the Federal Trade Commission launched an investigation into PACNY over its financial accounting, and several sources believe that charges of fraud are imminent. The subsequent fallout has caused the company stock to tank, its value decreasing by a whopping 38% in the last two months, causing many investors to call for Ms. Vanderbilt and her CFO to be ousted.”

  Vandy was taken back. She knew she was going
to get tough questions, but had no idea she was going to be brutalized before the first question was asked.

  Marina turned to Vandy.

  “Thank you for being with us, today, Ms. Vanderbilt,” Marina said, smiling politely and professionally.

  “Thank you for having me,” came the reply, “and please, call me Vandy.”

  “What is the current state of the investigation from the FTC, Ms. Vanderbilt?” she asked, the smile having disappeared from her face.

  “The investigation is ongoing,” Vandy replied. “I’m not allowed to comment on the particulars at this time.”

  “A lot of your investors might say that’s a pretty convenient non-answer,” Marina said. “They have said you’re using your attorney as a shield to avoid being honest.”

  “My legal team has advised me to not discuss any particulars involving the investigation while it is underway. It’s not avoiding anything; it’s being prudent,” Vandy replied. “I will say that I have every confidence the investigation will lead to a total exoneration on our part.”

  “Your uncle, Randall Vanderbilt, is the CFO, is that correct?” Marina asked.

  “Yes,” Vandy replied. “He has been watching over my company’s finances since my father died in 2006.”

  “Many of your critics say that Mr. Vanderbilt is over his head in this position,” Marina said. “They contend he was hired into his role only because he was in your family. Some have called his honesty and credibility into question. They feel that, as CEO, you should have seen that he was out of his element and replaced him long ago. How would you respond to those critics?”

  “As to his credibility and honesty, my uncle served his country as a Navy SEAL. If you ask anyone who served with him, you’ll find that his reputation for credibility and honesty is impeccable. After he left military service he earned an MBA in Finance from Stanford. He is more than qualified to do this job,” Vandy responded. “Once again, I urge everyone to wait until the investigation is complete.”

  “A source from inside your organization told Entertainment Tonight, and I quote, ‘Randall Vanderbilt will be the death-nail in PACNY. Elaine Vanderbilt is either blind to the fact that he needs to be replaced or is allowing her family loyalty to cloud her judgment.’ How would you respond to that quote?”