by Doug Beason
Crap. Disgusted, he banged against a partition on his way back up to the front as Morales’ squad only confirmed what he had suspected. Thoughts of botched rescues roared through his mind: Sontay, Tehran, Mexico City … why couldn’t they do anything right? After his initial adrenaline rush, the empty plane left him exhausted. He trotted down the stairs and moved below the plane.
Balcalski asked quietly, “Now what, Colonel?”
Krandel thought for a moment. This is the thing you’ll never find in Lee’s Lieutenants, he told himself. “Our first priority is still to bring the President back. We stay here until they show up with him.”
Balcalski looked emotionless with his goggles on in the darkness. “Shouldn’t we inform the Command Center?”
Krandel understood what he had said: Listen, dummy, don’t blow the ball game by taking things into your own hands. There are too many things at stake; cover your ass first! And of course, as usual, Balcalski was right.
But Krandel hesitated. He was the commander, not Balcalski. Nor was some paper pusher at the National Emergency Command Center who didn’t have any operational experience.
Like Krande … until now.
If only he had spent less time on staff jobs and more time in the field, where it counted. But he knew what he had to do.
He turned to Balcalski. “The Command Center can wait. Get your men who speak Arabic into those guards’ uniforms. When the President arrives, the ALH should be unable to tell our men from the guards in the dark. Tell them not to speak unless spoken to, and if they do speak, keep it to an absolute minimum. We can’t afford to be discovered until we make our move.”
Balcalski remained stony-faced. “The rest of the men, sir?”
“I want them on the plane. No, put only Morales’ squad on the plane. Have Henderson’s return to the TAVs as support. You go with him. I’m going to the flight deck. And send up someone who can speak Arabic. Now speed out!”
“Yes, sir.” Balcalski whirled and was moving the men as Krandel raced back up the ladder.
Stepping over a slumped guard, Krandel cracked open the door to the flight deck. It was empty, awaiting the arrival of the flight crew. Through the cockpit Krandel could barely make out the TAVs. The second TAV had landed while they stormed the plane and was now transferring fuel from its fuel bladder to the TAV on which they had arrived.
They could wait until just before daybreak without being discovered. With any luck, the President would arrive long before then so they could get the hell out of there.
A creak at the door made him whirl. Corporal Morales motioned for him; when he approached Morales whispered, “We’re ready, sir. Gunny Balcalski wanted me to relay to you that his men are set.”
“Good. Morales, tell your squad to hang in there. It won’t be long.”
Morales nodded; looking back over his shoulder, he motioned a marine forward. “Balcalski assigned Private Havisad to you, sir.”
“Good, let him in.”
“Yes, sir.” Havisad moved onto the flight deck. Morales left as quickly as he had come.
Nodding at Havisad, Krandel motioned him to a position near the flight engineer’s station. “Relax, son. This is what they mean by the big wait.” Havisad gave a half-hearted grin and turned to the door. Krandel stared out the cockpit and tried not to think of what lay ahead.
His thoughts drifted to his family, and he was surprised that this was the first time he’d thought of them.
He was lucky he could see them as much as he did. It wasn’t like his classmates who were really away: remote tours at Adak, Rodman, or pulling duty on board the ships or boomers.
Or back at Pendleton, fuming, like Weston.
With his staff jobs, at least Krandel was physically close to his family. He felt a pang of regret. Though he was physically close, emotionally and mentally he was lightyears away. In his incessant climb up the ladder of responsibility he was just as remote from them as his classmates were from their families. He swore he’d make it up to them, if he could just make it through this rescue.
Ojo-1: Cockpit
Once the Marines disembarked, Gould pulled the TAV sharply to the left. He was running without power and didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary by using his auxiliary engines.
The TAV glided to a stop, well away from the 787 on the concrete apron. He’d remain there, virtually hidden from view, until a team of marines arrived to turn the TAV around on the runway.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait for the second TAV, which carried the fuel that would enable them to return. He couldn’t hear what was going on outside the craft, or see anything, for that matter, except for a desolate view of the desert, glowing softly through the IR canopy.
If this was a place to die, at least it seemed peaceful. He did not think about the possibility that the mission might fail. His trust in the marines doing their job was automatic. Much like their trust in him.
The second TAV arrived and startled him with its stealth. He was momentarily angry at himself for not spotting the craft, but he realized that if he missed it, so would anyone else at the airport.
He unstrapped and hopped out of the craft. Delores met him at her TAV.
They spoke in whispers. He said, “I’ve never refueled these things before.”
Delores put a finger to her lips and ducked inside the TAV. She pulled out a long Teflon-covered hose. “I went through a crash course in this when they were fitting the TAV with the fuel bladder. All we have to do is to make sure both planes are grounded first, to prevent any sparks from igniting the fumes.”
“Is this hose long enough to reach my plane?”
“They told me they installed a hundred yards of this stuff, enough to cover any situation.” She looked around. The airport was dead quiet. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“You’re telling me. By the way, that’s some pretty fancy landing you did.”
“Thanks. Now are you ready to start working, or do you want to stand here and gab all night?”
“Ready when you are. Tell you what, you ground the suckers and I’ll pull this hose over to my ship.”
“Sure.”
As she turned Gould called out, “Hey, how was the flight?” He couldn’t see her grin in the darkness, but he knew it was there.
“Nice of you to ask, hotshot. A piece of cake. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“That’s a rog.” Gould turned his back and tugged at the line. He strained against the tension, and with effort started for his TAV, barely a hundred feet away.
Do’brai airport: offsite
“Help him to his feet.” General Kamil stood and brushed flecks of dirt off his uniform.
President Montoya tried standing without help, then fell to the floor, moaning. The two men who had tortured the President grabbed him, one under each armpit, and dragged Montoya to General Kamil. Kamil studied the broken man in front of him.
Montoya’s head sagged. Kamil lifted it with one hand. His cheek was badly bruised, but other than that he appeared unharmed. Montoya’s eyes looked vacant. Kamil twisted an ear, and Montoya’s eyes swam into focus.
“The apology …” gasped Montoya.
“Not now, Mr. President. Not now. You will have a few hours to rest before you make your speech, so save your strength. I will get some makeup for your face so that you will look presentable. But now you must walk.”
“I can’t.” It came as a sob.
“You will.” Kamil snapped a command, and the two men propped Montoya up against a wall. Montoya leaned heavily against the support. Tiny flakes of chipped paint from the wall rubbed into his shirt. Montoya wavered, then managed to keep his feet.
“Walk, Mr. President.”
With effort, Montoya swung one foot, then another. He grimaced, but he managed to stagger without help. Once Montoya had taken a few steps, Kamil stepped to his side and grabbed an elbow. Montoya drew his arm back, his elbow still sore from supporting his weight while hanging
from the rope. Kamil swung Montoya forward.
“See, you can walk. I will help you now, Mr. President.” He snapped another command, and the two men bowed slightly before turning away.
As they started to leave, Kamil fumbled with his tunic and withdrew a small-caliber gun. Holding on to Montoya, Kamil called the two. As they turned he leveled his weapon and squeezed the trigger.
He had to shoot the second man through the skull a second time before he stopped quivering.
Once finished, he turned to Montoya. “The plane is ready, Mr. President—we have to hurry. You must not keep the ALH delegates waiting.”
Kamil dragged Montoya, prodding him forward. They passed through a musty corridor filled with smells of urine and dust. Sickly sweet odors wafted through the air as they passed a kitchen, and finally, near the exit, the passageway widened. A voice greeted Kamil.
“Hurry, the bus is waiting. We have the staff car for Montoya.”
Kamil propped Montoya against his hip to keep the President from falling. “Have you told your ALH lieutenants about the President?”
Ghazzali sounded puzzled. “No.…we were going to wait until we reached the plane. We agreed to display him in the air—to further incite them for the cause.”
“So no one knows he is here.”
“Of course not—no one else except for Hujr and Du’Ali.”
Kamil raised his voice slightly. “And you have not yet disposed of those two?”
“They are my best agents—I foresee much happening with those two and the ALH,” Ghazzali said apologetically.
Kamil glanced at Montoya. The President rolled listlessly against his shoulder, barely supporting himself. Kamil lowered his voice, and although the President could not understand his Do’brainese, he hissed at Ghazzali. “Orders are meant to be followed, and coming from President Ash’ath, they are certainly not to be taken as suggestions. If Hujr was to gloat about the part he had in the kidnapping, the revelation of the connection with Do’brai would be imminent.”
“They will not gloat. Hujr and Du’Ali have given their word.”
“Their word is as good as pig shit to me.” Kamil pulled out his gun. “One mistake is too many. You yourself said the whole is greater than the parts.”
Ghazzali’s eyes widened. He took a stutter step backward. “You … you cannot. It was I who came up with the plan. If it were not for me, you would not have the backing of the ALH—”
His words ended with a shot in the middle of his forehead. The small-caliber bullet didn’t cause him to tumble backward. Rather, he collapsed to the ground in a clump.
“Now there is no way to implicate Do’brai in your scheme, little man.” As Kamil turned to leave, Montoya’s eyes glazed over. Montoya trudged along as though he’d lost all hope.
ALH 787
Morales rapped lightly on the door, keeping far enough back that Krandel wouldn’t accidentally harm him as he entered. “Sir, they’re approaching.”
Krandel tightened his grip on his rifle. “Is everyone ready?”
“Yes, sir—everyone’s been briefed.”
“Good. Do your job, marine.”
Morales cracked a half grin and disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Krandel started to curse himself for not spotting the approaching envoy, but stopped, realizing that it was part of being a commander. He couldn’t do everything; and if he couldn’t delegate responsibility to the men he’d trained, it was his fault, not theirs. He looked at Havisad. The private nodded.
Minutes passed and Krandel strained to hear the motorcade. Underneath his feet he felt the bumping of fuel trucks as they topped off the aircraft’s tanks; the smell of JP-4 drifted onto the flight deck.
Everything was going as planned. The marines masquerading as guards were taking their jobs literally. Acting stern and aloof, the guards didn’t draw any attention to themselves. The guise fit the marines perfectly.
A pair of voices argued outside the flight deck. Krandel flattened against the bulkhead and peered through the crack by the door.
Four flight attendants pushed past the masquerading guards and filtered to the back, straightening magazines and picking up trash on their way. As they disappeared to the back, Krandel barely discerned a muffled thud as the attendants were struck. Morales’ squad covered their tracks well.
Soon after, the voices of three men came from just outside the flight deck. Krandel slipped back from the door. They entered, laughing, absorbed in a joke. One, giggling as he hefted a bulky brown flight bag, stopped, startled, as Krandel stepped forward.
Havisad stuck his rifle in their faces. Putting a finger to his lips, Krandel motioned for the men to move toward the front. One of them—a chubby, serious-looking older man wearing four wide gold stripes on his sleeve—nodded and jerked his head for the others to follow.
Krandel nudged them and whispered to Havisad, “Tell them if they speak, they’ll die. There’s no choice in the matter. And shoot the captain first.”
Havisad quietly spat the demand in a guttural language. The captain nodded. Eliciting nods from the other two, Havisad turned to Krandel.
Krandel cradled his rifle in his arm. “Have them take their positions and answer all radio calls. If they answer in an unusual way, they’ll die. We have the flight attendants, so tell them they will be killed soon after. Ask him if he understands.”
Havisad nodded after translating. “He says ‘yes,’ Colonel.”
Krandel leaned against the bulkhead, far enough away from the cockpit so as not to be seen from the outside. “Good. We wait, then. Tell the captain to get on with his work.”
The crew reacted slowly, sullenly going about their pre-flight checks. The captain looked at Krandel before giving the order to go to auxiliary power.
Krandel nodded and allowed the man to continue.
As the flight deck lights came on, Krandel and Havisad stepped away from the cockpit. At the first radio contact Havisad pressed his rifle’s muzzle against the back of the captain’s head. Havisad translated. “They’re bringing the President’s convoy. The captain responded that they will be able to take off as soon as he is aboard.”
Again, the wait seemed to go on forever. With each minute the chance increased that someone would be discovered. The thought gnawed at Krandel’s stomach.
The captain turned on the plane’s exterior lights. Coupled with the plane’s strobe flicking on and off, they bathed the area in an eerie, pulsating glow.
A convoy approached out of the darkness into the light. Three trucks, a bus, and a staff car, flags waving from the hood, moved to the front of the plane.
Krandel leaned forward and whispered, “Tell him to wave.”
“They can’t see inside, can they?”
“It won’t hurt—and we’re too close now to blow it.” Prodded by Havisad, the captain waved a hand jerkily back and forth until Krandel growled, “That’s enough.”
A moment later the staff car pulled around to the side. “If we could only see …”
Noises came from outside the flight deck. Several people milled outside in the cabin. A knock came at the door.
Krandel whispered, “Answer it.”
Holding the rifle to the captain’s head, Havisad breathed the translation. The captain’s reply seemed to satisfy the voice outside the flight deck.
The noises grew louder outside the cabin. They were bringing him in! Krandel felt jumpy, and yet optimistic that they might pull it off. He moved toward the door.
Without warning, the copilot started yelling shrilly, suddenly breaking the silence.
Krandel was out the door even as Havisad put bullets first through the pilot, then the copilot.
Krandel didn’t hear the flight engineer die.
As he sprang from the cockpit, shooting erupted down the aisle.
Krandel dove at the President, bringing him down in a tumble. Bullets flew overhead; Krandel felt a tearing pain rip through his right leg. It felt as if someone ha
d laced a hot needle into him and wiggled it around. Another needle went through his side.
As soon as it started, the shooting stopped inside. Krandel began to cry out but realized in horror that the President had been hit.
The President lay motionless. Blood oozed from a cut on his cheek.
Rolling to the side, Krandel gritted his teeth to stop the pain and searched for bullet wounds by running his hands over the President. Only one was detectable, near his thigh, but the bleeding was minute. Krandel looked wildly around.
Morales’ squad thundered down the aisles. Morales bent down and asked, “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know.” Ignoring his own pain, Krandel crawled over and slapped the President’s face. After a moment, his eyes widened.
Krandel said, “It’s okay, sir. Are you all right?”
The President took a moment to orient himself. He tried to move and grimaced. “My … feet …”
Krandel frowned. “You were hit in the thigh, sir.”
The President panted. “It’s … my … feet, damn it.” Every word took an effort.
“It’s all right, sir—we’ll move you out of here as soon as we can.”
Montoya’s eyes narrowed through the pain, but he managed to get out, “Who … are … you?”
Krandel was astonished that the President would even ask. “Lieutenant Colonel Krandel, United States Marine Corps, sir. We’ve come to rescue you.” Krandel flushed, feeling overly dramatic. The President closed his eyes, relieved.
Krandel asked, “How do you feel?”
The President tried to speak but could only shake his head. Krandel motioned to Morales.
“He’s complaining about his feet. Give them a look, then get to his thigh.”
“Do you know what’s wrong, sir?”
“How the hell should I know? His thigh is bleeding, but he’s complaining about his damn feet. Now get to it.”
The corporal broke open a medical kit and unlaced the President’s shoes. “Holy shit.” He grabbed Krandel’s elbow. “Colonel, look at this….”
Krandel stared at the bloody remains of the President’s feet. His toes were caked with still-oozing blood. Every one of his toenails had been ripped off, and the flesh around them was torn and mangled.
