Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  Krandel turned his head away. “Give him a shot of whatever narcotic you’ve got. We’ve got to get him out of here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Morales rummaged through his medical kit, and withdrawing a vial of morphine rapidly gave the President a shot. He wrapped the President’s feet, then moved to his thigh to work on the bullet wound. After administering an antibiotic he moved to Krandel. Sporadic gunfire continued outside.

  A high-pitched whining grew louder outside the plane. One of the marines backed in from the top of the stairs and announced, “The TAVs are in position, Colonel.”

  Morales finished wrapping a hasty bandage around Krandel’s leg and taped a large compress to his side. He then broke out a hypodermic and cocked an eye at Krandel, nodding at Krandel’s bandaged leg.

  Krandel hesitated, then said, “You’re right, I might need it for later.” Morales gave him a shot of morphine. Grimacing, Krandel asked, “How does it look outside?”

  “The runway is almost clear, and Henderson’s squad has the area around us under control. We found the rest of the President’s party in a bus headed for Air Force One. Everyone’s accounted for, but we’re missing two stewards who were listed on Air Force One’s manifest. The pilot said they were the ones who pulled off the hijacking. They killed the flight engineer while still in flight.”

  “Bastards.” Krandel looked up at the guard still covering the front stairs. “Is it clear?”

  “We’re ready to head for the TAVs on your orders, sir.”

  Krandel surveyed the aisle. The remainder of Morales’ squad had assembled by the two exits, ready to disembark. “What about ALH reinforcements? What’s the situation around the terminal? Can the NECC give us any info?”

  The radioman spoke up. “BIGEYE reports their motion sensors are all still operational. There’s no movement within several klicks of the airport. They say we’re safe for a quick departure.”

  Krandel muttered, half to himself, “Yeah, and these are the same people who said the President was already on board this plane.”

  The President shivered and raised on an elbow. He studied the serious-looking marines. Their gaunt, lean faces glistened in the cabin’s light, reflecting their intensity.

  Krandel motioned with his head. “Morales, I’ll help the President. Half your squad will lead and remove the President’s party from the bus. Have the rest cover the rear.”

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Krandel waved him off. “I need you to direct your squad. I’ll cover the President.”

  Morales nodded, then began barking orders. Havisad took the point and silently led the way.

  Emerging from the smoke-filled stuffiness of the plane, Krandel draped the President’s arm over his shoulder and made his way down the steps. His leg and side ached, but the pain grew more numb from the morphine with each step. He felt a warm glow work through his body.

  The President stumbled once, but Krandel caught him and gave the chief executive a wordless nod of encouragement.

  They moved away from the taxi ramp toward the two sleek TAVs, which were quietly running their engines at the end of the concrete apron. The President moved with effort, masking any pain he might have felt.

  Krandel concentrated on each step. The euphoria of the rescue was coming to a close, and the wound and the physical strain of carrying another person began to wear on him. But through the pain, one thing gnawed at him: the President hadn’t complained once since they had left the plane, as incredible as it seemed. It went against his stereotyped pushover personality.

  Ojo-1

  “That’s it. The fuel tank is topped off.” Gould started back to Delores’ TAV, Ojo-2, with the long Teflon-covered hose. A spring-loaded pulley hauled the hose into the TAV as Gould approached.

  A marine poked his head from around the side of the TAV. “If you’re finished, ma’am, we’ll position the TAVs so they’ll point up the runway.”

  Delores jumped, momentarily startled. “Wait until we’re back on board, then we’ll have you turn them one at a time. I want one of you to stand between the planes to make sure that the wings don’t collide. We don’t want another debacle like the Iran rescue mission.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the marine. “We’ll wait for your signal.” He sprinted off to get help.

  Delores started for the hatch to boost herself up when Gould reached for her arm. “Be careful. We’ll see you at Reagan?”

  “And two to one I’ll beat you there, hotshot.” She hesitated, then suddenly leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’ll take you up on that dinner offer—the one where the dinner comes on a boat. But you pay.”

  Astonished, Gould said, “It’s a date. Just be careful on your flight back.” He pushed her gently back toward the hatch. She shot him a smile and disappeared inside.

  Gould stood still for a moment, pondering the moment. He started off but was startled as four marines rounded the side. He pointed to Delores’ TAV. “Position this TAV first and wait for me to signal before you turn the other one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gould broke out running for his plane. Damn, this was exciting! He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so good.

  Do’brai tarmac

  Krandel repositioned the President on his shoulder once more and finally thought they were going to make it to the TAVs. The sleek hypersonic vehicles were within fifty meters when the shooting started up again.

  That’s when Krandel saw the truck.

  A two-and-a-half-ton carryall roared down the runway, its lights out, heading for the TAVs. Henderson’s squad encircled the TAVs, crouching and firing point-blank into the oncoming truck. Round after round pounded into the approaching vehicle. The men didn’t move from their ground.

  The truck’s windshield shattered, broken by expertly placed bullets, but the truck lumbered on.

  Bullets glanced harmlessly off the tires: The truck bore down, weaved, and slammed into the starboard TAV, igniting the craft in an eruption of flames. Thick black smoke rolled out from the inferno. A few men staggered away, holding hands over their eyes.

  The President froze, halting their progress. Krandel jerked him forward and yelled over the roar. “We’ve got to get you out of here—the other ship can take us.” He sped the pace. From the corner of his eye he saw Morales take off for the burning TAV to help.

  As they circumvented the smoking craft the heat from the debacle almost overwhelmed them.

  Krandel turned his face away from the fire and pulled the President along, finally reaching the surviving TAV. He shoved the President aboard. The rest of the President’s entourage were herded on.

  Krandel limped up to a marine just coming from the other TAV. “How many were on it when it blew?”

  The marine dully shook his head. His face was covered with oily smudges.

  A gaggle of men appeared behind him and started for the surviving TAV. A good twenty marines congregated outside.

  Spotting Morales, Krandel managed to collar the corporal. “How many were on the TAV?”

  Morales coughed and spat to the side. “Just the pilot. The rest of the men were either on the protection line or were covering the rear.”

  Krandel’s stomach churned; the acidity in his gut tore at his insides. “Get the pilot of the surviving TAV out here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later a Nomex-suited officer staggered from the craft. The pilot looked dazed and confused. Krandel pulled up to him. “How many men can your TAV hold?” The pilot shook his head. Krandel raised his voice. “Major Gould, did you hear me? How many men can your—”

  “I hear you, now just leave me alone!”

  “Major!” Krandel whipped his hand across Gould’s face twice in quick succession. “Listen to me, damn it. I know that was your fellow officer in that other plane, but you’ve got to put it behind you. You’re the only way we can get back—I’d shoot you right here and now if I didn’t have to depend on you. So pull yourself together. You’re act
ing like a little girl out here.”

  Gould sobbed. “Oh, please.…”

  Krandel drew back to hit him again, but Gould held out a hand. “No.…wait. Just let me—”

  “Shut up, Major. Listen, we’ve got twenty-three marines and twenty-one other people in the President’s party. What’s the max amount of people this craft can carry?”

  It took a moment, but Gould answered, “Let me think.” What was it that friggin’ aeroengineer had told him back at Edwards—what was the maximum takeoff weight with the JATOS? Why couldn’t he remember the details? “If we throw out the seats and ditch some of the extra equipment—”

  Krandel interrupted angrily. “You take off in three minutes, Major—we don’t have time! How many can we stuff on board and still get out of here?”

  The pilot wet his lips, drying his eyes on the back of his sleeve. “I’d say thirty-two, maybe as many as thirty-five people, if they’re skinny, Colonel. It will take an hour to get rid of enough weight to get all your men in. And even by packing the TAV with thirty-two, none of your men can carry anything back with them: no guns, helmets—nothing.”

  Krandel decided instantly. “Then some of us stay. We have to get this vehicle in the air before any more reinforcements arrive.

  “Major, prepare to jet in three minutes. Move!” He shoved Gould toward the hatch and looked wildly around. With 24 people in the President’s party he could afford to send back eleven of his men. He shouted, “Get Gunny Balcalski and have him pick eleven marines to go on this TAV. Married men—the youngest and skinniest we’ve got—go first.”

  Morales spoke quietly. “Balcalski and Henderson bought it with the explosion, Colonel—and we’re going to have trouble getting the marines to go back on this TAV unless everyone goes. They won’t bug out on their buddies.”

  Krandel’s knees wobbled: Balcalski dead? That couldn’t be. What was he going to do? It was bad enough having to keep some of his men here, probably to die, but how was he going to lead these youngsters without Balcalski’s counsel?

  He wavered, then thought: A competent commander doesn’t spook his troops! He had to put on a good show.

  Drawing in a breath, he managed to get out, “Correction: You screen them, Morales. We’ve got to get as many of our men out of here as possible, or the third TAV won’t be able to carry all of us back.”

  Morales’ brows jumped. “Do you really think the President would authorize another TAV to rescue us, sir?”

  Krandel shot a glance at the TAV. Hell, no, he thought. Not if he acts the way he said he would when he was elected. But he said, “Yes, he will, Morales. Now get to it. Have those staying assemble on the other side of the runway.”

  Morales turned away and barked the order.

  Do’brai airport: Ojo-1

  Krandel gingerly pulled himself into the TAV. The morphine didn’t mask his pain, nor the grief he felt for Balcalski. Moving down the cramped aisle, he came to the President and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It will only be a little longer, sir. You’ll be taking off in a few moments.”

  The President studied Krandel, then forced a nod. He turned back to his side and closed his eyes, seemingly oblivious to what was going on.

  Krandel felt a surge of emotion well up inside him but quickly clamped it down.

  Angrily, Krandel limped to the hatch. The last of the eleven marines who were going back entered the TAV. They tossed their rifles to those on the runway and sullenly found a seat in the crowded TAV. Some had to position themselves on the floor to find room.

  Krandel stood at the hatch; this was it. He spoke up over the growing roar of the engines and said, “Men.…you’ve taken an oath to protect the constitution. My final order is for you to do whatever it takes to ensure our President returns safely home.” He choked, then turned to the President.

  Montoya had his eyes closed. Hesitating, Krandel turned and let himself slowly down to the runway.

  The hatch swung shut.

  Through the cockpit window, Major Gould gave them a thumbs-up sign.

  Krandel returned it, then slowly pulled himself to attention and saluted. He then shuffled to the edge of the runway, the pain in his side and leg growing steadily.

  Chapter 9

  0410 ZULU: Saturday, 8 September

  Never give up and never give in.

  Hubert H. Humphrey

  When a thing is done, it’s done. Don’t look back. Look forward to your next objective.

  George C. Marshall

  Facing it—always facing it—that’s the way to get through! Face it!

  Joseph Conrad

  Do’brai

  Hujr wallowed in the revelry surrounding the kidnapping. He lay on his back, smoking a hashish-laden hookah, as the young boy massaged him. He moved sensuously up his body, gently rubbing scented oil into his skin, kneading his muscles with his ringers. As his hands moved in firm, slow circles Hujr felt he had finally achieved the coup of his career; the mellow lightheadedness the hashish brought on added to the pleasure.

  After presenting Kamil with the American President, Hujr was treated royally. Escorted in Kamil’s private staff car, Hujr was whisked away and kept apart—which Hujr interpreted as being kept “aloof”—from the rest of his ALH comrades-in-arms. Even Ghazzali, as his mentor and the undisputed ruler of the ALH, was not permitted access to him. Food, drink, and the exciting pleasures of this drugged nymph kept Hujr entertained.

  Kamil had explained that an unprecedented promotion was in store for him; the glory and honor due him for pulling off the kidnapping would have no equal. Kamil had even hinted that President-for-Life Ash’ath might have a royal appointment for him. The President’s personal man-at-arms, perhaps? If this was so, then Hujr would be on call for any nefarious task that Ash’ath deemed necessary.

  Hujr knew that he had done well, and for him to single-handedly kidnap the leader of the most powerful nation on earth—he realized the kudos were well earned. After all this time of being an underground hero, living with harassment and even fear for his life, it was finally time to step up and collect his reward.

  And it was to be in this life, not as a martyr, that he would enjoy the bounty. Hujr was a practical man. The prospect of martyrdom did have its appeal, but because of his unorthodox upbringing it didn’t have the deep-rooted allure it would for a native Do’brainese. Hujr’s bitterness toward the West certainly fueled his hatred, but it did not drive him to accept blindly the doctrines of the Jihad. If there was a way to enjoy the privileges of this world without making the ultimate sacrifice, then so much the better.

  Hujr took a long pull on the water pipe and allowed the smoke to fill his lungs. The euphoria again rolled over him, and, expelling the drug, he reached down and pulled the giggling boy on top of him.

  General Kamil strode down the corridor and paused before the guarded room. A man followed him, dragging a limp, dead body, and stopped behind Kamil. A single Do’brainese militiaman, smartly decked out in a sand-brown uniform with red tabs, snapped rigidly to attention.

  Two more militiamen were at either end of the passageway. Their weapons were drawn and pointed at the door where Kamil stood. Their orders were to shoot if any attempt was made to escape. Hujr could not slip away from the chamber unharmed.

  I shouldn’t be here, thought Kamil. If that dung-eating Ghazzali had taken his orders seriously, then this puppet Hujr would be as dead as his stupid assistant, Du’Ali.

  Ghazzali had wanted Hujr to live, but Kamil knew the Do’brainese half-breed was too undisciplined—too cocky—to trust. The fool flitted from place to place like a dilettante, always enticed by the highest bidder for his allegiance.

  There was also the chance that he might sell out, even to the unspeakable American devils, if the price was high enough.

  After hustling the American President into his personal staff car, Kamil had collared an enlisted driver to transport Montoya to the airport. The man knew better than to try to identify the general’s clandesti
ne passenger—for all the driver knew, it was another one of Kamil’s lovers being whisked out of the country, or a government accomplice being paid off for some unspeakable deed.

  Leaving strict orders that he be notified as soon as the plane carrying the ALH delegates and the President departed, Kamil raced back to the compound where Hujr was being held. Once the plane was clear of Do’brai airspace, Hujr and his assistant would be hailed on board the plane as martyred heroes; simultaneously, back at Do’brai, Kamil would announce to the West that he had captured and killed the ALH terrorist who had kidnapped the President. With Hujr dead there would be no one to dispute the fact that Do’brai was still loyal to her western allies.

  To get rid of the rest of the evidence, Kamil himself would ignite the fire that would destroy Air Force One and the passengers on board. Only he and President Ash’ath would carry the true knowledge of what had really happened.

  Kamil nodded to the militiaman behind him; the dead man’s body lay at his feet. “Leave the corpse here. After Hujr dies, we’ll take both bodies to the airport.” As far as Kamil’s troops were concerned, Hujr would simply be executed as the terrorist who had captured Air Force One. Not even his own men were privy to the truth; the kidnapping was far too important for any leaks to occur.

  Kamil grunted at the militiaman still standing at attention by the door. The guard saluted and backed up. As Kamil reached for the doorknob a shout from the rear of the corridor stopped him.

  “General!”

  “What is it?” Kamil growled, turning.

  The messenger ran up breathlessly and, without rendering a salute, gasped, “The airport, General. The airport is under attack.”

  “Attack? By whom?”

  “I do not know, General.” The messenger bent over, trying to catch his breath. “We have lost contact with the pilot and crew of the 787 plane that was supposed to fly out. There are garbled reports of gunfire all around the airport. That is all I know.”