PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “Night flying in a combat zone with Arab pilots. Kuwaiti pilots who have a hard time getting all the expensive planes we’ve sold them off the ground in daylight. If they panic what are you prepared to do?”

  Jonas understood what Louis was driving at. “Gut check?”

  He could almost see the smile under the faded blond mustache. “Yes, my boy. Gut check. If Harper is still alive and he has the information we need, he might not be very happy or understanding about seeing something other than US aircraft. In fact, I would guess he might be very upset. Have you ever seen Harper upset?”

  “Well—“

  “No, you’ve never seen him upset. Jonas, he warned me about something like this when he left. No one knows what’s happening out there. We might get a chopper in, and it may have a machine gun. You may have wounded or dead.”

  Jonas shook his head. “Yeah, I know—I get the picture. It’s all cocked up.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s Harper. I owe Harper.”

  “Most of us do, Jonas. You understand what you’re up against.”

  “Yeah, Louis.”

  The carrier signals hummed with silence. “I’ll make the call, Jonas. Sit tight. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” The phone went dead.

  It took longer than a few minutes. The sun moved to a wavering red ball kissing the top of the desert. The shadows were lengthening quickly now. The night chill, so incongruous with the daytime heat, began to render its presence.

  Jonas secured the Velcro straps on his body armor. He rechecked the loads on three additional magazines for the Beretta, and slid his combat knife into its sheaf. He had collected a medical kit including some morphine, blood plasma, and pressure bandages. He glared at the stationary dot on the monitor.

  Were they all dead?

  He fumed in his preparations as those few promised minutes stretched into twenty, then sixty, and finally ninety. It was getting late. He would be over Iraq with an Kuwaiti crew searching for someone who might be dead in the dark. He scooped up a half-dozen flares and shoved them into the canvas bag with the medical supplies.

  Finally, he dropped a six-pack of bottled water into the bag and slumped down in a chair facing the laptop and the satellite phone. Both remained silent. The clock in the lower right hand corner of the Win95 notebook computer continued to tick off minutes and the room became noticeably gloomier as each minute slid by.

  With the onset of the evening chill, sweat ran down his back and chest. His combat blouse clung and seemed to freeze to his body. He played with the batteries on his night vision goggles and wondered idly who had cancelled his extraction team. Someone would pay for this. Someone probably already had, he reflected sadly. The locator dot remained ominously static.

  Were they all dead?

  A larger clock showed the time since the extraction signal had sounded. It was close to two hours now. They should have been there by then. They should be churning the sand with the rotor blades and blasting any Iraqis giving resistance. He sighed. If their roles were reversed, Harper would have been airborne by now. He would have found a way to get there.

  Jonas shook his head. He had failed a friend and mentor. He was sitting in a stupid hanger office with a silent satellite phone, a bag full of useless supplies, and the accusing finger of the locator dot pointing out his guilt and failure. Harper would not have relied on Edwards, but Jonas did not know what else to do.

  It occurred to him that he might have to face Lynn Harper and explain that her husband had died for God and country. No! Harper was still alive. He had to be. He was Major James Harper—the legend. Legends do not die on foolish missions in the desert a couple hundred kilometers from the best-trained military in the world. A cold knot formed in his gut. It had to be Arthur! Unconsciously, Jonas felt the Beretta’s grip. The dot continued to blink and refused to move.

  Were they all dead?

  The phone buzzed almost one hundred twenty minutes since he had mashed the END button. Jonas leaped forward, fumbling with the phone. He had it upside-down next to his ear, yelling, “Hello!” before he righted the phone.

  “Jonas?”

  “Yes, who’d expect. Do you know how long it’s been?” he shouted.

  “Yes—yes, I know,” replied a tired Edwards. “Do you know where Hanger twenty-nine is?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.” Jonas snapped the lip of the laptop shut and pulled the power cord from the battery pack. The batteries would power the computer for five to seven hours. He dropped it into the canvas bag and scooped the supplies up with one hand.

  “All I have for you is one helicopter and a single pilot. If you squeeze all together, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Is there a machine gun?” Jonas ambled out of the hanger and looked for the signs in English and Arabic.

  “I don’t know,” replied Edwards.

  Jonas shook his head. What was going on? “What took you so long? I could have walked there by now!”

  “I had to call the Deputy Director of Operations. What we are doing is a direct violation of a Presidential Order issued sometime yesterday,” explained Louis.

  “Was it issued by the National Security Advisor?” snapped Jonas.

  Louis was thoughtfully silent.

  “Hey, Louis—you still there?” asked Jonas as he found a sign directing him to hangers twenty-five through thirty.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “How’d you know the NSA’s office wrote the order?”

  “Because they were the slime balls that organized this mess.” Jonas stopped walking as he ran those last words back through his brain.

  “An interesting assessment of the civilian command authority.”

  “They sold us out, didn’t they?” whispered Jonas.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jonas seized on the equivocation, “You don’tnot know either.”

  “Very good, young Jonas. Now, you let me worry about this. Go fetch Harper.”

  “He could be dead after all this time.”

  “Perhaps. But people like Harper are very hard to kill. He’s been in tougher spots than this. I’ll talk to you when you get back,” promised Louis as he clicked off.

  Jonas switched the phone off and dropped it into the canvas bag next to the laptop. He looked at the sun. Only the ruby glow could be seen on the darkening desert. He arrived at the end of the row to find a Puma SA 330 J warming up. Jonas ran under the main rotor and hurriedly clamped some ear protectors over the whine of the twin Turbomeca Turmo IVC engines.

  He pounded on the pilot’s door, then stopped as a red headed Englishman flashed him the thumbs up. “Mister Benjamin, I presume.”

  Jonas nodded dumbly, and said lamely, “You’re not a Kuwaiti.”

  The pilot flashed him a bright smile, “No, dear boy, I’m certainly not. Captain Dylan Scott, Special Air Service at the ready.” He stuck out a hand that looked more like paw and grabbed Jonas’ hand. “Do get in. We have a long way to go.”

  Jonas nodded and clambered into the co-pilot’s seat.

  “I was expecting a Kuwaiti.”

  Dylan Scott bobbed his head again, punched power, and pulled thePuma into the air. “Yes, well, as we all know, the bloody ragheads need someone to do their fighting for them. Louis thought it would be easier this way. I’m not constrained by certain niceties.”

  The helicopter pushed towards the west.

  “You do understand we’re going into hostile territory.”

  “You folks call it Indian country, don’t you?” asked Scott.

  Jonas nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Quite aware of the fact.”

  “Well, what are we going to do about the Iraqi Army?”

  Scott jabbed a thumb into the cargo area. “It’s a chain gun borrowed—somewhat permanently—from one of yourApache Gunships—a marvelous weapon. The particular raghead that owns this chopper had one put in. It does trucks rather nicely. By the way, Louis m
entioned you had a map of where we’re going. We’ll probably need it quickly.”

  Jonas dug the clipboard out of the canvas bag and handed it across to Dylan Scott. “Good lad. I understand we’re on our way to get Jim Harper.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good man, Harper. You know we hunted SCUDs and few other things during the war. Now don’t you look so worried. Harper is almost as good as our boys, and he knows this desert fairly well.” Dylan Scott chuckled as night steadily settled on the desert before them.

  ThePuma roared towards the locator point at 258km/hour, passing from Kuwait into Iraq and providing the correct call signs to the ever-vigilant AWAC guardians. Jonas seriously doubted that Louis had gotten any clearance at all. It was probably cover for Jonas in case something else went wrong. He looked at Captain Scott wondering just how far they had strayed from official channels.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  East Of Nukhayb, Iraqi Data Center

  Monday, November 17, 1997

  5:15 P.M. (+3.00 GMT)

  Harper slid over the sand until he found himself between two rocks. He set the Mossberg on the ground and hefted the Browning Hi Power. He rolled over on his back and pushed the magazine release button with his thumb. The half-loaded magazine dropped into his left hand. He dropped the magazine into one of his jacket side pockets and retrieved a fully charged magazine less one round.

  Technically, a Hi Power magazine can hold thirteen rounds, but the Hi Power is more reliable with twelve. There was still a round up the spout giving Harper a full thirteen. He pushed the base of the grip into the web of his hand and settled down to watch the signal beacon lying on the dirt at the end of the wadi.

  He lay prone and lined up the sights on the signal beacon. He guessed he was about fifteen yards from where he had been standing. It was time to go on the offensive; otherwise, they would all die here today.

  Harper felt no surprise when two Iraqi soldiers arrived at the edge of the wadi. He should have been surprised, but he knew they would locate the signal beacon before any help arrived. One hefted his Russian Assault rifle and rolled into the wadi landing on his feet and bracing the rifle on his hip. He never even looked up to check the end of the wadi, he simply pulled back on the trigger and sent a deadly stream of bullets from a fifty-round magazine.

  Harper focused on the front sight allowing the rear sights to merge into the background. The Iraqi’s face loomed before Harper’s vision. He adjusted his aim and fired. His first bullet caught the Iraqi below the ear; his second slammed into the temple of the falling soldier as his helmet dropped to the dirt. The noise from the Iraqi’s automatic weapon masked thepfft from the silenced Browning. Harper remained motionless as the second soldier rose up from where he was crouched, reaching forwards with a grenade in his right hand.

  In his other hand, he held some sort of electronic device. The device had a short antenna extended from a special LCD display. Harper had used direction finders in the course of his work for Louis Edwards. The direction finder was an encrypted multi-frequency device that bounced off a US military satellite. To have such a device available and in the field indicated a high degree of knowledge with regard to their mission. The sellout was complete. Time slowed down, and he wondered whether the second solider had seen the shots. Harper shifted and started firing the Browning. His first two shots hit center mass on the chest. He shifted his aim and placed one that creased the side of the man’s neck. The direction finder tumbled from his hand.

  The soldier’s hands met and the pull ring slid from the grenade. Another second and the grenade would fly. Harper was uncertain where it would land. He pulled the trigger two more times. The first shot went wide. The second splattered across the soldier’s face. He legs rocked and his right hand loosened on the grenade. He sighed slightly before pitching forward.

  Harper rolled away and scrambled further up the dirt bank. He figured he was moving at an oblique angle to the Data Center and the second soldier. The crack from the grenade’s explosion caused him to drop hard on the dirt and freeze.

  “Major, you okay?” came a worried Hayes in his helmet phones.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m having a fine time here. Any luck on the detonators?” he whispered.

  “I found the wire a few minutes ago.”

  “Well hurry it up. It’s getting a bit thick over here.”

  Harper rolled over and changed magazines on the Browning again. He took a deep breath and let the air slowly out through his nostrils. He wanted to slow his breathing and bring his heart rate back down. The pain pounded behind his eyes and around the back of his neck. There was a long way to go before they got out of here.

  “Major, I found it!” came Hayes again.

  Harper rolled over on his stomach. He could see the two helicopter wrecks. The third lay nestled between two ridges, and four soldiers stood on point around the aircraft. He found a battlefield triage for the wounded. Most of them were from the helicopter crash. The Iraqi Colonel was losing too many men too fast.

  The Data Center survivors were still out of action, and would stay out of action for another couple of hours. Even then, they would wake with a raging headache and nausea. There were over a dozen wounded men at the triage site, and four guarding the chopper, plus the ones he had taken out. It left the Iraqi Colonel with eight to ten men. Not enough to effectively expand the perimeter in all directions. It was time to finish this.

  “Major, ready when you are.”

  “Anderson—when Stillwell and Hayes start their dance, take out everybody except the commanding officer. We need him alive and relatively unharmed.” He paused and dug the Motorola Talkabout out. “Hayes, start your stuff in two minutes. We take as many of them down as we can. Anderson, if they take the bait, let Hayes do most of the work.”

  Click.

  Harper shoved the earphone up and under his helmet. He turned the two-way radio on and whispered, “We’re coming for you.”

  The mocking voice responded almost instantly, “Major Harper, you have killed a few of my men. However, there are more on the way. You are a handful, soon to be nothing. Observe Major, it is not you who is coming for me, it is I coming for you.”

  The rotors for the surviving helicopter began to move. The steady acceleration of the engines could be heard over the desert silence. The helicopter would be devastating if it got airborne.

  Harper turned the gain down on the Talkabout. He squeezed the throat mike saying, “Anderson. Forget the ground pounders, hit the chopper!”

  He turned his attention back to the Iraqi. “Think again.” He flipped the Talkabout off.

  It was time to draw the helicopter towards his position. Not much of a trick, since they had the basic direction. He looked across the ridges and guessed at where Anderson should still be concealed. He holstered the Browning and unslung the Mossberg. He set the dull black shotgun on the sand next to him. With his other hand, he pulled one of his last grenades free from the clips running up and down the front of his Alice vest.

  He painfully noted for one last time that help would not be coming. If the Iraqi had the signal beacon frequency, then Jonas would be sandbagged as well. It meant they were being sacrificed to this desert. There had been other times when the cavalry never crested the hill. They needed to end this thing now—before the sun set.

  Jerry never made it out of this desert, and every time Harper came to this wicked place, he had men to bury. He checked his watch. Thirty seconds before Hayes and Stillwell started a desperate charge. The chopper would probably lift off before they began their move. He closed his eyes remembering there are no atheists at a time like this. The most hardened warrior recognizes the cloaked reaper standing nearby, patiently waiting.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nostrils. He willed his chest to relax, and his limbs to uncoil. He screwed his eyes shut and wished he had the certain faith Lynn had. He wanted so much to see Jesus, and find assurance he was justified in his fight.

&n
bsp; Twenty seconds.

  The chopper seemed to intensify its motion. Dust and small stones kicked up from the downdraft. The avenging roar thundered on the desert floor. The Iraqis were coming for him. They were coming with their bombs, machine guns, and men. They were coming to punish him for his deeds.

  Fear reached out its bony grip and clutched at his joints. He willed himself to look up and face his adversary. Through the roar, fear, and soon to be flame, he could hear Lynn’s soft voice reading to him: “For it is He who delivers you from the snare of the trapper and from the deadly pestilence.”

  He could see her walking on her treadmill, quietly praying for their day, for her children, for him. He could see her with the notes and prayer journal in their home. He could see her lips moving as she spoke to God for all of them. Her visage came to him with startling clarity now. He snapped his eyes up and saw the rotors lifting the Jolly Green Giant skyward.

  This animal had threatened his Lynn! This brigand for an outlaw nation who calmly talked about harming his Catherine and Grace dared to threaten his very own. Maybe his government was not the best, and maybe his actions not entirely proper. They had threatened the very lives of those he held closest to his heart.

  Ten seconds.

  He pushed his body up, feeling power in his weary shoulders that should not have been there. He ignored the strength sapping heat. The world seemed to explode with wind and noise. He glowered at the mechanical beast coming to kill him. Thirst, hunger, and exhaustion fell away and the still soft voice continued, “No evil will befall you. Nor will any plague come near your tent.”

  Fire coursed through his being. Rage and anger welled up inside of him. In some remote part of his brain, he knew this was the final roll of the dice. It was kill or be killed. It was time to fight, and perhaps die. The world focused with sharp clarity. From his throat came the cry, “Come and get me!”

  He yanked the grenade’s pull ring. He reared back eyeing the open side door. His hand wrapped tightly around the smooth grenade holding the detonator spoon against the sheet metal skin. He started to run in bobbing motion towards spinning death. With a snap of his arm, the deadly ball tumbled through the air in the general direction of the helicopter. He tossed the Mossberg from his left to his right hand and took a grip on the hand and fore end grips.“For a thousand may fall at your side… but it shall not approach you.” Someone was trying to kill him, and he was alive! Someone had sold them out,and he was alive! Someone and threatened his very flesh and blood,and he was alive!