Standing at the Edge

by William Alan Webb

  The room beyond gleamed. Spanish tiles glistened in the glow of recessed lighting. Mahogany wall paneling spoke to an unlimited budget and an excess of testosterone. Tiger and lion pelts strewn about acted as throw rugs.

  At the room’s far end, a glass display case filled with items she couldn’t distinguish provided the backdrop for an enormous carved wooden desk. In a high-backed red leather chair sat a heavy-set man with deep bags under his tiny, red-rimmed eyes. A beak nose hung low over a wide, ugly mouth. Arrogance hung about him like the stink of a sewer.

  Another man stood beside the desk, and she recognized a younger version of the older man from his numerous meetings with General Steeple. The young man’s pale complexion, trimmed beard, and black-framed glasses were hard to forget.

  “Mr. Rosos,” she said with a slight bow of her head to the younger man. “Thank you for answering my call for help.”

  With a wide smile, he beckoned her to a chair facing the desk. She felt the plush upholstery soften as she sat, caressing her sore back and thighs like a masseuse. For a moment she forgot the intense gaze of the old man behind the desk.

  “It was my great pleasure, Colonel, although I admit to being surprised at hearing from you. Would you like something to drink?”

  She half-closed her eyes in ecstasy as the muscles in her lower back relaxed into the chair’s embrace. It was a brief moment of deep delight. “Some water would be nice.”

  “Of course. It will be here momentarily.”

  He made no calls or even signals, but moments later a guard showed up with a pitcher of ice water. When the servant had poured for her and left, the younger man waved his hand toward the older one, like a magician’s assistant revealing a prop. “Colonel, allow me to introduce my father, Györgi Rosos, Senior.”

  “I am deeply honored, sir,” she said, half rising from the chair.

  The fleshy man waved her back down. His voice still had a strong Hungarian accent. “It is I who am honored, Colonel. That you would seek my help is both flattering and reassuring. But may I ask why you needed my help? And where General Steeple might be?”

  “General Steeple is in custody at Operation Overtime. General Angriff discovered that his wife and daughter were being held at Comeback and sent in a special forces team to evacuate them while General Steeple was visiting Overtime. My team moved to stop them, but it was too late.”

  “Your security forces couldn’t stop one special forces team?”

  “They weren’t just any special forces, Mr. Rosos. They were part of Task Force Zombie.”

  “The ones you call the Nameless?”

  “Yes. Once they were safely away, General Steeple was arrested. General Fleming has taken command of Comeback, and I assumed it was only a matter of time before I was next, so I escaped to bring you this news.”

  “That was very brave of you, and we are very grateful.” He turned to his son and spoke in Hungarian. “Hozd ide ezt a szukát, de légy kedves hozzá, később szükségünk lesz rá.” Get this bitch out of here, but be careful. We may need her later.

  #

  “I hate these stupid fucking Americans.” Györgi Rosos screamed in Hungarian and slammed his fist on the desk. “They’re all fucking morons. They buy the best fucking weapons and wear fancy fucking uniforms and think it makes them the world’s best fucking soldiers. And Tom Steeple is the biggest fucking idiot of them all. I should never have agreed to let him take command of operations!”

  “If it weren’t for General Steeple, Father, neither Overtime nor Comeback would have been built.”

  The old man pounded the table four more times, like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. “So he’s a useful idiot. So what? The world’s full of useful idiots. I gave him eight billion dollars to get the job done and that should have given my opinion more weight, but did he listen to me when selecting a battle commander? Of course not. He picked Nick fucking Angriff! And now look where it’s got him.”

  Rosos let his bulk sink deeper into the chair. His lips curled in disgust and his scowl made the drooping eye bags sag all the more. Staring straight ahead, he lapsed into the silence that his son knew very well. It meant that a new plan would soon be forthcoming.

  “Our horsemen are seizing anything worth having,” he said, musing. “When does the second group leave?”

  “The day after tomorrow. They’re taking a more southerly route than the first group.”

  “Delay them a few days.” Rosos’ tiny eyes grew beady as he squinted, as if watching something his son couldn’t see. “With Steeple and Comeback lost to us, we need to rethink our strategy. We need to find new allies.”

  “But who could that be, father?”

  The senior Rosos’ gray teeth filled his too-wide mouth when he smiled. Fleshy cheeks appeared ghoulish as the low lighting picked out the deep folds in his face. “I suspect the Chinese might be looking for some new friends about now.”

  #

  SECTION EIGHT

  Gallop

  Chapter 63

  It doesn’t take a hero to order men into battle. It takes a hero to be one of those men who goes into battle.

  General Norman ‘Stormin’ Norman’ Schwarzkopf

  FOB Westwall

  1550 hours, April 20

  Standing orders were to challenge anyone moving on the road below. But when a horde of horsemen hove into view, Lieutenant Marjorie Jones wondered if that order still applied. Major Wincommer had radioed that two companies of his cavalrymen flanked the unknown riders on the north, but calls to those companies had gone unanswered. Were they within supporting distance or not?

  The base overlooked Route 66 before it joined with Interstate 40 east of Seligman, at a point where it cut through a narrow valley. It was the only road through the wilderness west of Prescott. If the riders got past them, they could ride overland straight through the pine forest into Prescott.

  Unable to raise Wincommer, she had contacted Prime and got the answer she expected but dreaded: don’t let them pass.

  Damn.

  A hurried roadblock of stones clearly was too small to even slow the riders, but Jones stationed three people there with rifles. The FOB lay two hundred yards up a rocky slope, behind a formidable rock and wood breastwork. Two fifty-caliber machine guns, an M-320 grenade launcher, and one 160mm mortar made the position dangerous to any attacker, but Jones only had a total of eight people under her command. She’d lost her Marine sniper, Zo Piccaldi, when Prime had recalled him a few days before.

  Jones stepped outside the bunker and focused on the dust cloud in the valley to the west. “Head’s up, Chenko,” she said into a handheld radio. “They’re getting close. Remember not to shoot first. Challenge them and see what they do.”

  “I have to wait for them to open fire, Loot?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Those weren’t the standing rules of engagement, but to her mind Jones didn’t have clear orders.

  “But Loot—”

  “You heard me!”

  There was a pause. “Roger that.” He kept his mike keyed long enough for her to hear him mutter, “What a shit sandwich.”

  Tereschchenko and the other two privates knelt behind their little stone barricade, about six feet apart. The horsemen came on in a ragged pack, their red bandanas bright in the sun. When the lead rider was one hundred yards from his position, Tereshchenko’s radio crackled.

  Through the background noise, he heard the voice of Lieutenant Jones. “Stand up, Chenko. They can’t see you behind those rocks.”

  “Should I paint a bull’s-eye on my chest, Lieutenant?”

  “Do you want a court-martial?”

  “No, ma’am, but I don’t wanna get shot, either.”

  “Stand up or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  The other two heard the whole conversation. By then, the riders had closed to within fifty yards. Reluctantly, they all stood. As the other two trained their rifles, Tereshchenko waved his arms over his head. He kept waving as they c
losed in. Forty yards… thirty-five… thirty.

  At twenty yards Tereshchenko saw the lead rider pluck something from a long sleeve beside his saddle. He squinted, trying to make it out, but when his brain registered it as an automatic weapon, it was already too late. The first burst chewed into his left leg, side, and arm. His two comrades dove behind the rocks as automatic weapons fire raked their position.

  #

  “Open fire, open fire!” Jones screamed.

  The leading horsemen had already passed the barricade when fifty-caliber shells ripped into their ranks. Tereshchenko’s friends on the road lay with their backs to the stones and opened fire on the riders passing their position. Several fell from their saddles before their return fire silenced the Americans.

  Likewise, the storm of fire coming from the bunker emptied saddles and tore up horses, until the riders dismounted and took cover behind the rocks. That was when Jones discovered to her horror that each one of them carried an RPG. Now bullets ripped into their firing slits and smacked the ridge face over their heads, filling the air with rock splinters. Explosions blasted away at their protective walls as a dozen RPG rounds struck within seconds.

  The radioman had called Prime at the cavalry’s approach. With the battle raging, he handed Jones the handset and then ran to the firing line.

  “Westwall, this is Prime. What is your sitrep?”

  The excitement made her voice squeak for the first few words. “Prime, this is Lieutenant Jones.” She stopped and swallowed, which helped. “We are under heavy attack from dismounted cavalry with automatic weapons and RPGs. We have wounded. Need immediate support. I repeat, we need immediate support. I am in danger of being overrun.”

  A heavy increase in firing nearly deafened her. She dropped the radio and ran for the wall. The attackers darted from boulder to boulder, at least fifty of them, while the remainder retreated up the valley with the horses. The bunker was nothing more than a wall of rock thirty feet long, blocking a cave entrance. The wall stood five feet out from the ridge face, making for access on either end. But if flankers got direct fire into one of those openings, they were lost.

  Jones ducked to a new firing port at the exact second an RPG round exploded on the wall outside, throwing her onto her back. Two of her people collapsed around her.

  Dazed, her vision blurry, she heard the radio crackling in the background and people screaming and another explosion. Getting up to one knee, she glanced around and knew the bunker couldn’t hold much longer.

  Then the volume of fire increased again, but somehow wasn’t as loud. It was strange, as if the guns had receded further away. Woozy, she wondered if she was hearing things. But then her three remaining people started cheering and firing like mad.

  Private Dominica Siano tossed her a first aid kit. The bright brown eyes roamed over her face, squinting, frowning, searching for injuries. “Are you hit, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t think so. What’s going on?”

  “The pony boys finally showed up!”

  #

  When they heard firing to the south, the two companies Major Wincommer had sent to shadow the invaders rode to the top of a ridge overlooking Westwall’s valley. Deployed in two lines, the American cavalry, still mounted, poured fire into the attackers’ backs. It was a perfect surprise. Some of the attackers braced back to back and tried to shoot both ways, but died where they stood. Others ran for their horses. A few even made it. One fired his RPG from the other side. The rocket-powered round sailed far over the cavalrymen’s heads.

  Sixty horsemen wheeled their mounts to flee the way they’d come. But the hunters had become the hunted and hundreds of horsemen wearing American uniforms rode straight for them. Trapped in a crossfire, with five or six times their number galloping down on them, the attackers milled around, trying to figure out what to do.

  At that moment the first mortar round landed thirty yards to their rear.

  Some dismounted, threw their weapons away, and lay face down in the dirt in surrender. But the rest, infuriated, machine-gunned their surrendering companions as they lay on the ground. Then they spurred their horses and charged straight for the Americans, Uzis blazing.

  #

  The distance between Wincommer’s group and the enemy narrowed fast as their combined closing speed exceeded fifty miles per hour. At three hundred yards, Wincommer threw his hands out to either side and one company peeled off on each flank. At two hundred yards, he threw up one hand and halted the charge of the two companies following the road. Momentum carried them forward another thirty yards, which put the distance between them and the enemy at less than one hundred fifty yards. He ordered dismount and formed his men into a firing line of some two hundred rifles, while one in five men led the horses to safety, exactly as they’d practiced it so many times. The companies out on the flanks kept riding.

  At one hundred yards, the enemy fire zinged and spattered all about them, but it was wildly inaccurate, although a few rounds hit home. One man went down with a leg wound, another hit in the head, but Uzis fired pistol rounds which couldn’t penetrate their Kevlar body armor. And galloping horses made for unstable firing platforms.

  At fifty yards, the Americans opened fire.

  It was a massacre.

  Even in the waning light of sundown, their superb marksmanship, aided by having their feet on the ground, meant they hit few horses. For twenty seconds, a storm of fire swept over the onrushing invaders from front and both sides, after which there were no more targets. Not one man remained in his saddle.

  Wincommer knew exactly what to do next. “Save any wounded,” he yelled. “We need prisoners but no more casualties. Be careful!”

  A few shots rang out as the cavalrymen checked for wounded and diehards refused their help. Lieutenant Jones and the last two of her command still standing came out of Westwall’s bunker to help check for wounded. The two cavalry companies on the valley’s opposite side rejoined Wincommer. Within half an hour, they had an accurate count.

  A short, wiry sergeant rode to the circle of officers and saluted. “Major, we count one hundred twelve dead, seven wounded.”

  “Only seven wounded, Sergeant?

  “These boys were true believers, sir. At least ten of them chewed glass after being wounded. The seven prisoners are all unconscious and it looks like they took poison, too.”

  “Zip-tie them, Sergeant. If that’s not possible, render them incapable of hurting themselves further.”

  “Yes, sir. And there’s one more thing, Major.”

  “And that would be what?”

  The sergeant held out his hand. In it was a leather pouch tied with a canvas string. He untied it and shook some brown shredded plant material into his hand. The inference clearly was for Wincommer to reach over and take some, so he did.

  He put it up to his nose and inhaled. “That’s tobacco!”

  “That’s what it is, all right. But Major, this is fresh.”

  “They don’t grow tobacco in Arizona, not that I know of.”

  “I’m from Kentucky, Major. My granddaddy was a tobacco farmer. As far as I can remember, Kansas and East Texas are about as far west as tobacco will grow.”

  “If that’s true…” He signaled for the radioman to approach. “Get me through to Prime, on the double.”

  #

  Chapter 64

  I don’t recommend getting shot. It hurts.

  General Norman Fleming

  Operation Overtime

  1609 hours, April 20

  Norm Fleming passed six stern sentries at the doors to headquarters. Two more stood at the foot and head of the ramp leading to the Crystal Palace. Technicians swarmed over the communications stations below the platform and a few more worked on the damage inside the Clam Shell itself. Everyone saluted as he passed, their eyes lingering on the bandage strapped to the right side of his face.

  He found Angriff behind his desk, bleary-eyed. “I want a transfer,” he said.

  Angriff laug
hed. “Yeah, me, too. Let’s leave together.” He pointed with his chin. “Does it hurt?”

  “Honestly, yes, it hurts a lot. They wanted to give me pain meds but I said no. I’m a fool.”

  “How are Walling and Schiller?”

  “Walling’s foot is a mess. He’s out of surgery, but it will be a few days before he’s up and around. The doctor says he’ll be in a hard cast for two months and a soft one for six weeks after that. Although hit twice, J.C.’s were both non-life-threatening and clean. Both through-and-throughs, if you can believe it. He’s going to limp for a while, but he should be back in a few days, at least to man his desk.”

  “You don’t need to be here. Go get some rest.”

  “We’ve got lurps and slurps out there over my plans, some mysterious woman from Creech shows up, then out of the blue we get a radio message from Australia, you’re sending a Blackhawk north with no idea what’s going on up there… I appreciate the thought, Nick, but I think I’ll get back to work.”

  They turned at a knock on the door. Rip Kordibowski stood there.

  “I don’t like that look,” Angriff said.

  “Task Force Saber just fought a major engagement with the cavalry they were trailing. The enemy force attacked FOB Westwall, but Saber’s C.O., Major Wincommer, had flanked them and they didn’t know it. The enemy was caught in a three-way crossfire and destroyed. Our losses were two dead, seven wounded. Enemy casualties were one hundred nineteen dead. Wincommer said the enemy wounded committed suicide rather than be taken prisoner.”

  “Suicide? Who are these people?”

  “Nobody knows, General. Their only identifying marks are the brands on their arms—”

  “Not G-R again.”