Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  A large man appeared at the tunnel’s mouth, a man with three stars on his collar. The soldiers made way for him and he walked straight for Tompkins. A lifetime had passed since Tompkins had met General Nicholas Angriff, but he would never forget Angriff’s angry face on that bitter cold day so long before, a face that did not look one day older than it had fifty years ago.

  He saluted even though his shoulder ached. Angriff stopped in front of him and returned the salute, examining his face. Tompkins could tell Angriff recognized him, but struggled to put his face with the memory.

  If this man has really had been in the wilderness for five decades, Angriff thought, he looks pretty damned good. Sure, Tompkins had scratches and dried blood on his left cheek, and he needed to gain some weight, but otherwise he looked better than fine, all things considered.

  “Major, you and your men are American heroes,” he said. “I want a personal debriefing, just you and me. I can’t imagine what you’ve lived through. But first, the medical staff is going to check you out; we’re going to get you some fresh clothes and then some hot chow. When was the last time you and your men had a hot meal?”

  “Hot meal, sir?” Tompkins said. “We cooked a snake yesterday, or maybe the day before. A big one.”

  Gads. “A snake?”

  “Yes sir, a green rattlesnake. The Mexicans used to call them Verde Mojave. Not bad tasting when you’re hungry. Just don’t let it bite you. The venom is nasty.”

  “A rattlesnake,” Angriff repeated, as if he could not believe it. “Damn, Major… Tompkins, was it?”

  Dread filled his voice. “Yes, sir. Tompkins, Dennis D.”

  “And we’ve met before?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tompkins’ body tensed and his elbows dug into his sides.

  “Where and when did we meet?”

  “On top of the Hohensalzburg, sir. I escorted you to an airplane that was waiting on you.” He said it fast, as if preferring to get the whole thing over with.

  Recognition dawned. Angriff laughed. “Oh, yeah, now I remember. Escorted isn’t the word I would use, Major. Kidnapped, maybe.”

  “Sir, I was under orders—”

  Angriff held up a hand. “I’m not angry, Major. In a very real sense, I’m here because of you. And I’m glad that I’m here, so I’m glad you… escorted me to my meeting. Now, go get checked out and cleaned up. Have a cup of coffee; it’s pretty good. When you feel human again, I want a full accounting of how and why you wound up on that ridge.”

  A few steps away, Joe Randall dropped his eyes and took a step back. Nick Angriff stood less than ten feet away. Nick the A, in the flesh.

  Shit!

  Somebody pointed at Carlos, someone else at Plotz, standing beside him. Before Randall could sink back into the crowd, somebody shouted he was the mission commander. Angriff turned and waved him over.

  Shit!

  The crowd parted for him. After exchanging salutes, Angriff sized him up and nodded. “You were mission commander, Captain Randall? I spoke with you on the comm.”

  Randall forced a smile and nodded. “Yes, General. The team responded beautifully. They’re true professionals.”

  “Bravo zulu, Captain. I’m damned proud of you.” Angriff shook hands all around and said something to each in turn. He watched a medic bandage Arnold’s hand, injured by small arms fire. “That was good work, Sergeant. You need anything?’

  Arnold grinned. “My grandmother had a recipe for ambrosia, General. She made it at our family reunions every Christmas. Her name was Ather Lee Dowdy Berry, Dowdy being her maiden name. I can't say why, exactly, but tasting her ambrosia again would be special. I've got the recipe.” Arnold tended to be quiet and reserved. Randall was surprised by the long answer.

  “I see,” Angriff said, amused. “Ambrosia? Well, Sergeant, I don’t know what our food situation is yet, but I’ll see what I can do. Hell, I like ambrosia as much as any Southern boy.”

  He moved on, staring at the massive helicopter, and smiled when he came to the image of the semi-naked blonde on the aircraft’s side and the name Tank Girl.

  “Should I pat her ass for good luck?” he asked, and did. Randall smiled back, but it was a sickly smile. After a few more minutes inspecting the massive gunships, the general walked off and vanished in the crowd, heading toward the hangar’s exit.

  As the crowd dispersed, Carlos turned to Randall. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Really, Joe? You’re gonna bullshit me? When you saw Angriff, you damned near fainted. What’s up with that?”

  Randall looked around to make sure nobody could overhear and lowered his voice. “You remember Morgan, don’t you?”

  Carlos grinned. “Tank Girl! I remember her tits; I see them every day.” He nodded at the image painted on their Comanche.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say anything about her tits around the CO.”

  “Yeah, why not? He got something against hot blondes?”

  “Not unless they’re his daughter.”

  “Are you shitting me? Tank Girl was Nick the A’s daughter? Is that why you never used her last name?” Carlos did a double take. “And he just stroked her ass?”

  Randall nodded. “It gets worse.”

  “Worse? Does he know about you two? If he doesn’t, you’re golden. It’s not like she’s gonna tell… whoa, I’m sorry, Joe. That was thoughtless of me. I know you really cared for her.”

  He clapped Carlos on the shoulder. “It’s okay. There’s a little more to the story than I’ve told you.”

  “So give.”

  “Not now. Maybe later. But trust me, this is really not something you want to know.”

  Everybody wanted to be near the CO, to get a look at the legend up close, and most were officers. As a PFC, she could not muscle her way through the crowd; the risk of being stopped outweighed the chance of success. However, her lowly rank guaranteed nobody would pay attention to her until she’d sunk the blade deep into Nick Angriff’s neck.

  Working the edge of the crowd, she spotted a lane opening up thirty feet away, and while she couldn’t see for certain, Angriff had to be moving toward the hangar exit. On the crowd’s outer edge she slid through to where the people thinned out and she saw the man himself, less than fifty feet away and heading right for her.

  Smiling and waving with her left hand, she slipped her right inside her fatigue blouse and brought out a slim blade, more like a crystal letter opener than a deadly weapon. But the slightest cut would allow the poison to enter his bloodstream, with fatal results. Of course, she would not long outlive her target, compliments of the cyanide capsule hidden in her gums, but that did not matter. As a martyr for the cause, her name would be revered forever, an honor which more than justified her sacrifice.

  Angriff strode closer, stopping to salute well-wishers and shake a few hands, showing the famous charisma that inspired such loyalty in his subordinates. Little did they know that within seconds he would be dead, and her only regret was not being alive to witness the hysterical reactions as he convulsed in death spasms.

  Cheering along with everyone else, she pulled the knife behind her head to strike. As she drew in a breath, someone shoved a cloth into her mouth. Both arms and legs were pinned in hands like steel clamps and a low voice whispered in her ear, “Not on my watch.”

  A strong grip pried the knife from her grasp. Fingers grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so a thick collar could be looped around her neck and tightened, like a leash. She struggled as they dragged her away, yet it was done with such precision few people in the crowd noticed anything.

  Her captors dragged her into a small side passage, where the man who seemed to be the leader faced her. His lean face was cut by sharp creases, and he had sandy hair and eyebrows. She noticed his eyes most, however. Dark blue and deep set, she had seen eyes like his in other men, men who dealt in death, the eyes of a killer.

  “Don’t worry about chewing the glass,” he said. “We’re not going to let you do th
at.”

  The cloth prevented her biting down on the capsule, and when she tried to keep her jaws clenched he inserted a metal device between her lips and used a gear to pry her mouth open. Once secured, he reached in and removed the vial.

  “Huh.” He inspected the glass-and-metal tube. “Now we know who sent you. Let’s go find out who else is here and what they’ve got planned.”

  She tried to speak despite her jaws being held wide open; it came out as a gargling sound.

  “You’re already trying to tell me everything you know, right? But if you’re not, if instead you’re telling me to go fuck myself, well, that will change as we become friends. And just so you know that I’m sincere, I’ll tell you my name before I ask you for yours. Call me Ghost.”

  Section 3

  Chapter 18

  If you must choose between being feared and being loved, choose feared.

  Machiavell, “The Prince”

  June 18th, 1951 hours

  “I am sorry, General, but there are no exceptions. I cannot sign off on you taking command until I have checked you thoroughly, according to regulations.” Doctor Friedenthall might have only been a major, but as the ranking medical officer on the base it was his duty to certify all personnel as medically ready to take up their responsibilities, including the commanding general.

  “Schiller!” Angriff yelled. “Get in here.”

  Just outside the glass office perched high above Central Command, Sergeant Schiller jumped from his chair and double-timed it into Angriff’s office, carrying his clipboard. He’d started doing that after the first four times he’d been called for.

  “Yes, General?”

  “Block me an hour with the doctor sometime between three and seven days from now.”

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

  “No, tell Colonel Walling I want to see him A-sap. And get me some more coffee.”

  “General—” The doctor paused. “I have to do my examination right now, otherwise—”

  “Otherwise what?” Angriff raised his eyebrows in disbelief that a major would dare argue with him. Who cared if he was technically correct? “Three-star generals have always been gods, Major, but since I’m now your CO, when it comes to the Seventh Cavalry I’m the only god you’ve got. I understand you’ve got your own job to do, but there are thousands who need your attention right now and I’ve got critical matters that need mine. Savvy, Captain? Schiller will let you know when I’m available. And the next time I tell you something, you’d damned well better treat it as an order from God the Father. Is that clear?”

  Friedenthall swallowed, and then saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  Scowling, Angriff steepled his fingers and stared at his chief medical officer for nearly a full minute without speaking. The air circulators had not refreshed much of the base yet, and the stale air was warm. Sweat ran down Friedenthall’s face, but he held his salute and his tongue.

  “Two more things.” Angriff finally returned the salute. “First, if anybody else says no to his or her mandatory examination, regardless of rank, you tell them it’s a direct order from me and noncompliance will be taken as insubordination to the commanding general. Second, in a military organization this large, the medical services are critical, and that’s especially true in these extraordinary circumstances. I can’t have such a vital component of this brigade under the command of a major; it needs more brass behind it. So go find a silver oak leaf somewhere, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Friedenthall was stunned. “Sir?”

  “Go, Colonel. You’ve got a lot of work to do. I want a full report on where we stand in your department within two days.”

  The newly minted Colonel did not linger. His commander had called him captain when his rank at that moment had been major, and then promoted him. No one could miss the implication — follow orders and all would be well; argue with Nick the A and things wouldn’t be. And with the acoustics in Central Command, that message would have been heard throughout.

  After Friedenthall almost ran down the ramp and out of the headquarters, Angriff turned to Sergeant Schiller. “Too harsh?”

  “Sir, it’s not my place to comment on the general’s decisions or actions.”

  Angriff grunted something like ummp. “You can’t comment to the general’s face, you mean, but maybe over a beer to a buddy in the noncoms club. Sergeant, how long were you in the army before you went cold?”

  “Twenty-three years, sir.”

  “Any specialties? What were you good at?”

  “Sir, I’m just a line non-com. I like being around the men; I feel most useful there.”

  “What is your proudest moment, Sergeant? Tell me about that. What makes your dick feel bigger when you think about it?”

  Schiller blushed. Impossible to believe the language bothered him. Obscene slang was daily fare among those who humped a pack and slung a rifle. But maybe he hadn’t expected to hear it in the sterile office of his commanding general, where everything was chrome, steel, and glass. Angriff waited for him to answer.

  “My platoon was lurping through Indian Country in Kandahar when an IED took out the lead Humvee. The terrain was pretty rough; there was a sharp drop of maybe fifty feet on our right and a rocky slope on our left. The platoon commander was in the Humvee that got hit and his right leg got blown off at the knee. As platoon sergeant I took command. The burps had built a sort of wall about two hundred yards up the slope and opened up on us. The whole thing was Charlie Foxtrot.”

  “Easy to do in Kandahar.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, the ground between us and them was nothing but moon dust and rocks, no cover at all, but I knew we didn’t have a chance unless we could drive them away from that wall. They had slits to shoot through and we were taking heavy fire. I ordered the second Humvee to pick up survivors and gave them two minutes for first aid. We were lucky enough to have an LAV-M with us—”

  Angriff held up a hand. “That’s a Marine vehicle. Where the hell did you get that?”

  “The story I got, sir, was that when the Marines pulled out they left the vehicle for the Afghan Army to use, and somehow we wound up with it.”

  “Sounds like somebody stole it.” Angriff smiled.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. The hardest part was getting eighty-one millimeter rounds at the FOB; we mostly used either sixties or one twenties. The platoon also had a Bradley along; I think it was an M3 with the extra ammo. I ordered the LAV to put mortar rounds over the wall on our left flank as suppressing fire. The Humvees were returning fire and hit one burp just as he was about to light off an RPG. When he fell backwards the round must have exploded behind the wall, because the fire slacked off.

  “Once our wounded were loaded, I had the Bradley floor it around the wall on our left, their right flank. Two RPG rounds fired while we were moving missed, although my vehicle was sprayed with shrapnel and we suffered a few minor wounds. Within seconds you couldn’t see anything because of the dust cloud we raised.

  “We turned the corner one after another and shot at anything on foot, but there weren’t many targets visible. Not wanting to risk collisions I ordered a halt in place, even though it was a risk. Well, the burps were long gone, only we didn’t know it. They had to have gone up the slope and if we had seen them we could have wiped them out.

  “We counted 17 dead T-men, then headed home to get our wounded treated. I felt bad about ground transporting them. Our loot was in a lot of pain, even morphined up, but I couldn’t call in a Dustoff because we didn’t know where the burps were. We got back to the FOB with no further enemy contact. Lieutenant Jaskowitz was medevaced from there. I have to admit, General, I was pretty happy how it turned out.”

  “You should have been, Sergeant. That was damned fine work. It’s too bad Augustus didn’t have you at the Teutoberg Forest instead of Varus.”

  “Sir?”

  “Augustus was the first Roman emperor. In 9 A.D., the same thing happened to three Roman legions that were ambushed in the Teuto
berg Forest, in what is now Germany. They were commanded by a Roman aristocrat named Publius Quinctillus Varus. Varus was warned that he was in danger, but like most Romans of the period he didn’t think his legions could be defeated by the disorganized tribes of Germans. He led them into an ambush exactly like you described, except instead of a drop on one side it was a swamp, with an upslope wall on the other side.

  “When his men were attacked, Varus panicked. A good leader probably could have rallied the legionaires, assaulted the wall, and driven off the Germans. The Romans would have suffered heavy casualties, but most probably would have survived. As it turned out, they were massacred almost to the last man. It sounds to me like you were in Varus’ position, but you kept your head and won the battle.”

  “Just doing my job, General.” Sergeant Schiller paused. “I’m just a simple infantry sergeant.”

  Angriff grinned. “Don’t try to play me, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, no, sir, that was not my intent.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re afraid I’m going to stick you with some administrative duty when you really want to be in a combat platoon. The bad news for you is that your combat is right here in this…” He spread his hands and glanced around the glistening surroundings. “…office. I like you, Sergeant. What’s more, I think I can trust your judgment. So I want you close to me. I want you running my day-to-day operations. Not the whole headquarters, just my office. Think of it as a liaison with the troops in the field.” Schiller started to say something, but Angriff shook his head. “Nope, sorry, Sergeant. Three stars beats three stripes. I need your input and good judgment more than I need you lurping all over Arizona. That’s an order, clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” Schiller said, sounding disappointed.

  “But the news gets even worse, Schiller. There’s a lot of platoons in this brigade, and at some point I’m going to have to replace one of their commanders. When that happens, I already know who my number one choice is going to be.” He pointed at the sergeant. “And while you might like that part, Sergeant, when it happens I’m going to pull those stripes off your sleeve and put a silver bar on your collar.”