Call to Duty (5 page)

Mackay watched in amazement as the three men staggered in. They were exhausted from the forced march. But he could tell from the looks on their faces that they would be ready to fight after a few minutes’ rest. What kind of men are these? the American thought. He calculated that Woodward had moved around the edge of the swamp twice as fast as he had.

“You Yanks don’t have a monopoly on marching,” Woodward said, “when the bloody clock is ticking.” The pleasantries over, he turned to business. “John, go.” He pointed to the seaplane. The young trooper did not move. “Cover him,” the captain said. Carlin and one of the exhausted men stood up and followed John into the underbrush. “He’s the best sniper we have,” Woodward said.

A few minutes later, they heard the crack of the rifle. Mackay studied the seaplane through binoculars as it moved farther offshore and then halted. The rifle cracked again from a different location. John was moving between shots. This time the seaplane did not move. “He’s probably out of range,” Mackay said. Again, the rifle sounded and the plane moved farther offshore. Mackay nodded his head in approval at John’s marksmanship.

“Trouble,” Woodward said. “They’ve got an inflatable.” Mackay joined the captain and focused his binoculars onto the five Americans. They were dragging an inflatable motorboat with an outboard motor from between two buildings
down to the water, obeying shouted orders coming from the buildings. Two of the girls lay down on the rubber pontoons, shielding it with their bodies while the other girl and two boys hurried back to the building. Now they came back out forming a human shield for two of the men off the fishing boat. One was an old man and both were carrying Uzis. “Damn,” Woodward said. “Get John back here.”

“Not too much we can do,” Mackay said, bitterness in every word, a coppery taste in his mouth. He watched in frustration as the two armed men lay in the bottom of the boat and made the five Americans launch them into the water. Then the five sat on the pontoons as the motor started and the boat moved toward the seaplane.

John rejoined them and sighted the boat through his telescopic lens. His youthful face was calm and innocent as he studied the boat. A man’s head appeared above the pontoons at the bow, guiding the seaplane. John squeezed off a shot and the top of the man’s head disappeared in a bloody mist. The expression on John’s face was unchanged. “Got one, sir,” he said.

A hand reached up out of the boat and grabbed the blond hair of one of the girls and dragged her head down to the muzzle of an Uzi. For a moment, the men froze, certain they were about to witness an execution. “Hold your fire,” Woodward said. The girl’s head did not move as the boat approached the plane.

“Shit!” Mackay said. The rare outburst surprised him; he had not used profanity since he was a teenager. It didn’t help. They watched in silence as the boat bumped against the seaplane and the five Americans were pulled into the rear hatch. They were followed by the old man lying in the bottom of the boat. The seaplane turned into the wind and they heard the engines run up as it started a takeoff run. Finally, it lifted clear of the water and curved out to sea, heading north.

Woodward motioned for them to move out and the patrol shifted its position away from the camp.

Thirty minutes later, Trevor rejoined them. “Thirteen left in camp,” he said holding up two fingers, indicating he had taken out two men who had been trying to hunt him down. Mackay wondered who had been doing the hunting.

A hard look crossed Woodward’s face. “I don’t think
they’ll be going anywhere, do you?” It wasn’t a question. “I would like to know who they are. Should we drop in on them tonight for a chat?” It also was not a question or open to discussion.

“They are being very cautious,” Woodward said. “Look at the way they still maintain cover.” It was night and he was studying the camp with one of the two Pocketscope passive viewers the patrol carried. The fat, four-inch-long night vision scope weighed less than two pounds and could be fitted onto the MP5s they carried as a sight. Woodward handed the scope to Mackay.

Mackay said nothing and focused the scope on the old Gurkha camp. A greenish figure materialized out of the heavy undergrowth and moved toward them. Mackay handed the scope back to Woodward, pointed out the figure and moved away from the captain, drawing his knife. The figure could be either Trevor or John returning from planting surveillance microphones on the outside walls of the buildings. The small, but very sensitive mikes could pick up movement and voices from inside the buildings and were invaluable for pinpointing the opposition.

“Blackpool,” Mackay whispered from under cover. It was the challenge part of the recognition code.

“Rock,” Trevor responded, completing the code. He emerged out of the dark. “They’re pretty good,” the young SAS trooper said, telling Mackay and Woodward what he had learned. “Trained by Cubans, I’d say.” They paused when movement in the underbrush caught their attention. Mackay whispered the recognition code and John joined them.

“Count?” Woodward asked.

“I still count thirteen,” Trevor answered.

“Twelve,” John said. “One stumbled into me.” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “They won’t find him until it’s light.”

“Are the mikes picking up anything?” Woodward asked, staring into the night.

Carlin cupped his hands over his earphones, trying to identify the different voices coming through on his headset. “I’ve got eight identified in the old headquarters building.” He paused, concentrating. “Chinese. Two of ’em are speaking
Chinese.” He handed the headset to Woodward who had studied both Mandarin and Thai. Each member of the patrol had studied at least two foreign languages and Mackay alone spoke only English.

“Mandarin,” Woodward said, identifying the language. He listened intently. “They know we are out here and have posted five men outside as guards. Hold on, one came back in. He says it’s quiet.” Again, Woodward paused. “They think we may have left.”

Woodward moved the headset clear of his ears. “Here’s the drill. Three of ’em are unaccounted for, presumably on guard duty outside. We send three pairs in to take them out.” He called in the first two men and told them to search the southern side of the compound for sentries. “For God’s sake,” he warned them, “don’t stray outside your area. The other chaps will be out looking and I don’t need you ‘practicing’ on each other in the dark.” The two men moved out and Woodward called in another pair. He outlined their area and sent them off with the same warning.

Finally, he called Carlin and John over to him. “You sweep the area on this side of the camp,” he told them.

“Let me take this one,” Mackay said. “Keep Carlin here on the radios with you.” Woodward thought about it for a moment then nodded. Mackay and the baby-faced sniper, John, disappeared into the night.

The two men moved silently through the underbrush until they were against the back of a building. Mackay could barely see John’s silhouette in the dark. With deliberate and slow motions, John pointed at Mackay and then pointed at a spot in the dark, the forefinger of his right hand extended and his thumb pointed down—the hand sign for “enemy.” Mackay understood that John was telling him to take the man out.

Mackay slung his MP5 submachine gun onto his back and drew his knife. He crouched and moved toward the spot John had pointed at. When he reached the spot, he gently moved some heavy foliage aside with his left hand and found himself staring into the face of a man. For a split second, both were too surprised to move and they looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. Without thinking, Mackay’s right hand slashed out, rattlesnake quick, driving the point of his
knife into the man’s throat. He felt cartilage surrounding the trachea give and he jerked the blade sideways. The man collapsed to the ground and Mackay jerked his knife free.

The harsh, gurgling, rasping sound of the dying man trying to breathe filled the night but Mackay could only stand there, unable to move. He had seen corpses before, but this was the first time he had to watch a man die because of his action. He sucked in his breath and stared at his handiwork, a coppery taste in his mouth. His stomach twisted and he could feel his own throat move and his gorge rise.

John materialized out of the darkness and dropped beside the dying man. He grabbed the man’s hair and twisted, shoving his face into the soft ground, burying the gurgling sounds. “Noisy bugger,” the young SAS trooper said. “Sounds just like a busy coffee pot.” He looked up at Mackay, still holding the man’s face down. “First time?” Mackay nodded. “You are fuckin’ quick.” There was respect in his voice. “Next time muffle him, though.” The man twisted and then lay still. John slowly moved his hand away and searched the body, handing Mackay a small radio, much like the ones they carried. He rolled the corpse into the underbrush and stood up. “Press on,” he said and pointed to the building.

Twelve minutes later, Mackay and John had completed their sweep and were back with Woodward. The other two teams had returned, each reporting a kill. “Nine inside,” Woodward said, “and all accounted for.” He then detailed how they would take the building and assigned specific tasks and timing to each man. “You stay with me,” he told Mackay. This time, he got no argument. “It’s on,” he said, “for God’s sake, I want at least two of the bastards alive. The clock’s running. Go.”

Mackay watched the six men disappear and tried to split his attention, falling into his waiting routine. But this time it didn’t work and the face of the man he had killed, his eyes filled with surprise, kept breaking in, demanding the lieutenant colonel’s attention. “It will pass,” Woodward said, reading his thoughts. “It was you or him out there. Better him.” The British captain understood.

The sound of breaking glass followed by the sharp explosions of four stun grenades shattered the stillness. Woodward was counting aloud, “And one and two and…” The crack of
breaking wood and the rattle of submachine gun fire echoed across the camp. Then silence. Two more shots, this time from a pistol. “That’s it,” Woodward said as he checked his watch. “Did it by the clock.” His words were matter-of-fact but Mackay could hear satisfaction and the pride of a professional soldier when things are done right. The radio crackled and Carlin’s voice told them to come in. They had taken three prisoners.

Once inside the building, Woodward surprised Mackay by barking out a series of orders while his men jumped about like puppets driven by fear. A back room was cleared and Mackay watched as Carlin placed two of the small microphones, bugging it. Then the three bound prisoners were pushed inside and the door slammed. Woodward nodded at his men and Mackay realized it was all an act to establish Woodward as a leader deeply feared by his own men. The men cleared the dead out of the room while Woodward listened on the headset, monitoring the three prisoners.

“I’ve got it,” Woodward told them. “The one closest to the door is the leader.” He stood up and walked to the door, motioning for Mackay to follow him. “Smile at the bastard I’m talking to.” He slammed into the room and walked to the man at the far end. He snapped out a series of questions in Chinese, asking for detailed information on where the Americans had been taken and who was behind the kidnapping. Mackay put on what he hoped was a sincere smile. The man being interrogated couldn’t take his eyes off Mackay’s face and he shook with fright. Woodward was getting the reaction he wanted. Then the frightened man glanced at the group’s leader who glared back at him. The man started pleading that he didn’t know. Woodward drew his pistol and shot him in the head, splattering brains and blood over the other two prisoners.

“And just how bloody thick are you?” he yelled at the next man in English. Mackay, shocked by the brutal execution, forgot to smile. It wasn’t necessary. The man was blabbering, his eyes darting between Woodward and Mackay. The group’s leader shouted something in Chinese and the man hesitated for a second. Woodward drew his pistol and the man couldn’t talk fast enough as he kept repeating a name.

Woodward turned to the leader and said in English,
“Where did they take the Americans?” The man challenged him with a hard look and Woodward repeated the question. “I know you speak English,” Woodward said, his voice now soft and cajoling.

The man snarled his answer. “Ask General Chiang Tsekuan when you beg for your life.” He spit in the British captain’s face. Woodward casually raised his pistol and shot him in the head.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Mackay shouted. The numbness of the emotional shock that had bound him was wearing off and he was returning to reality.

“Smile at the bastard,” Woodward said, ignoring the outburst and pointing at the one man still alive. Mackay did as he was told and Woodward repeated his last question, demanding to know where the Americans had been taken. A torrent of words gushed from the man, but he was obviously repeating himself. “That’s all we’re going to get,” the British captain said. Then he shot him in the head.

“You’re a fucking butcher!” Mackay yelled.

“Really?” Woodward answered. “You have no idea, do you?” He walked out of the room and told Carlin to call in a helicopter to airlift them out. “We’ve got to get out of here tonight.” Then he turned to Mackay. “Do you know who General Chiang Tse-kuan is? This changes everything.”

Mackay was speechless. Moments ago this man had summarily executed three men and he was now acting like a perfectly sane and rational teacher explaining a difficult problem to a student. Mackay shouldered past him and stomped out of the building, into the night.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

General Leo Cox, the President’s tall and cadaverous chief of staff, escorted the senator into the Oval Office. President Pontowski stood up and walked around his desk to greet his most formidable and unrelenting political opponent, Senator William Douglas Courtland. Cox stood back and watched the two men meet. The tall and angular, slightly potbellied Pontowski looked like a statesman, his gray hair, blue eyes, hawklike nose perfect for the role. But Cox, more than any other man, had experienced the searing intelligence and im
placable will that lay underneath the man’s surface. Cox was certain that history would have nice things to say about Pontowski and his stewardship as President.