Payback (16 page)

DeWitt stood there a moment and his shoulders sagged; then he straightened them and stood taller. “Master Chief, I'm going to get the men ready for a call. If you hear anything about our going, yell at us. We'll probably need the time.” DeWitt began running on his way to the small office of Third Platoon.

He went to his equipment locker and checked his traveling gear. His Bull Pup was ready, the magazines loaded for both the twenty and the 5.56. He had filled his combat vest that morning. He set out his favorite floppy hat and gloves with the fingers cut out, and boots. He was ready.

In the small office he looked over the roster. Everyone was fit and ready to fight. Mahanani looked like he had been in a fight, but he was on duty. He had done the O course in good time. The CIA would tell the FBI about Third Platoon. Don Stroh would get his oar in and the CNO would have some input. All they had to do was wait for the call through channels.

His only worry was Mahanani. He had been acting just a little off center lately. Not like the happy-go-lucky island boy he usually was. Something was going on with him, but there was nothing DeWitt could do until the man wanted to talk about it.

DeWitt paced the assembly room. Jaybird spoke up, and stared at the officer walking up and down.

“Troubles, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Huh, oh, no, just thinking how to make the training sked tougher.” He sat down in the chair and stared at the telephone. No long distance, but something should be happening. It was the President and his top advisors up there under the North Korean guns. The Secret Service would have their Ingrams, for short-range stuff. But that wouldn't be much of a fighting force against, say, a platoon of North Ks.

When DeWitt looked into the assembly room the next time, he called the men around. De Witt looked at Mahanani's beat-up face and frowned.

“Who did you pick a fight with?”

“A little old grandmother in a big Cadillac who was seriously confused about which one was the brake and which the gas pedal and just what right-of-way means. I took a fender bender in the Buick. Bumper got dinged, but I had a close encounter with my steering wheel. Lucky I didn't lose any teeth. Figure I'll heal up without any need for more than six or eight pints of O positive.”

“What does the Cadillac look like?”

“No serious damage. Mostly just hurt feelings. I said some rather unflattering things, and threatened to report her to the Coronado cops so they could yank her license.”

“Well, take it easy and medicate those cuts. You're the corpsman around here.”

“Yes, sir.”

DeWitt told the platoon to check their traveling gear. They could get another mission at any time. He wondered if he should say anything. Before he had to decide, Murdock came striding in the room. One arm had a white bandage around it, and the other hand waved a piece of paper. “Gather round, Froggies. We've got a job to do, and we can leave our wet suits at home.”

President Milford Dunnington hunched over the polished redwood plank table in the luxuriously Western-rustic-style conference room at the ranch of his boyhood friend, and studied his top team. He could always trust his right hand and Chief of Staff, Walt Eddings. Eddings had been with him since his days as a State Senator in California. Walt was short and a little pudgy, but had a mind like a computer and a memory better than the best computer chip. The National Security Advisor, Major General Beth Arnold, was a wonder and exactly the right choice. She was still slender at fifty-one, tall, with dark hair, a perfect complexion, and a solid military mind that Dunnington needed. Vice President Grover Paulson sat in as head of the Special Presidential Social Security Task Force. The VP was tall and gaunt, looked older than his forty-six years, and was being groomed to run in two years when Dunnington's second term expired.

Maria Alvarez, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, was on hand. She was tiny, with dark, flashing black eyes, slender, and with an iron will to fight for every child in America. She was a Mexican American and proud of it. Social Security Administrator Leonard Gilstrap was the last one around the mirrorlike table. He had come up through the House and Senate, had been governor of Maine for a while, then been tapped as the man to save Social Security. He was sixty-one, had dark hair, and wore a full beard kept trimmed to a half inch. He had been a Recon Marine and his favorite expression was “Semper fi.”

The President cleared his throat, and everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

“Looks like we're at a point where we need an hour break to think things over. We need to get together on one concentrated plan that will work for everyone. We must come up with a solution to this Social Security problem. Be back here in an hour.”

President Dunnington watched them leave. Even though the lights had suddenly shut down yesterday morning, they had made do. The SATCOM kept working with its batteries. They heard that the electricity was out all along the coast. The right people would work out the problem. He had his own here. Two days and almost no progress. He had to have a bill to send to Congress when they went back in two more days. The President stood and looked out the large windows at a spread of gentle green timbered slopes that ran down to a ridgeline a mile away. He loved the mountains. They were magnificent, and always gave him strength, resolve, and a new sense of purpose.

He frowned as he saw movement in the sky to the west. Two dots that became quickly larger, and soon he knew they were helicopters. Strange. This had been designated a no-fly zone for the length of his stay. He looked a hundred yards from the ranch house at a parking lot usually used for cars, but now holding three Presidential Super Stallion helicopters. When the President looked back at the choppers flying toward the ranch, he saw that they were not going to just fly past, they were heading directly for the ranch house.

A moment later they were fifty yards away and three plumes of smoke came from them. “Rockets,” he said. “My God, somebody is firing RPGs at us.” As he said it two of the smoke trails ended in the parking lot striking two of the Super Stallions. Both exploded in large balls of flames as the fuel tanks erupted and detonated like two bombs. The flaming fuel immediately engulfed the third Super Stallion, and all three burned furiously in seconds.

Two Secret Service agents rushed into the big conference room, grabbed the President, and ran him out the side door and down a long sidewalk that extended to the stables and a heavily wooded area just to the side of the front pasture.

“This way, Mr. President,” Larry Sanborn said. He was the head of the Presidential Secret Service detachment. “We've been attacked and we think that they have troops in the choppers. We have set up a defensive perimeter here, but we have no heavy weapons. It will take them some time to find us. It's only nine
A
.
M
. Soon we'll move into better cover and get away from the ranch house. There is no way we can defend the house with the weapons we have. We must work our prepared emergency plan to disperse into the woods and hills.”

The two men led the President into the timber for a quarter of a mile along a faint trail. Then they came to a clearing in front of a small log house. Behind it a sheer cliff rose fifty feet, and to one side a small stream chattered down the incline.

“Inside, Mr. President. We have some necessities including a SATCOM radio. As soon as it's safe, we'll tell Washington we've been attacked and lost all three of our choppers. We're stranded here until some help arrives.”

“Who did this?” the President asked as he entered the small cabin. It was rustic, but adequate. A bed sat in one corner, a small propane heater and cooking stove in the other. There were no windows, and firing slots had been bored through the foot-thick logs that made up the walls. It was part of a set for an Indian battle demonstration put on by the rancher's staff for guests at the end of the tourist week.

“What about the others?” the President asked.

“I have two men with the Vice President. He's in another secure location. One man was assigned to each of the others, but I'm not sure if they could find them or defend them before any men landed from the choppers.”

“Who did this?”

“We don't know. We suspect the same ones who attacked the cruise ship and attacked San Francisco. North Korea.”

“What do they hope to gain?”

“Our only guess at a motive would be face saving. They were devastated by their defeat recently by the U.S. and South Korea and having to accept massive food supplies from the world to feed their starving people.”

“We feed them so they repay us with sound Oriental logic
by attacking and killing us,” the President said. “Not a good trade-off. How many men could they have in the two helicopters?”

“The birds were small, eight men at the most. They used rocket-propelled grenades against our choppers. Now we wait and see what they do.” Sanborn paused and listened to his earpiece, then nodded. “I have reports that the Vice President is safe, and that three of the Cabinet are with their guardians. We have no report from the sixth member of our group. We're not sure who the three are. I'll get their names just as soon as their guardians feel they are safe.”

“What about the staff here at the ranch?”

“We don't have enough men to provide protection for them. They know the territory. As soon as they heard the helicopters explode, it's my guess that they all ran to some safe haven.”

“Not Barney. He'd grab that forty-five pistol and charge out to defend his property. Known Barney since Nam and he was one gung-ho Marine. Never saw a man who took to the nasty war the way he did. Oh, yeah, Barney would not cower behind a wall somewhere and pray for help. He'd be right in there battling, and this time, probably getting his balls shot off.”

Sanborn touched the speaker in his ear and listened. He looked up at the President. “We've established that Maria Alvarez is the one member of our group we can't account for. General Arnold said she saw her go into the rest room just before the attack.”

Two explosions sounded and Sanborn looked up. “Hand grenades. They may be trying to flush out anyone in the main house before going in.”

“They could have sixteen men?” the President asked.

“That's an estimate, Mr. President. We'll try to get some sightings of them when we can.” Sanborn moved to the side of the cabin and used his lip mike. “Net call. Can anyone see any of the attackers? Are they on the ground yet? Where are they?”

“Six here. I saw them land at the far end of the parking lot. Two small birds. Ten men came out one of them, and
eight out the other one. If we had the ordnance, I'd suggest we splash the choppers.”

“We don't have the right weapons. Everyone hold with your charges. Has anyone seen Mara Alvarez?” The net remained quiet. “Who had Mrs. Alvarez as his charge?”

“Five here. That was number Seven. Williams was assigned to Alvarez. I haven't seen him or heard from him either.”

“Thanks, Five. A chance he's been taken and they may have his radio, so watch what you say on air. Has anyone seen the troops go into the main ranch house?”

“Four here. I saw six of them go in from the north door. All wore cammy uniforms and they had long guns and sub guns.”

“Copy that, Four. Has anyone seen members of the staff? There are still twelve workers on duty this week, down from the usual twenty-four. Any reports on them?”

“Three here. I saw four of the staff running into the brush and woods above the house. They were waiters and cooks, I think.”

“Any more?” He waited. “Okay. Keep the principals scattered as well as you can. Our weapons can't match theirs. As soon as it looks safe we filter deeper into the wilderness away from the house. Don't move more than three miles from the house so we can keep in radio contact. Don't worry about food or water. It takes nineteen days to starve to death. You can go without water for three days. But there are small streams all over the place. Don't worry about the quality of the water. Up here it's all good, so drink it. I want a net check every hour on the hour. Sign off net.”

Sanborn listened as his men signed off in order, except for number seven. Williams was still missing. The rest were all up and doing their jobs.

“Larry?”

Sanborn looked at the President, who had sat down on the bed and was looking wrung out.

“How long will this last?”

“We don't know, Mr. President. We have used the SATCOM on several chanels asking for help, and try for some nearby military. We'll put out a Mayday call on rotating
channels until we get somebody.” The President nodded and lay back on the bed with his feet still on the floor.

Sanborn motioned to his partner, Phil, who took the SATCOM outside, sat up the antenna, zeroed it in, and made the calls on one channel after the next. Five minutes later he had reported to the Secret Service in Washington, D.C., and to two military posts.

The two Secret Service men with the Vice President had planned what to do in an emergency the first day at the ranch. They did that on every location, in every situation. Seldom did they have to follow through on the plan. This time they did. They rushed the Vice President out the back door, followed a trail past the stables, and cut left directly up the slope.

“We get as far away as quickly as we can without being seen,” Dirk Elwell said. After five minutes, they paused in their run/walk and looked back. They could barely see the top of the ranch house through the trees. They saw no men in military uniforms.

“Another half mile and we come to that little ridge we can use as a lookout and as a fort,” Dirk said. They both carried the short-range Uzi submachine guns, belt .38's in the middle of their backs, and hideouts on their left ankles. All short-range weapons.

“Who are these guys?” Vice President Paulson asked.

“Best guess is they are North Koreans and are a part of the attack they made on us in several places. Small, slashing attacks, guerillalike, but deadly. What worries me is how they knew you and your party were up here. It was supposed to be a top-secret getaway.”

“In Washington it's hard to keep a secret,” Paulson said. “Somebody told me that in Washington even the ears have ears.”

Ten minutes later they made it to the ridge and sat down behind it. Looking over the top, they had a perfect view of the ranch house. Trees obscured the rear of it, but they could see the burned-out hulks of the choppers. They saw the two smaller birds at the far end of the parking lot. As far as he could tell, Dirk decided there were no guards around the enemy helicopters.

Below in the cabin, Sanborn nudged the President of the United States. “Sir, it's time we move on. We're too close to the ranch house here. We need another mile at least.”

President Dunnington put his feet on the floor and sat up. “Yes, more distance. You're right. At least I had a short rest. Old bones don't work as well as they did when I was fifty.”

They left by the side door and moved upward. Sanborn led the way, crashing brush, holding branches, making the walk as easy as he could for the President. There was no trail here. They moved at a slant up the hill, then angled back the other way, always working upward.

Ten minutes into the hike the President called a halt.

“Sorry, guys. I need to take ten. Heard anything new on your radios?”

“Nothing, sir. All of our people are moving away from the ranch house on predetermined courses. We had a plan. So far it seems to be working.”

“Hear anything on the SATCOM?”

“No, sir.”

“Get it started up and call AT&T. That thing will hook up with telephones, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try it. Any area code, then five-five-five, and one-two, one-two. See what happens. It could work. Then you get the number of the nearest military base here in California.”

Phil, the other Secret Service man, set up the small dish antenna and aimed it toward where the satellite should be. He moved it slightly until he received an on-line beep from the set. Then he studied the radio a minute, flipped some switches, adjusted a dial, and then used the handset. “Never tried this before. Hey, it works.”

“AT&T information. What city, please?”

“Operator, this is the Secret Service on a satellite phone. I need the phone number of the closest military air base to Sacramento, California.”

“Just a moment.”

“Dead air. I guess she's looking it up.”

“Sir, that would be Lemoore Naval Air Station just south of Fresno.”

“Would you ring the commanding officer, please?” Phil
said. He grinned and handed the mike to Sanborn.