Return to Honor (23 page)

He reached the airport as the sound of an explosion filled the air. His first thought was that something had happened to the plane carrying Montoya and the ALH. But a glimmer in the air caught his eye. Looking up, he could barely make out the sleek outline of a black jet, a jet unlike any he’d ever seen before. The jet staggered into the air, lurching like a lowlife who’d partaken of too much hashish. The nose tipped down and the jet accelerated toward the ground, going ever faster.

Suddenly, a ball of fire erupted from the jet, and the plane took off into the sky with its tail on fire.

Kamil slammed the car door shut and ran into the control tower just as the bus carrying the militiamen pulled up. Reaching the tower offices, Kamil burst into the control room.

“Quick. Someone tell me what is going on.”

A man pointed a finger at a fire smoldering at the far end of the runway. “We were attacked.”

“By whom?”

“I do not know. They took the bus and killed most of the ALH representatives.”

“The staff car I sent out. Did they get the passenger I put in the staff car?”

The controllers looked at one another. “We think so.”

“
Ifirit!”
Kamil slammed a fist onto a radar console. As he turned, his face grew red. “Who allowed this to happen?” When no one answered, he started a tirade, cursing and accusing everyone present of heinous crimes against the state.

One man finally spoke up. “General, we do not know who it was, or what happened—”

“Of course not, you fool! You will die for this act!”

“But General, we were able to destroy one of their planes.”

Kamil turned and seemed to notice the burning aircraft for the first time. Black smoke rose from a pile of red-hot burning metal on the tarmac.

Once the general calmed down, the man continued quickly. “And we think there may still be some of their men near the runway.”

Kamil narrowed his eyes and scouted the area. “Have you seen any of these men?”

“We were not able to identify them for certain, General, but we have spotted a few of them.”

Kamil chewed this over, then decided to contact Ash’ath. He barked for a phone, and the men scurried to accommodate him. They fully realized their lives might depend on how they reacted in the next few minutes.

Grabbing the phone, Kamil scowled and waved them away from him so that he would not be overheard. Kamil got through to President Ash’ath, pushing past the ingrained bureaucracy, using both threats and his special access privileges.

“I have been briefed on the incident, Kamil.”

Kamil spoke quietly, keeping his voice from being heard by the others in the room. “Yes, Excellency. If it is your wish, I will decimate the remaining intruders. They should be hanged and slaughtered for all to know that it is foolish to deal with Do’brai.”

“I think that will not be necessary, Kamil. There are other ways to deal with this matter. And if these intruders are from the United States, as I am sure they are, then there just may be a way to salvage this debacle.”

“Yes, Excellency?”

“If we act fast, and intelligently, I believe we will be able to strike a deal with the United States.…one to force them to try to save face.”

“I do not understand—”

“I will issue an apology to the United States and offer to safely return their people
to them. Your orders, then, Kamil, are to insure that none of these men escapes.”

“Gladly, Excellency. We will butcher—”

“Do not harm them.
Do you understand? I want them alive.”

Kamil was shocked. “Surely you are not thinking of returning them unpunished? After what they did to us?”

Ash’ath came back gently. “No, Kamil. I do not intend to return them, nor do I intend to allow them to go unpunished. But the United States must be taught a lesson.

“Here we must act carefully. Privately, the U.S. must be assured that Do’brai had no part in their President’s kidnapping—that was something that a splinter group of the ALH pulled off. Publicly, we will deny that anything happened except that our homeland was invaded. In addition, it would be a shame to waste all the news media’s time by having no execution for them to telecast. The United States must know that our country is sacrosanct.”

“Then, the American invaders.…?”

“Exactly. We will allow the ALH delegates to fly on to Kapuir with the Americans you will capture. There the invaders will be executed by the ALH for trying to overthrow Do’brai, a country with whom the ALH has strong ties.”

“But won’t the United States connect us with the ALH?”

Ash’ath paused. “Must I tell you everything? Once the plane departs for Kapuir we will issue a statement deploring the acts of
both
the ALH and the United States. The first statement will blast the United States’ aborted invasion of Do’brai. The second statement will scorn the ALH’s taking matters into their own hands. The ALH will appear to break their promise to us not to harm the American invaders.

“The American President will never be mentioned. The United States will never admit that a lone hijacker managed to kidnap their President—they will insist it was a renegade ALH plot. And once we destroy Air Force One, they will not have any proof connecting the alleged hijacking to Do’brai. As far as they are concerned, the ALH is behind all of this. Just be sure you do what I say.”

Kamil bowed, even though he spoke on the phone. “It is done.”

Chapter 10

0430 ZULU: SUNDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER

The two highest achievements of the human mind are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.” Whenever these twin concepts fall into disrepute—get out of there fast! You may possibly save yourself, but it is too late to save that society. It is doomed.

Robert A. Heinlein

Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.

“Mr. President, we have an ambulance waiting for you. Can you walk by yourself, or do you need help?”

Montoya forced the words. He sounded almost incoherent. “You’d better help me, son. I don’t think I’ll be able to hobble out of here on my own. Just get me to the White House as soon as you can.”

The doctor motioned, and two Secret Service men pushed their way through the TAV and gently helped Montoya to his feet. The marines stood aside and made room for the men.

Montoya grimaced, but the agents took all his weight off his feet and carried him under the shoulders. The doctor led the way out of the hatch. “We’ll have to hospitalize you first, Mr. President. We have to do something about your feet or they’ll get infected.”

Montoya struggled, causing the agents to stop their progress. “Hospitalize me, like hell! I want a chopper out here now.”

“Mr. President—”

“Young man, that’s a presidential order. I’ve got to see to the rescue.” The President grabbed Gould as the pilot emerged from the TAV’s cockpit. “Son, you’ve got to make sure those marines get out of there. You pulled me out of Do’brai—you’ve got to do it again.”

Gould was taken aback. “Yes, sir.…” He glanced at the doctor. The President held Gould’s hand tightly, refusing to let go.

The doctor raised his brows at Gould. “If you can help us get out of your plane, I’d appreciate it.” He then nodded to the agents. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Gould went with them as they moved out of the hatch and into a waiting ambulance. Montoya continued to protest, becoming violent.

The TAV was ringed with guards, the majority of them in the dark business suits of Secret Service agents, but there was a smattering of military, state, and local police mixed in with the rest. Once inside the ambulance, the doctor pulled out a syringe.

“Mr. President, this shot will make you feel better.” He injected the needle and slowly pushed the plunger.

“You better not dope me up. I’ve got too much to do when I get back. And where’s that helicopter? I thought I told you I want to return immediately to the White House.”

“It’s coming, Mr. President. We’ve just had to lay you down for a while.”

“It had better get here.” Within moments Montoya slowly started muttering in Spanish. He giggled to himself. When his head rolled to the side, the doctor ordered the driver: “Let’s get out of here—and fast. He’s in bad shape.”

Gould released the President’s hand as he moved from the ambulance. “Is he okay?”

“He won’t be unless we get him out of here. He’s got dehydration, shock, loss of blood, and it looks like what we call the kidnapper’s syndrome. His blood pressure is sky-high, and he’ll die if we don’t settle him down. We’re lucky the White House warned us about his condition. We’ve got to go.” The doctor slammed the door shut, and the ambulance screamed away.

Gould watched in silence as they left, ignoring the marines filing out of the TAV behind him. An emptiness filled him, a void left over from the rescue and Delores. Great, he thought. What was he supposed to do now?

Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac

Krandel fingered his rifle and fought to keep his eyes open. The clouds above them turned cotton-candy pink as the sun just hit their periphery. The desert’s red horizon turned bright and finally evaporated into a glaring blaze as the sun began its journey across the sky.

To Krandel’s left the TAV had stopped belching smoke, but the smell of JP-12 still reached them, mixing with the delicate morning breeze. They sat in a circle with their backs to one another, waiting and watching for the reprisal. An hour had passed since the other TAV had left. Except for sporadic gunfire and shouts from people unseen, no contact had been made with the Do’brainese forces.

It made the men uneasy.

Krandel shared in their worry but didn’t voice his concerns out loud.

“Colonel, how much longer until they attack?”

Krandel answered automatically. “Fifteen miles.”

“Oh—yes, sir,” the puzzled voice came back.

His flippant retort didn’t seem as funny now as it had back then—was it fifteen years before?—when Krandel, one summer while still a midshipman, served as a ranger for the Boy Scouts at Philmont Scout Ranch. The sprawling scout ranch where Krandel spent one summer taking Boy Scouts up in the mountains brought back memories. The scouts were usually ill-prepared for the arduous mountain hiking, and when the groans and griping started, their exhausted cry soon became: “How much longer, Mr. Ranger? How many more miles until we get to camp?”

And his reply would come: “Fifteen miles.”

No matter how much farther, no matter how much longer—even if the campsite was just around the bend—“fifteen miles” was the standard answer.

Fifteen more miles.

Krandel wished it could still be that simple—achieving sanctuary after a fifteen-mile jaunt through the mountains. It would be a piece of cake.

But things were different now. They were in a boatload of trouble. And like it or not, he was their commander. A genuine, combat-trained, service-ready jarhead—and he was in control. But what could he do?

If the NECC would allow him to control the runway clearer from here, it would add immensely to their firepower. The tank-like device squatted not two hundred yards away—an ugly but fully operable piece of war equipment controlled through the satellite link with BIGEYE. They had planned to destroy it by blowing it up once both TAVs had left.

He felt momentarily ashamed that he’d been flippant with that marine a moment earlier. The man actually looked up to him, and how often does that happen? His thoughts drifted to when he was at the Pentagon. There he was lucky to get even a nod with all the brass strutting around.

Krandel half turned to the men and said in a stage whisper, “They’re waiting until it’s light enough to see clearly. This airport is barely up to international standards, so it’s an even bet that the Do’brai militia doesn’t have any sophisticated gear to see clearly in the dark. Which reminds me—if you haven’t taken off your IR goggles, go ahead and do so now.”

“Shall we toss them, Colonel, or do you want us to keep them handy? They might get in our way later on.”

“Eh?” He hadn’t thought of that. He started to tell them to toss the gear, but he realized that he should be keeping the men’s morale up, too. “No, we may be here for a while. It may take until nightfall for us to get out of here if the TAVs take that long, so don’t throw the goggles away. Toss them in the center with the rest of the gear.”

“Aye, aye, Colonel.”

Krandel turned back to cover his area as the men placed their goggles behind them, into the center of the depression.

The sun was above the horizon now, and the first rays were lighting up Do’brai’s terminal. A low hum of activity permeated the air. Krandel strained to catch voices in the distance.

The drone of a truck engine caught his attention. He felt an overwhelming urge to urinate, but he fought it down. His breath quickened and his heart started yammering. Something was up, and crap was going to hit the fan, and soon. It was the same feeling he had had just before he jumped from the TAV. The sound grew louder.

“Behind you, Colonel. They’re coming from the opposite end of the runway.”

“All right, this is it.” Krandel twisted his hands on the rifle stock. It was already slippery from his sweat. “Wait for my order before you shoot, unless some son of a bitch shoots first. We’ll wait this out as long as we can to save ammunition.

“Cover the area in front of you, and sing out if you see anything.” He wet his lips, then called again while keeping his eyes glued to the area in front of him, “Morales?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Inform BIGEYE we’re about to get crapped on. Find out the rescue mission’s ETA, and have BIGEYE relay the bad guys’ positions to them so they can take countermeasures before they land. And have them tell Washington to get off their fat butts about the runway clearer. We want control of that sucker now.”

“Yes, sir, Colonel.”

The sounds grew steadily louder. The tension mounted, but the marines held their post.

Krandel had a sudden wild thought: What if they attack from all sides? Just throw men at us, wave after wave, until they use their own dead for protection against our fire? It had happened in Korea.…he suppressed a shudder and realized they couldn’t do that. They didn’t have
nearly as many men as the Chinese had had in Korea. But the thought didn’t comfort him.