World War III: Not How you Imagined, page 13
They reached Garwig and tried to move him by lifting his body straight up off the rocks that had killed him. But for reasons that were hidden by the darkness, they could not get his body to budge. Frustrated, they both exerted enough force to tear a portion of Garwig’s wingsuit… an impossible task under normal conditions. The incoming helicopter was getting close—too close. As much as they hated the idea, both soldiers knew Garwig wasn’t coming home today.
Failing one last time to break Garwig free from his invisible bonds, Banning cursed in furious frustration.
“Dole, what’s your status?” Laurent asked.
“We’re loading the boat. You better get your asses back here now. I can a see the chopper starting to descend and it has a door gunner,” Dole said with impetus.
“God-DAMN-it,” Laurent cursed as he and Banning reluctantly left their comrade and double-timed back to the pick-up area.
The Virginia-class attack submarine USS Missouri had been on station loitering some 100 feet beneath the surface of the Sea of Japan, just off the southern coast of Yang-do Island. They surfaced and deployed a rubber boat capable of carrying eight people—the boat would be at capacity while returning to the sub.
While two submariners manned the boat that already contained the bodies of the two Air Force pilots, Sergeant Dole had kept the Korean woman with him on land. He had her kneel in front of him to use her as both a shield and to keep her hobbled and disadvantaged. She’d not escape from his grasp except through death. Dole was looking for Laurent and Banning while also keeping an eye on the rapidly approaching helicopter.
Laurent and Banning were running at full speed when they saw the ground in front of them dancing from impacts of bullets being fired by a helicopter-mounted machine gun. They both changed course in opposite directions, making it a decision that the helicopter gunner had to make about which one to choose as a target. They both knew the odds were fifty-fifty that they’d be the next target… but that was the way the tactic worked. Banning wound up being the next target, and when the ground again began to dance, he changed directions a second time. Laurent had stopped and took aim with his Kel-tec short-barreled pump-action shotgun. He chose the tube with slugs and let loose with all seven rounds in rapid-fire succession. The helicopter darted to the left, and whatever degree of accuracy the door gunner may have had went away with the quick movement of the chopper.
Banning and Laurent again began to race toward the pick-up point, but also knew that as long as the helicopter was operational, they could not lead it back to the exact spot where the boat was waiting. When no more than 100 yards from the boat, Laurent decided to make a hard left and lead the helicopter away from the pick-up site and those who would be essentially helpless against the aerial platform. No sooner had Laurent made the football-like cut to the left than he saw a laser beam coming from the ocean. Accompanying the laser was the distant but distinct buzz of a mini-gun in action. He stopped in his tracks. Looking skyward, the laser beam appearing stream of hot lead found its way to the helicopter. The lethal, visible line of high-speed tracers, found their mark. The helicopter exploded and began to fall to earth in many burning pieces.
Saving that image as one to later savor, Laurent turned back toward the boat and joined up with Dole, along with Banning, who had arrived just seconds sooner.
Loading the rubber boat to its weight carrying capacity would have normally been a problem. But the Monarchs were of such light body weight that the boat took them back to the sub with nary a drop of water coming over the edge. They’d accomplished their mission without getting their feet wet.
But they had paid a price that would come back to haunt them in spades.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“If it isn’t good for America, then I’m not interested” . . .
President Timothy “Orion” Barton
THE PRESIDENT’S DESK
Vice President Jennifer Dawson was well respected inside and outside the beltway, which is the magical border that surrounds the lunacy in the nation’s capital comprised of a circular ribbon of Interstate concrete infamous for its continuous congestion. Her tenure as VP had not been like most who’d come before her—under President Barton, she was an integral part of the decision-making loop. Barton, a true and responsible patriotic American, believed that if his second in command was truly only a heartbeat away from the number one chair, she should be up to speed at all times about all things.
Dawson appreciated her boss like no other she’d ever worked with. It wasn’t a continuous contest about who had more potential electoral votes, it was just straightforward doing the business of running the country. His mantra was “If it isn’t good for America, then I’m not interested.” Barton had directed Dawson to be his intermediary on the rescue mission named “Bridget.”
She’d kept a watchful but nonintrusive eye on the status of the mission, getting updates every hour since the team of Monarchs took off from Pope Air Force Base. When she’d learned of their wing-suit capabilities, she’d admitted that she felt her whole life had been spent on insignificant pursuits, like degrees in Political Science and International Diplomacy. When first learning about what Monarchs did to earn their moniker she said, “Now that’s gravitas.”
Since the operation was happening in the dark of night, visual satellite telemetry was limited to infrared. While it did reveal the dynamics of the mission—most of which looked like the action seen in an over-the-top Hollywood adventure movie—nothing replaced the details revealed in a comprehensive after-action report.
However, the visuals were being streamed live into the bowels of the Pentagon, and the vice president had chosen to remain at the White House. She’d not seen the missile explode and overwhelm the screen with its huge blossom of superheated air, or the five Monarchs forced to abandon their preferred stabilized approaches to be replaced with desperate efforts to merely land in one piece. She’d missed all of the visuals that would forever be etched in the memories of those who did.
When she’d been informed that the team of Monarchs had exited Mother, she felt her stomach roll over several times. Minutes seemed like hours to her as she waited for any news about the status of the daring rescue. It was a full two hours before the Secretary of the Navy hand-carried the message originating from the USS Missouri.
FLASH ZULU
031117
2030Z
COMDR/SSN 780
MESSAGE FOLLOWS
BRIDGET HOME ON TIME, MINUS 4 PLUS 1
END MESSAGE
VIPER 601
The vice President read the message silently and understood about half of the format.
“Mr. Secretary, do me a favor and interpret this message,” said VP Dawson.
“Yes ma’am,” said the secretary, taking the message back in hand. “The FLASH traffic means”—the secretary stopped, interrupted by the VP.
“Yes, yes, I know all that… just interpret the meat of the message.”
“Well ma’am, ‘Bridget home on time’ means the rescue team rendezvoused with the USS Missouri at the estimated time. The minus four means there are four fatalities on our team. The plus one means they have taken one prisoner,” explained the Secretary of the Navy.
The color drained from the vice President’s face upon hearing that four of her people had been killed. She was also curious about the prisoner, but only in passing at that point. What she wanted now was to read a comprehensive debrief about the mission. Its pluses and its minuses… of which there were at least four.
“How long before we get a detailed debrief?” asked the VP.
“It could come as soon as a couple of hours, or as long as a day—maybe two. It also depends on the condition of the team and if events are still playing out that need to be in a comprehensive report,” explained the secretary.
Jennifer Dawson took a long deep breath. “Okay, that’ll have to do. But keep me in the loop—the real-time loop.”
“Yes, ma’am; my pleasure.”
Both the VP and the secretary left the small office in the west wing of the White House where they’d entered to have a quiet space to talk. Upon leaving the room, the VP walked toward the Oval Office, wondering how to present the information to a President who held the military close to his heart. He especially felt close to those who did incredible feats—respecting how they were always developing new and innovative ways to enhance their potential, and expand understanding of how to protect the nation’s interests.
She walked through the secretary’s office outside the Oval Office and just pointed at the entry door. The president’s scheduling secretary nodded as the VP knocked on the door of the most powerful man on the planet. The knock was only protocol formality as she entered the office that could one day be hers.
The president sat behind his desk reading one of countless requests for this, that, and the other—most of which he dispatched directly to the circular file. Looking up, he nodded to the VP, holding up one finger while skimming the contents of a request to consider endorsing a campaign about expanding the awareness of professional soccer in the United States. As the VP sat down in front of the president’s desk, he scribbled a NO in bold letters across the first page of the hopeless proposal.
“What’s up, Jen?” asked the president, even though he knew the reason for the visit.
“The first intel report came in from the North Korean rescue. They’re calling it a success, but we lost four people in the process,” said the obviously bothered vice president.
“I see.” The President turned his chair to look out across the White House lawn.
Not yet knowing that half of the mission fatalities were Air Force flyers, the President thought about the five Monarchs—men who were performing a first-time event—and wondered why and how it had gone so badly. They were all very experienced operators; there must be some extenuating circumstances that explained how four out of five were killed in combat. Taking a deep breath, he turned back around to find the VP on the verge of tears. He immediately stood and pulled open a drawer where he had a box of Kleenex stashed away. Walking around the desk, he handed the tissue to his second in command.
“Here. Something makes me cry every day, so I keep these around as backup,” he said with just enough hint of sarcasm.
Smiling through a grimace, the vice president was putting up a valiant effort to have a stiff upper lip. It was very hard knowing that four men lost their lives as she waited safely in her warm comfortable office. She reached out and accepted the tissue. “Thank you.”
“Ya know, kiddo, this is a tough job at times. If you ever sit in that seat, you’ll no doubt make many decisions that cost the lives of many people. You will not be able to extend your safety net around them all. You will lose people. So it’s important to remember that harsh reality, otherwise you’ll be in a rubber room within a month of swearing the oath of office,” Barton explained in a fatherly manner.
She dried her tears while nodding her head in agreement. This incident with the North Koreans was crystallizing her thinking about how the United States should deal with any collection of rabid, one-dimensional homicidal maniacs.
“Yes, of course you’re correct,” replied Dawson. “It’s just that those men have faced so many extraordinary challenges. It seems such a waste that they lose their lives over a fringe country that’s continuously rejecting civilized behavior and demonstrating their contempt for all others by shedding the blood of innocents.”
“Well… You’d better include that in your sure-to-come Presidential campaign speech. That seemed pretty heartfelt and dead on accurate… even a little eloquent,” the president said, wondering what kind of a political opponent she’d be in a knock-down, dragged-out marathon fight for elected office. He’d chosen her because she’d gained immense popularity as a housewife turned political blogger, then a cable news talking head, leading to a term in the House of Representatives. She was a natural in front of the camera and, unlike many previous females who had been a vice presidential running mate, she had a solid mind and could think on her feet.
Coming back to a normal state, Dawson said, “Well, thanks for seeing a bright future for me.”
“Jen, your future is limitless if you want it to be.”
Nodding her head subtly, the vice President shifted gears back to something far more significant than her political potential. “I’ll return with more data the moment I get it. I know you’re anxious to learn what happened.”
“No doubt about that, those were… those are extraordinary men who deserve our very best. I’ve already decided that they’ll receive a presidential commendation for this mission.”
“Good, good… that’s a good thing,” said the vice President, slightly more invigorated having learned that the soldiers would all be recognized for their courageous work.
Offering Dawson his hand to help her out of the chair was his signal that the meeting was over.
Once the vice President had left the Oval Office, the president made a call to the Base Commander at Whiteman AFB in rural Missouri. The call was short and to the point. The commander agreed to tender his resignation immediately.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“We don’t allow no fucking North Koreans on our submarines!” . . .
Chief of the Boat, USS Missouri
UNDER THE SEA
Laurent had sought out the gunman who’d taken the North Korean chopper out with his laser-beam-looking stream of expertly directed mini-gun hot lead. He’d thanked the man heartily for saving their lives. The submariner was slightly taken back by the open compliment and blushed in front of his fellow shipmates.
“When you get to land, I’m buying the beers,” Laurent said, meaning every word.
After giving due thanks, Laurent headed toward the bow of the submarine where the Korean female was being held in lockdown in the captain’s quarters. A Marine guard stood outside the door of the captain’s berth, ready for the most unlikely event where the almost-naked North Korean would try to shanghai a nuclear submarine.
“Has she made any noise, Gunny?” asked Laurent.
“Quiet as a mouse. I don’t think she speaks English,” said the Marine.
Not wanting to embarrass the Marine, Laurent just raised his eyebrows, tilted his head, and said, “Let’s find out.”
Stepping past the Marine, and ducking his head to enter the small but surgically neat nest that was the captain’s place of rest, Laurent found the North Korean sadist laying on her right side, handcuffed to the metal structure supporting the bunk.
“So here you are… hundreds of feet beneath the Sea of Japan, quickly moving toward your future home, the good old US of A,” Laurent said in a tone meant to disguise his heartfelt fury toward the Korean sadist.
The captive woman just looked at Laurent as if she had no interest in his comments. Her back was aching from having been in a difficult physical position, and even though the boat’s ambient air temperature was a steady 68 degrees, she was noticeably shivering.
“Would you like a blanket?” asked Laurent.
“I need nothing from you,” snarled the Korean.
“You say that now… and I just wonder how similar your situation now is to Colonel Johnson’s when she was brought to your little house of horrors?” Laurent said.
The North Korean was mentally ready. She’d spent a lifetime preparing for an interrogation similar to the ones she’d administered hundreds of times to political subversives… most recently and most enjoyably to the American aviators.
“Your pilots were weak, amazingly weak. I am not weak. I broke their spirit within the span of an hour. You’ll waste your entire life trying to break mine,” Kim un do said defiantly.
“Oh, I don’t care about your spirit… not in the least. All I care about is learning how you operate, about what makes a freak show like you tick. I mean, how did you get this way? You’re so far off the scale of human normalcy that it’s hard to find a starting point. But we will, I promise you, we will,” Laurent said while turning to leave.
The shivering Korean did her best to spit at Laurent, but her mouth was too dry and she only made a strange sound as air crossed her lips. Laurent looked down at the prostrate girl and asked, “Are you thirsty?”
Closing the door behind him, he told the Marine to not open the door under any circumstance. He wanted her isolated and, until further notice, deprived of food and water.
“Sir, I take my orders from the captain and the chief of the boat… I’ll have to clear it with them,” said the duty-bound Marine.
“No worries. You clear it with the captain, but until you do, that door stays closed,” Laurent said with a voice that defied challenge. The Marine nodded acknowledgement.
Under different circumstances, Laurent would have been far more civil to the Korean, but he’d seen her work. He had it all on his helmet cam, and unfortunately, also indelibly etched into his memory. Everyone that would ever interact with Kim un do would know exactly how she’d tortured Greaser before ending her life using technology from the Middle Ages. Laurent was unsure how long the Korean would live, but he was certain her life would be extremely limited. She was going to have to adapt to survive what awaited her.
True to his word, the Marine guarding the North Korean paged the chief of the boat. Chief Thomas (Mac)MacKenzie came quickly to the captain’s quarters.
“Chief, that tall guy—Laurent—he told me to not open the door under any circumstances… no food or water,” said the Marine.
“Well, I gave them my two cents worth about havin’ a fuckin’ North Korean on our boat, but if that’s what he said, then that’s what we do,” Mac confirmed for the Marine.
