Call to Duty (14 page)

“Where the hell we goin’ this time?” Gillespie asked. They had only been told to take their tropical gear and pack for a thirty-day TDY, temporary duty.

“You ever been to the Windsor Hotel in Bangkok?” E-Squared asked Gillespie. Gillespie shook his head. “You’ll like it,” the boyish-looking major assured him. “It’s party time.” Eric “E-Squared” Eberhard was infamous for his wild and, at times, very wicked ways. He was also the best aircraft commander in the wing and could employ his MC-130E with a skill, courage, and determination that was the textbook example of what a Combat Talon could do. “We got some serious flying to do. The Beezer has already taken off and will start the party without us.” Hal “the Beezer” Beasely was a
craggy lieutenant colonel who flew AC-130 gunships called SPECTRE and shared E-Squared’s penchant for wild parties.

“At least we got a clue now,” Gillespie told his crew. This was shaping up to be a major training exercise.

Fort Benning, Georgia

Command Sergeant Major Victor Kamigami ran down the dirt road, his size-twelve combat boots pounding the hard dirt. He was running alone, much to the relief of the other platoons also doing their early-morning physical training. They all had a healthy respect for the CSM, command sergeant major, a huge Japanese-Hawaiian who stood six feet four and weighed 260 pounds, and hated it when he ran with them. Invariably, Kamigami would set a bruising pace and wear them out. As usual, he wore combat boots, fatigue pants, and a T-shirt, refusing to go along with Army regulations that required shorts and running shoes for physical training. Kamigami claimed that he intended to fight in fatigues and combat boots and would train that way. No one bothered to contradict him. He ran past a platoon moving more slowly down the road and ignored them, deep in thought. “Thank you, Lord, for big favors,” the lieutenant leading the platoon mumbled aloud, meaning every word.

On this particular morning, Kamigami was thinking about his last assignment before retiring. He knew it was time to leave the Army, for he was wearing out and slowing down. At first, he had ignored the occasional morning stiffness and the times he could no longer catch a fly between his thumb and index finger on the first try. Then he had accepted it all with philosophical calm. He had no idea what he would do in civilian life, since he had been in the Army since he was seventeen. It had been his life. He thought about his only child, Mazie, who had a good job in Washington, D.C. She had always been the smart one in the family and she might have some good suggestions. Maybe he should take the assignment to the Pentagon that had been offered him. At least, he would be near his only child. He probed his feelings about that offer—Command Sergeant Major of the Army. What a final act, he mused. Then he rejected it.

Back in his office at Division, showered and dressed in a
class B uniform, Kamigami was ready to go to work. He glanced at his watch and decided that an old buddy in charge of senior NCO assignments in PERSCOM, Personnel Command in the Pentagon, should be at work. He grabbed the phone, his massive hand engulfing the receiver, and poked at the buttons. “Brew,” he said, his soft voice totally at odds with his size, “I don’t want it. I’d go crazy in the Pentagon. Nothing but fumble artists and pigeonholers puzzling their way to a promotion there.” He listened to the protests from the other end for a few moments, his round face impassive. “The rumor mill has it that Delta Force is going to need a new CSM.” He listened as the man told him it was out of the question. “Brew, when was the last time you had your attitude adjusted?” he asked. Then he hung up, confident that the skids would be greased and the orders assigning him to Delta Force at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, as command sergeant major would be in the mail that day.

Bangkok, Thailand

Samkit zipped Heather’s dress up and stepped back to inspect her. “Very pretty, missy,” she said. Heather studied herself in the big mirror in her bedroom and smoothed the sides of the very short, skin-tight, black cocktail dress. Heather had discovered that Chiang preferred her to dress on the flashy side when they were alone and much more conservatively when they went out in public. She was his constant companion now and he was introducing her to the power brokers of Thai society. But they would be alone tonight and she plotted how to entertain him. Chiang was very pleased with her performance in the bedroom but, increasingly, she had to rely on DC for coaching on more intellectual matters. Chiang was proving to be very sophisticated and cultured and Heather sensed that if she was to survive as his consort, she would have to be his match.

“I hope DC knows what she’s talking about,” Heather said as she walked out the door.

The testing started after dinner when they were sitting on the veranda enjoying a cool breeze and the soft fragrances of the garden. “You seem to be enjoying yourself lately,” Chiang said.

The truth of his simple statement surprised Heather. “Yes, I am.”

“Unfortunately, I must return to Burma. My home there does not offer the same amenities as Bangkok. I was hoping that you would accompany me.” Then he offered her the choice. “Or you may return to the States, if you wish.”

“Oh, I would rather go with you,” she said without hesitating, passing the test. “Would it be possible for DC to come? She and I are good friends.”

Chiang nodded, pleased with her answer. He had no intention of releasing any of his hostages but he did prefer Heather to be a willing captive. It made things so much easier. “Of course,” he agreed. “Perhaps I can do something else for you before we leave?”

Heather considered his offer. As before, she considered what she could do that would draw her closer to him. “I still have nightmares about what happened on the boat. I wish they would end. If that old fisherman—”

Chiang finished the thought for her, “—would receive the justice he deserves?”

“Yes,” Heather answered. “Exactly.”

“That is a simple matter,” Chiang assured her. “Is there anything else?”

“I want my father to know about it.”

Chiang nodded and sipped his cognac. She was his.

The anger that had been brewing inside Nikki Anderson was nearing the boiling point, and with each visible step Heather made in improving her status with Chiang, the more her anger steamed. It spewed into the open when she saw Heather get out of the white Rolls-Royce with Chiang and board the waiting Gulfstream III executive jet at Don Muang airport. “Look at that bitch.” She spat. “She’s fucking her way out of this mess.” The guard motioned for her and DC to get out of the Land Rover and follow them on board. Ricky and Troy followed, both handcuffed.

“We got to get out of this place,” Troy grumbled.

“You got any ideas?” Nikki asked.

“Yeah. We start by beating the shit out of a few of these muthafucking goons.” A guard pushed him on board the Gulfstream.

A saffron-robed Buddhist monk watched as the Gulfstream taxied out to the main runway. He checked the jet’s flight plan, saw that the destination was listed as Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, and went outside to hitch a ride.

The Gulfstream landed at Chiang Mai fifty-five minutes after taking off and taxied to a parking spot on the ramp near the main terminal. Four white Range Rovers were waiting for the passengers and the transfer was quickly made. Inside the terminal, a stout German watched with seeming disinterest before he detached himself from a group of German tourists waiting for their baggage and hurried outside to his car.

The Range Rovers were sandwiched between two trucks, forming a small convoy as they moved down the road. Troy Spencer and Nikki Anderson were in the last Range Rover with a guard and the driver. From his seat in the back, Troy kept looking out, trying to determine where they were headed. “Where we goin’?” he asked a guard. The man snapped a command at him in a language he didn’t understand.

“I think that means ‘shut up,’” Nikki said from the middle seat. The driver shouted the same command and she fell silent. Not able to talk, she concentrated on the odometer and mentally calculated how many kilometers they had traveled since leaving the airport at Chiang Mai. They had covered seventy-five kilometers when they turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road. The cars in front of them kicked up a cloud of reddish dust and they had to roll up the windows, stifling in the heat. After an hour of sweating, Nikki said, “Please turn the air conditioner on.” To her surprise, the driver did as she asked and cool air flooded into the car. The driver gave her a toothy smile as the convoy ground to a halt. The driver climbed out of the Range Rover to check on the delay. “Now what?” Nikki grumbled. Four men spilled out of the rear truck and talked to their guard. Then the guard jumped out and disappeared into the bushes to relieve himself. The rest of the men clustered around the open hood of the lead truck.

“Breakdown,” Nikki said. She turned around to face Troy. “The keys are still in the ignition.”

Troy moved fast and dove into the middle seat and rolled into the floor next to her. “Did they see me?” he asked.

“No,” Nikki answered. “They’re all moving over to the far side of the truck. I can’t see our guard.”

“Now or never,” Troy grunted and he rolled into the front seat. He lay in the seat and fumbled at the key ring until he found the key to the handcuffs. Once free, he started the engine, still lying in the seat. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Nikki told him. Troy moved behind the wheel, slipped the Rover into gear, and released the parking brake. He turned to the left, away from the side where their guard had disappeared into the bushes, careful not to race the engine. Nikki held her breath as Troy idled the Rover through the turn. Then they were around and on the shoulder, still moving, still undetected. Now they were past the truck and in the clear. “Go!” Nikki shouted, not able to stand it any longer. Troy gunned the engine and raced back down the road. It was a mistake. Their guard heard the engine rev and ran out of the bushes to investigate. He managed to get off a short burst from his submachine gun before the Rover disappeared around a bend. “He missed!” Nikki shouted triumphantly. “They’ll never catch us now.”

“Yeah,” Troy agreed. “This is one sweet machine and can move. And they’ve still got to get turned around. No way they’ll catch us.”

He was wrong. A bullet had ricocheted off the road into the gas tank and fuel was streaming out behind them. They had not reached the main highway before the engine died from fuel starvation. Troy swore and slammed the door open, running into the jungle that lined the road. Nikki was close behind him. Another mistake. They should have gone back up the road, toward their pursuers, and entered the jungle at a point away from the abandoned vehicle. Their pursuers would have searched for them in the opposite direction. As it was, they left a clearly marked trail behind them. Twenty-five minutes later, they heard one of the guards crash through the underbrush, only a few meters behind them. Troy pulled Nikki into a dense clump of undergrowth and waited. When the guard walked past them, he jumped on the man and tried to strangle him, finally able to give action to the fury that had been growing in him like a cancer. Nikki joined in the fight and wrenched his submachine gun out of his grasp. She
jammed the muzzle into his stomach and the man collapsed in pain.

Troy grabbed the weapon and was methodically beating the man’s head in when three other guards surrounded them. One shot him in the leg. One man threw Nikki to the ground and kicked her in the side while the others examined their dead comrade. They talked and reached an immediate agreement. One of the men tied a rope around Troy’s wrists, threw the line over a tree branch, and hoisted him up, his feet barely off the ground. Another guard unsheathed his machete and walked over to the American. Troy twisted and shouted from the end of the rope, his eyes wide with fear. He kicked at the guard who only sneered and swung the machete, almost cutting Troy’s foot off. Then he methodically worked his way up, hacking at Troy’s thighs before slamming one vicious cut into his stomach, making a dull thumping sound. He continued to hack.

Nikki screamed until a guard pounded her into unconsciousness.

The men had left, leaving the grisly remains of Troy Spencer hanging in the tree and dragging Nikki Anderson behind them. A man stepped out of the underbrush—the German from the airport terminal. His face was granite hard as he pulled a small camera from his shirt pocket and snapped three photos. Then he disappeared back into the underbrush.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“Have you every been to Wally World?” the driver of the U.S. Army staff car asked. No answer. He wheeled the car onto the side road. “This is Chicken Road,” the driver said, “and that big white stucco building with the red tile roof and chain-link fence is Delta’s compound.” Still no answer. “It was built in the eighties…” His voice trailed off since he had relayed all he knew about Delta Force, which was considerably more than most people knew.

Kamigami sat in silence as they drew up in front of the compound. Four NCOs were drawn up waiting for his arrival: the command sergeant major he was replacing and the sergeant majors from each of Delta’s three squadrons. They
were wearing dress greens with bloused trouser cuffs and green berets. All came to attention when he got out of the car and walked up the steps. “Welcome to Delta,” the retiring CSM said.

“Who you trying to impress, Caz?” Kamigami asked. They were old friends. “I thought Delta was allergic to drill and ceremonies?” The men of Delta were an extremely focused group and their professionalism was so great that they paid little attention to the formal trappings of the military.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the retiring sergeant, Caz, said. “I’d never ask them to march. They’d only embarrass themselves.”

“You can take them out,” Kamigami deadpanned, “but you can’t dress them up.”

“Absolutely right,” Caz replied. “Nothing’s changed. Come on, let’s take care of the paperwork so you can get down to business. The CO, Colonel Robert Trimler, is at headquarters USSOCOM. He should be back by the weekend. That’ll give you a chance to get acquainted with the troops.”