Call to Duty (8 page)

He rolled in for the last time, determined to destroy the E-boat. He was pressing, thumb over the trigger, almost in range of the lethal twenties when a barrage of tracers from the E-boat reached out to him. There were now three batteries firing at him. Where had the extra guns come from? he thought. He mashed the button, emptying the four cannons into the E-boat. He was pulling off when the Beau rocked from a series of hits. Zack was vaguely aware that pieces of his right wing were shredding and the always heavy controls were suddenly lighter, but they were still flying.

Now pain ripped through his right leg, more intense than anything he had ever felt. “Oh my God,” he said weakly, and for a moment he was certain he was going to die. Then a granite-hard determination chased any fear of death away. He wasn’t going to die until he had Ruffy safe on the ground.

“Ruffy!” he shouted, knowing there was no way the young Englishman could hear him over the noise in the Beau. But he felt better for trying. No answer. Automatically, he transmitted, “Mayday! Mayday!” over the radio. But it was dead.

“Fly the airplane,” he told himself, forcing his attention onto the controls and instruments. The control column felt sloppy and loose in his hand but the rudder pedals felt normal. The Beaufighter was flying but was not responsive. At the same time, he glanced at the instrument panel. The lamps used for illuminating the panel were out and he couldn’t read the instruments. “Hell of a time for power failure.” He fumbled for the flashlight he carried in the left leg pocket of his flying overalls. “Engines sound good, must have cut the wiring.” He was vaguely aware of the loud wind noises. He directed the beam of his flashlight onto the instrument panel. Only the engine gauges were still alive. All his flying instruments were dead.

No, wait, he cautioned himself, you’ve still got an altimeter. “Jesus Christ!” he exploded. They were at sea level and he had almost inadvertently crashed into the sea. He eased back on the yoke. Nothing. A sudden dizziness swept over him. Was he going to pass out? The pain was still with him, drawing his attention away from his primary duty, flying the Beau. “Am I bleeding?” he asked himself aloud. He forced the beam onto his right leg and almost passed out. His lower leg was drenched in blood. How long have I been bleeding? he thought.

With a massive force of will, he drove away the dizziness that threatened to engulf him and he fumbled for the first aid pouch that was under his seat. His fingers searched for it but couldn’t find it. He bent his head to look and almost passed out. Dumb, he thought. Now his fingers felt the kit and he grabbed it, shaking it out in his lap, fumbling with his left hand until he found a large compress bandage. He tore it open with his teeth and bent over, holding the control column against his shoulder and shoving the bandage into the open wound. Then he tied another bandage around it, slowing the bleeding to an ooze.

“Now fly the damn airplane,” he told himself. “Ruffy!” he shouted. Still no answer. “Altitude, go for altitude.” Again, he tested the yoke but the Beau didn’t climb. He reached for
the elevator trimming tab wheel on his right and rolled it back, feeding in nose-up trim. He eased the throttles forward and the plane climbed.

“Where’s home?” He knew he was talking to himself but it seemed to help. Again, he used his flashlight to check the instrument panel. The turn and slip indicator was also good. Concentrate, he warned himself; you’re missing things. He checked the reliable AM Mark II compass on the right console that he used to set the gyro-stabilized direction indicator. They were headed to the southeast—toward the continent. “Wrong way,” he muttered. He pressed on the left rudder pedal, favoring his wounded right leg, and turned the wheel to the left. The Beau responded slowly and the turn and slip indicator told him it was an uncoordinated turn. “Must have lost the ailerons.”

The Beau started to shudder and he eased off the turn, again flying straight and level. He checked the compass. They had turned less than six degrees and were still headed for the German-held coast. He reached for the rudder tab control forward of compass and fed in trim, calculating that if it had worked with the elevator to climb, he could turn the same way. Nothing happened. “Damn!”

A blast of air and wind noise behind him caught his attention and for a split second, he was certain that the Beaufighter was coming apart, disintegrating from the battle damage it had taken. He turned his head slowly, not wanting to bring the dizziness back on. A feeling of relief swept over him when he saw Ruffy crawling through the opened armor-plated doors. A heavy bandage was wrapped around his head and he was moving slowly. “Not bloody much left back there,” he yelled at Zack. His voice was strained and labored. “The fin’s all but shot away, right wing looks like a sieve.”

“Left wing?” Zack shouted over the noise.

“Ailerons are in bits and pieces.”

The control problems now made sense to Zack. They were lucky to still be flying. “We’re going to have to ditch.” He explained the situation to his radar nav. “I can climb and probably descend, but I’m afraid if I jockey with the power too much or try to turn, I’ll lose control.”

“Plenty of open spaces in the back to crawl out through,” Ruffy told him. The nose-heavy Beau had a reputation for
turning into a death trap on ditchings. “The Jerry worked us over good. New tactic, using E-boats as a flak trap like that.”

“Think it was Young Ernst?” Zack asked.

“Most likely,” Ruffy answered. “The Intel types need to know about it. Maybe you got the bastard.”

“Worry about that later,” Zack said. He checked the compass again. “We’re on a heading of one-four-zero degrees. Not good.”

Ruffy pulled a map out of his leg pocket. “Need your torch,” he said. Zack handed him the flashlight over his right shoulder. Ruffy studied the map for a moment. “If we don’t get turned around, we’ll hit the coast of Holland. Really not the tourist season, this time of year.” Ruffy was unflappable and never changed.

“Hold on. I’ll see what I can do.” Zack inched in the power on the right engine, experimenting with differential power and turning into his good wing. Again, the Beau started to shudder and he eased the throttle back. “She only wants to go straight ahead,” he told Ruffy.

“Bloody cow,” Ruffy swore.

“Where do you think we should ditch?” Zack asked. “Here or closer to shore?”

“Any chance of being picked up?”

“The R/T is dead,” Zack answered.

“It does tend to get a bit cold in the water. We won’t last long even in a dinghy.”

“Okay, we go for the coast, put her down in shallow water, might not sink. Maybe we can make contact with the Dutch underground.”

“More likely with the Gestapo,” Ruffy predicted.

“Better destroy your box,” Zack said, not wanting their radar to fall into the hands of the Germans.

“Don’t have to,” Ruffy told him. “The Jerries took care of that.” A shell had hit the radar set and it had blown up. Luckily, Ruffy had been looking to the side and the fragments had cut into the side of his head, missing his face.

Silence came down as they droned into the night. Neither was overly optimistic about their chances of avoiding capture but it seemed better to take their chances on land than in the frigid waters of the North Sea. Zack wracked his brain thinking of ways to make the Beau turn, but every attempted ma
neuver started a vicious shaking and forced him to keep the aircraft straight and level.

Ruffy saw the coast first. “There,” he said, “straight ahead.” Zack could barely make out the dim line of the horizon that marked the low sand dunes of the Dutch coastline.

“Strap in,” Zack told him as he eased the Beaufighter down to the water’s surface. He tried to estimate how far out they were but gave up. He watched the altimeter unwind down to zero as he fed in nose-up trim and retarded the throttles. They settled into the water tail first and he cut the engines.

The Beaufighter came down with a hard slap, leaped back into the air and bellied back down only to bounce into the air again. On the fourth bounce the Beau dug its nose into a low swell and Zack was certain they were going to pitch-pole onto their back. But the Beau flopped back onto its belly and skidded to a halt. Then it nosed over and started to sink.

For a stunned moment, Zack sat in the cockpit, not moving. He was vaguely aware that his face was bleeding. “Ruffy!” he yelled, releasing his safety harness and twisting in his seat to see if his friend was okay. But the armor-plated doors had slammed closed. His fingers tore at the buckles on his parachute harness. He had to shed it if he was to get out through the big easy-out window on the right side of the cockpit that had been designed for ditching. He pulled himself up and released the latches to the hatch and pushed it open. Then he reached behind the seat and pulled on the dinghy but it wouldn’t move. In a panic he remembered that he had to unstrap it but water was gushing through the hatch and the cockpit was under water. The Beau was going down fast. Panic drove him and he fought to pull himself through the hatch.

Somehow, he pushed free of the sinking aircraft and clawed his way to the surface. He twisted around, inflating his life jacket and looking for his navigator. “Ruffy! Where the hell are you?” No answer. He swam furiously around the spot where the aircraft had sunk. He stopped flailing and pulled the flashlight out of his leg pocket. He mashed the button but no light came on and he let it slip out of his fingers as a deep despair for his missing friend rolled through him.

He lay in the water and for a moment welcomed the
thought of death. But suddenly, a much stronger emotion washed over him—revenge. He twisted in the water trying to get his bearings and determine where the shore was. He was completely disoriented. A low sound caught his attention. “Surf?” the pilot mumbled. Now he could hear a barking dog. “Chrisamighty! Please, not sentries.” With measured strokes, he swam toward the sound, dragging his legs behind him. The sound of the crashing surf grew louder.

“Keep moving,” he told himself as the biting cold numbed his body. “Keep moving.” Now he could see flakes of white in the surf in front of him and low sand dunes. “Where’s that damn dog?” The dark shadow of a small boat emerged out of the dark directly in front of him and Zack could see the distinctive silhouette of a man looking at him. A hand reached out and grabbed the harness of his life jacket. He tried to resist and push away, but the hand pulled him back and he hit his head against the side of the boat, stunning him. Another set of strong hands helped drag him into the boat.

The hunger for revenge that had driven him to shore drowned in a tidal wave of helplessness and fear.

Bangkok, Thailand

The first tremors of fear brushed past Samkit when the gates leading into the villa grounds rolled back and two white Range Rovers rolled into the courtyard. A gleaming pearlescent-white Rolls-Royce followed, crunching across the carefully raked gravel and sending yet a stronger shock wave rippling through the villa. Two more heavily armed Land Rovers brought up the rear of the convoy. The gates rolled closed and a foreboding silence ruled, punctuated by the heavy slamming of car doors. Samkit faced into the epicenter of the disturbance and made a
wai
, her hands together as if in prayer, a nod of the head, eyes closed and her face alight with a beautiful smile when General Chiang Tse-kuan walked past.

Two of the general’s secretaries scurried after him, one a short dumpy man, the other a stylishly dressed middle-aged Englishwoman. “They should be here in six minutes,” the woman told the general.

“I’ll meet them on the veranda,” the general said, his voice carrying the accent and inflection of an English public school education. He was a slender and dignified Eurasian in his mid-fifties, dressed in an expensive Savile Row linen suit. His cosmopolitan bearing made the unsuspecting think of a wealthy and sophisticated Hong Kong businessman. The male secretary spoke briefly to Samkit, telling her to make sure the veranda was clean and in good order.

Samkit gathered two of the other servant girls and ran across the lush garden, past the swimming pool and to the veranda. Samkit’s legs snapped against her tight pasin, the traditional saronglike tubular skirt that reached to her ankles. Still, the slender forty-two-year-old woman never lost the graceful bearing that pleased the general. Her practiced eye
inspected the veranda and she set the two girls to work while she arranged the table and chairs the way the general preferred. When she was satisfied that all was in order, she and the girls withdrew into an alcove to await their master and be available for whatever he might require. They would return to their normal routine after the seismic shocks upsetting the villa subsided. She used the time to make sure her jet-black hair was still in place, drawn back into a tight bun, her blouse tucked neatly into her pasin, and that her face was composed and serene. Samkit Katchikitikorn was a lithe and charming Thai who was careful to appear the loyal servant. She feared Chiang and what he would do if the truth was discovered. But her loathing of the man and all that he represented drove her on. Samkit accepted the future and her fate since both were beyond her control.

The two young girls stopped their nervous chatter when Chiang’s bodyguards walked out of the main house. Samkit could feel the girls stiffen with apprehension when Chiang appeared. But her attention was captured by the six people being escorted by four armed guards across the garden. “The old man looks like a fisherman,” one of the girls whispered.

“He is,” Samkit answered.

“Are those Americans?” the other girl asked. The three girls and two young men were a scraggly group, all wrapped in saronglike thin towels. Four of them stood quietly with their arms folded in front of them. Only the blond-haired man was handcuffed and agitated.

“Hush, child,” Samkit said. She watched as the old man went through the ritual of greeting Chiang and begging his attention.

“Why should these Americans be of any interest to me?” Chiang asked, speaking fluent Thai.

“This one,” the old man said, smiling through his yellowed teeth, “is the daughter of a U.S. senator. Very important.” He pulled Heather Courtland to the front for Chiang’s inspection. “She is very pretty.”

“There are a hundred senators in America and pretty girls are cheap in Bangkok,” Chiang said, disinterest in every word.

“But her father is the Senator Courtland who will be the next President,” the old man protested.

“You know little of American politics, old man,” Chiang answered. “Every senator believes he alone should be President.”

Samkit scrutinized the one called Heather and half-listened as the two men fell into a contest of wills, bargaining for the sale of the hostages. Yes, she decided, the general would like this one, once she is washed and properly dressed. Samkit had seen the general buy women before. It was only a matter of establishing the price.

But the old man knew the value of his goods and was a relentless bargainer. Finally, he pounded his chest, insisting that the price Chiang was offering would never compensate him for the loss of his son who was killed by a sniper bullet during the transfer of the hostages. “What price is my family?” he wailed. But Chiang would go no higher. The old man ripped Heather’s wrap away and stood back, letting them all see the naked girl. Then he stripped the other girls. “They are all worth much more,” he insisted.

Chiang rose from his chair and circled Heather. “Are you truly Senator Courtland’s daughter?” he asked in English. Surprise crossed Heather’s face when she heard Chiang’s English accent. She nodded dumbly.

The old man’s face was impassive, but he could sense Chiang’s interest. He stroked her arms and made her skin ripple. “She has the most beautiful skin,” he said, “Very smooth and tight, without a blemish.” Besides being a shrewd broker, the old man was a gambler. He knew the price would tumble if Chiang spread Heather’s buttocks and saw the tattoo. But it was a chance he was willing to take. He lifted one of her breasts and let it fall. “Very firm. She is a rare beauty.” He touched the nipple that had held the diamond earring and pushed it in. It popped back out.

Chiang ran a hand over Heather’s body feeling her skin tone for himself. “Please open your mouth,” he told her. She did as she was told and he held her chin, smelled her breath and examined her teeth and tongue. Then he circled DC and repeated the examination. He gently wiped away the tears that were streaming down her face. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised. He gave Nikki Anderson a quick inspection. Heather saw his face stiffen when he touched the two gold rings that were still dangling from her breasts. For the
first time since she had been taken captive, Heather started to think.

“This one is of little value,” Chiang said and the hard bargaining started. The old man kept referring to his dead son. Finally, Chiang said, “You have other sons, but in his honor, I will make one last offer.” The old man knew Chiang had reached the limit he would pay before cutting his throat and taking the hostages by force. The deal was quickly done and Chiang agreed to pay him 7 million baht in gold—$280,000—for the five Americans.

While the old fisherman waited for payment, Chiang beckoned to the three servants in the alcove. “Samkit, take them to their rooms and have those two dress for dinner.” He pointed at Heather and DC. Then he spoke to the guards, who led Troy and Ricky away to a different part of the compound. Samkit picked up Heather’s wrap and handed it to her. Then she led the three American girls into the villa.

“Is your name Samkit?” Heather asked. “Do you speak English?” Samkit nodded in reply. “Who is that man?” Heather asked when they were well away from the men.

“General Chiang Tse-kuan,” Samkit answered.

“What were they doing back there?” DC asked. “I felt like a piece of beef at a cattle auction.”

“General buy you,” Samkit told her.

“No way,” DC protested.

“He buy all of you,” Samkit repeated. “You do what he says now.” She led them through a set of beautiful rooms in the house and into a huge and airy bedroom with a canopied bed. She motioned to a large and modern bathroom where they could hear the sound of running water. “Two hours,” she said and pointed at Heather and DC. “You be ready.”

“Ready for what?” Heather asked.

“To do what general says.” Samkit could not credit how dense the Americans were. She walked into a huge closet and selected two cheongsams made of Thai silk. She carried them back into the room and laid them out on the bed. One of the high-neck Chinese dresses was bright blue and the other an equally vivid green. Both were split dangerously high up one side.

“Well,” Nikki said as she stroked the dresses, “we know what the General has in mind. What do I do?”

“You stay here and take bath,” Samkit told her. “Wash hair and take gold rings off.”

Nikki threw herself onto the large bed. “That’s fine with me,” she announced. “No way I’m going to fuck a chink.” Samkit did not try to correct her and explain that she would do whatever the general wanted. “I need a blast,” Nikki said.

“What is ‘blast’?” Samkit asked. Being a good servant, she would provide whatever she could.

“You know, blow…nose candy.”

Samkit looked confused. “She means cocaine,” DC explained.

A terrified look swept across Samkit’s face. “No, missy. You no do that. Samkit no do. No drugs near general.” She bit her words off and made a violent slashing motion across her neck.

Both Heather and DC could see the woman tremble and the terrified look on her face. “I think she means it,” Heather said. “I’m going to get ready.” She dropped her wrap and walked into the bathroom.

“Ready to do what?” Nikki called.

“Whatever the general wants,” Heather answered. “Which, I think, roughly translates as ‘ready to perform.’”

Ipoh Barracks, near Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Captain Peter Woodward crossed the compound at Ipoh Barracks with his usual rolling gait and half-ran up the stairs into the officers mess of the Malaysian Rangers. He found Mackay hunched over a table in the lounge, a white-coated steward hovering in the background and ready to replenish the lieutenant colonel’s drink. “Gin and tonic,” Woodward told the steward who promptly disappeared with a look of relief. Mackay was deliberately working at getting drunk.

“Interesting message just came in,” Woodward said. “We have to send you back.” He sat down.

Mackay looked up from his fourth drink in less than an hour, showing few signs of reaching his intended goal. “That sounds familiar,” he said, recalling when Woodward had used the same words before the patrol went charging off to the Gurkha camp. “Who wants me out of here?” A cynical bitterness etched his words.

“Actually, your people,” Woodward told him. “We need to get you to Kuala Lumpur to catch a flight to Guam. Should be a plane there laid on to take you to the States.”

“All very organized,” Mackay observed. “You must be anxious to get rid of me.” He was slurring some of his words.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Woodward asked.

“Your interrogation techniques leave something to be desired.”

“I see,” Woodward replied. “That was all very necessary, you know. We were pressed for time. Actually, I’m sorry to see you go but we would appreciate a few words for the after-action report before you leave. Must tidy up all the loose ends.”

“Really,” Mackay said. “And what trash can will it end up in?”

Woodward was losing patience with the lieutenant colonel. “You Yanks can be so bloody thick at times that I wonder how you ever…” His words trailed off and he stared at the big black man sitting opposite him. “Look, we don’t, as you Yanks say, get ‘wrapped around the axle’ about the wrong things. We were dealing with some not very ‘nice’ men out there who have absolutely no idea of what the rules are or would even play by them if they did. In order to stay alive, the Sass does have rules. We go in as quickly as we can, do what we have to do, then get out. Our superiors understand that and we don’t have to muck around with legal niceties. More importantly, we do not have to cover up what we do because our politicos don’t hang us out to dry afterwards.”

“Right,” Mackay snarled. “The end justifies the means.”

“On operations, quite right.”

“I don’t work that way,” Mackay said, motioning for another drink.

“At the present moment,” Woodward said, “you and, I believe, the hostages are still alive.” The captain stared at Mackay, who missed the point. “Well, we are pressed for time.”

“Who really wants me out of here?” Mackay asked.

Woodward shook his head. “Not us. The message came from your National Security Council. I believe they are the chaps who talk directly to your President.” He stood up to leave.

Mackay jerked to his feet, pushing his chair over. “You are a cold-blooded bastard,” he said, carefully pronouncing each word.

“Probably,” Woodward replied. He turned and walked out of the room. Mackay followed him.

Bangkok, Thailand

“Must I?” DC asked, appraising the bright blue cheongsam Samkit held out for her to wear as she emerged from the bathroom. She shot a glance at Heather, who was sitting at a dressing table carefully combing and arranging her hair. “How can you be so calm?” Panic worked at the edges of her voice.

“Don’t think about it, DC,” Heather answered.

“I can’t do this.” Tears rolled down DC’s cheeks. “I’m not a whore or slave,” she whimpered, trying desperately to beat back the fear that was conquering her. “This whole thing is so bizarre…” She collapsed to the floor as sobs racked her body.

Heather came over and knelt beside her, putting her arms around her. “Don’t think about it,” she repeated, trying to console the young woman, searching for the right words. “They wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if they were going to hurt us. Think of getting out of here and this as a jail sentence. We’ll do what it takes to survive.” DC trembled as the tears flowed and Heather saw the despair that had become her master. Then worry and fear of the unknown started to gnaw at her own self-confidence. “We can do this,” she said, trying to convince herself. Then it came to her; DC couldn’t help and she would have to do it alone. She turned to Samkit and pointed at DC. “My friend is very sick.”

“She is not sick,” Samkit said. “She is afraid because she understands what is happening. It is our fate because we are women.”

Heather stared at the woman, surprised at how good her English had suddenly become. “What’s going to happen to us?”

“You working girl now”—Samkit’s English reverted back to the singsong pidgin English she had been speaking—“like me during war in Vietnam. Many GIs come to Thailand and
I go work in bar at Ubon where Americans build big air base. Many GIs like me and say they are working in railroad, lay a Thai a day. I make much money but bar manager owns me. I only seventeen then and very pretty. I think GI marry me. When GIs leave I have baby but no husband.”