The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 7

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to have to go get it. Meet me at Post 1. As soon as Niimoto is ready with some cover, we’ll do it.”

  He returned to the office and walked up to the president, who looked up expectantly.

  “Sir, I think we might have a way to re-establish communications. Sgt Crocker, one of the Marines who was killed out there, has a PDA which should work. We just need to get out there and get it.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get it,” the president ordered.

  Gunny felt a wave of revulsion sweep over him. That was a US Marine, out there, a person who was now dead. The president’s cavalier attitude struck him as just plain wrong.

  “Sir, there are still gunmen out there. Going out now would be suicide. Sgt Niimoto should be in position soon up on the bell tower, and he can give us cover. It should only be a few more minutes.”

  The president looked at him for a few seconds, then saying nothing, turned back to watch the television.

  “Gunny, who’s going to get Sgt Crocker?” PFC Ramon asked as she came up to stand in front of him.

  Gunny Mac hadn’t really thought of it. But now that he was thinking, he didn’t want to send anyone else out where he or she could get killed. He certainly did not want to risk getting shot himself, but that was better than sending someone else to get hit.

  “I am,” he said with a surprisingly strong voice.

  “Not disrespect intended, but that is not such a good idea. You’re in command here, and we need you safe and sound. I’ll do it.” She looked at him assuredly.

  Gunny’s mind reeled. He looked up to see Major Defilice nodding in agreement. The rest of the Marines were also looking at him, waiting to hear his response. Even the president turned back around to look at him. But a leader led from the front, right? He would not order anyone to do something he wouldn’t do himself, right?

  Then he remembered a conversation he had with Col Parks back at Fallujah, one of many he had while driving him around base. Col Parks told him one of the hardest things he’d had to do was to send Marines into the line of fire. But he realized that a leader leads. Not necessarily from the front, leading a charge just to show his bravery. A leader leads where and how he can best accomplish the mission. Where he can have the most impact on the mission, keeping the most number of his Marines alive, where he can secure the objective.

  He now understood Col Parks. He needed to be in the embassy. He was going to have to send someone else, and that hurt.

  He looked at the still waiting Princess. If the PDA was right where it could be grabbed, then Princess could probably do the mission. But Crocker knew he wasn’t supposed to have a PDA while in an honor guard, so it was probably hidden. Crocker was going to have to be brought back inside the embassy. And Princess just did not have the strength to pick Crocker up and carry him back inside. He looked at the rest of the Marines. Steptoe was needed to use the PDA. Van Slyke was missing half his face. Rodriguez was also on the slight side. Saad would be a good choice, but even if he said he was fine, he had still taken a hit. Fallgatter, possibly. He caught the eyes of Kramer, who nodded slightly. Kramer, the former jock.

  “LCpl Kramer, you’re up,” he said, decision made.

  PFC Ramon frowned, started to say something, then evidently thought better of it and said nothing.

  “Kramer, Rodriguez, Fallgatter, Ramon—come with me. You two stay here with the president,” he told Van Slyke and Saad.

  He nodded to the president, then left the office to go back to Post 1.

  “OK, once Niimoto is ready, we are going to have him provide cover from the bell tower. Kramer, you need to haul ass, grab Sgt Crocker, and get back here. The rest of us will provide cover as well. Sgt McAllister, any word from Sgt Niimoto yet?”

  Little Mac shook her head.

  “OK, now we wait.”

  Gunny put his back against the bulkhead and slowly slid down until he was sitting. He looked up to see Sgt Ashley’s slack face staring at nothing. She still did not seem to be dead, somehow. Hell, Van Slyke looked much worse. But the total lack of tension in her skin and muscles told the tale better than anything else.

  “Rodriguez, Fallgatter, take Sgt Ashley into the ambassador’s office. Put her on his couch. Then come on back.”

  He did not her want just lying there, like a discarded piece of rubbish.

  They shouldered their weapons. Rodriguez put his arms under her shoulders, and Fallgatter grabbed her legs. As they lifted, there was a slightly ripping sound where her blood had congealed on the floor. Gunny felt his stomach lurch. They carried their burden down the passage, then turned into the ambassador’s office. A few moments later, they re-emerged and made their way back to Post 1.

  As they sat on the deck waiting for Sgt Niimoto, each in their own thoughts, the magnitude of what was going on hit Gunny Mac hard. This was tantamount to a declaration of war, wasn’t it? The Indians had attacked sovereign US soil, they had attacked the President of the United States of America. Where would this end? What would they do next?

  The hatch to Post 1 opened, and Sgt McAllister stuck out her head and yelled out, “Gunny, it’s Korea Joe.”

  Gunny jumped up and grabbed the landline and asked, “You OK? You in the bell tower?”

  “Yeah, Gunny. I’ve got good fields of fire, but man, there are a lot of targets out there. This place is packed!”

  “Ok, listen up, this is what I want you to do . . .” Gunny briefed him on what was going to happen.

  The hatch opened again. “Gunny, it is the Canadian Ambassador. He’s at Post 2, and he wants to talk to someone in charge.”

  Gunny rolled his eyes and said, “Not now, McAllister. I’m kind of busy right at the moment!”

  He motioned for his team to gather round to give his last minute orders.

  “I want Ramon and Fallgatter to the right of me and Rodriguez to the left. We aren’t going to be able to see much from here, but if they fire on Kramer, we fire back. Watch what you’re shooting at, though. Kramer will be coming right back at us. Sgt Niimoto is in the bell tower giving covering fire, too. You ready Kramer?

  LCpl Kramer licked his lips and nodded.

  A thought struck Gunny Mac. “Hey, you better stretch first. You pull up in a cramp, and I’m going to have to send Ramon here out to haul in your ass.”

  There was a nervous chuckle from the group, but LCpl Kramer dutifully went into a sprinter’s stretch. It seemed sort of surreal, the four of them (five counting Sgt McAllister) watching Hank Kramer stretch as if he was back in high school getting ready for the Friday night game. He finally got up and merely nodded his readiness.

  “Nothing fancy. Just grab Crocker and get back inside. Let’s get into position. Prone Fallgatter!” he shouted as the PFC stood up, weapon at his hip. “We’re not John Wayning this. Get on your face!”

  He started over to enter the code to open the doors, hesitated, then walked back to the post.

  “Give me a piece of paper, McAllister.”

  She put a pen and paper into the slot and sent it out. Gunny grabbed them, wrote the code for the door on the paper, then put them back in the slot. He went back to the code-box, entered the code, then lay down beside Rodriguez.

  As the door slowly started to rise, the bright sunshine almost blinded him. He could make out the tops of the Suburbans, but from his angle, he could not see any of the bodies. He could hear the chanting of the mob, though, very loud and very clear.

  “OK Kramer, as soon as you can, go.”

  The door continued its slow climb up. As it reached about 18 inches, LCpl Kramer slid underneath it and was outside. Gathering his feet under him, he started off on a dash.

  “Hold your fire. Let’s see if anyone will notice him first,” Gunny ordered. LCpl Kramer sprinted down the front steps and looked to be almost to the Suburbans when the tone of the crowd changed.

  “Ah shit,” someone whispered from the left, Ramon or Fallgatter.

  There was
a very faint soft chuff, which could have been the sniper rifle, then several cracks of rifle fire.

  “Fire, fire!”

  The four Marines opened up, but without specific targets. Gunny Mac could see Kramer’s head and shoulders, then he disappeared. Had he been hit? Gunny started to get to his knees when Kramer stood up with Sgt Crocker on his shoulders. He started running back, bounding up the steps in one giant stride, then running down the entranceway. As he approached the door, now open by about three feet, he threw himself forward, shoving Sgt Crocker’s body through the opening and sliding in after it.

  “Close it, close it,” shouted Gunny Mac, but Sgt McAllister had already hit the emergency release.

  As it slammed shut, PFC Fallgatter still fired, sending a number of rounds zinging around the inside of the entrance.

  PFC Ramon smacked Fallgatter on the shoulder while shouting, “Cease fire you moron!”

  LCpl Kramer lay huffing on the deck. Sprawled in front of him was Sgt Crocker. He had been out in the hot sun for over an hour, and his body was already showing signs of deterioration. His skin looked pale but puffy, and his uniform unnaturally tight. Gunny walked over to him. Where would the PDA be? Where should he look?

  PFC Fallgatter evidently knew already. He soberly reached over, pulled up Sgt Crocker’s right trouser leg, and unstrapped the PDA attached to his ankle. Wordlessly, he handed it over to the gunny.

  Gunny looked at it for a moment, then back at Sgt Crocker.

  “Take Sgt Crocker and put him in with Sgt Ashley,” he told his Marines.

  He turned around and walked off to the Admin Office, not waiting to see them lift the body.

  “Good job Marines,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  He should have faced them and told them so, but he really did not want to see more of Sgt Crocker’s bloated body.

  He walked into the office, handed LCpl Steptoe the PDA, and said, “OK, get to work.”

  Then he walked over to the coffee mess and threw up in the sink.

  Chapter 11

  Late Tuesday Morning, US Embassy, New Delhi

  Sergeant Anthony Niimoto climbed the last few steps into the rotunda of the bell tower with a sigh of relief. After grabbing a sniper rifle from the weapons locker and a box of ammunition, he had checked in with Little Mac before going down the access to the service tunnels. He had been in the service tunnels many times, the last time just 30 minutes ago when he’d made his way to the embassy from the consulate. But he really did not like them, and now, with what had happened, he felt more stifled in them, more aware of how good of a location this would be for an ambush. He was relieved when he finally reached the access into the base of the bell tower and made his way up the ladder into the campanile’s belfry.

  Tony Niimoto had joined the Marines for no particular reason. He’d gone to Stanford, much to the joy of his parents, and majored in philosophy, much to their dismay. Tony liked to experience life, but he did not have much of a blueprint for his future.

  After graduation, he went back south to his parents’ home in Pacific Beach, or “PB” as it was known in the San Diego area, living in his old bedroom, surfing most days away. One dismal January day, cold and rainy, he was out surfing, hoping to catch some nice rides. Sitting on his board out in the water, he was drawn into a conversation with an old man. Sam was rather scrawny, but he was interesting and could hold his own in the water, so when the he offered to buy Tony a burger at Hodad’s, he accepted. Sitting in the ancient burger joint, under all the license plates from around the world hanging on the walls, the old guy regaled Tony with stories, claiming to have been a Navy SEAL. His stories of death and mayhem were rather intriguing to someone recently out of the brick walls of Stanford, and his stories of whoring around in the Philippines, Kosovo, and Korea were even more fascinating. San Diego was a conservative community with not much in the way of adult nightlife, and the tales of Fire Empire and Jolos in the Philippines piqued his sense of adventure. Tony spent the afternoon alternating between open-mouthed astonishment and braying his donkey laugh at some of the Sam’s stories.

  It was almost 4:00 when he left Hodad’s. Something made him go across the bay and into downtown San Diego. Acting subconsciously, he was soon standing outside the Federal Building. With a sudden sense of determination, he walked inside and turned to the left where the military recruiters had their offices. It was about quarter-to-five, but when he went up to the Navy recruiter’s office, it was already closed, even though the sign on the door said it was open from 8:00 AM until 5:00 PM. He felt a sense of deflation, as if something, something he really could not put his finger on, had evaporated away.

  “Can I help you son?”

  Tony looked up, and standing in the next doorway was a Marine. Tony did not know it, but since the dismemberment, the Marines really did not have to recruit much. In fact, they had recruitment offices in only a few select locations, and these were primarily process centers for getting the recruits to Quantico for boot. There was something about Tony, though, that caught the attention of Staff Sergeant Mike Santiago, something that his instincts made him speak out.

  Tony walked over to the Staff Sergeant, walked into the office, and 45 minutes later, had signed on the dotted line. Tony was going to be a Marine.

  And Tony found out he liked being a Marine. The Corps gave him a purpose in life which Stanford never gave him. He liked doing “manly” things. He found out he could shoot. He found out he liked the camaraderie. He liked the uniforms. He liked being part of a team. And despite his initial objections to being called “Korea Joe,” somehow, even that formed bonds with his fellow Marines. Although he may have joined because of an old man’s tales of whoring, to be honest, he had found a home.

  And Tony was now thinking of applying to be an officer. He had not mentioned that to anyone, else, of course. But the thought of putting on gold bars was rather appealing.

  Sgt Niimoto looked around the belfry. While it looked like a bell tower from the outside, from inside the cupola, it was obvious that the stacks of locked cabinets with large cables leaving from the bottom and disappearing into the floor were the real reason the tower was built. Yes, there was a bell hanging there, but it couldn’t even ring. There wasn’t a clapper.

  The Marines often wondered as to the exact nature of the cabinets, or why they were not in a secure location. Sgt Chen seemed to think that since they weren’t guarded, they were not important. But Sgt Niimoto felt they would not have built the tower unless there was a good reason. Regardless, the off-duty Marines often liked to come up and hang out, and no one ever told them they couldn’t.

  Sgt Niimoto eased over to the rail and looked down over the courtyard. He could see the Suburbans and the bodies lying there, which caused a small lump in his throat. And arrayed outside the wall, there were what seemed to be thousands of Indians packing the street. There was some chanting, but most seemed to be listening to several men speaking on microphones. Niimoto didn’t speak any Hindi, so he couldn’t understand what was being said.

  Sgt Niimoto looked down at his M48A1 sniper rifle. He checked the baffles of the rifle, the most obvious change from the appearance of the M40A1 rifle on which he had initially been trained. The M48A1 still used the Remington 700 receiver group, but the baffles around the muzzle of the barrel, when used in conjunction with the special M124 ammunition, made the report of a shot quite subdued. He had to make sure the baffles were clear, though. They easily picked up dirt and bits of detritus. He then checked over his ammunition, the boat-tailed, 178 grain round, making sure there were no dents in any of them, that they were in good shape. Although an intelligent man, Sgt Niimoto was not quite sure how the baffles and new ammunition worked, but the rifle was essentially silent out past 100 or 150 meters, depending on the conditions. Closer to that, the rifle made a softer chuffing sound rather than the sharp crack of a normal rifle.

  Taking a headset from his pocket, Sgt Niimoto hooked it up to the landline jack. He dialed
Post 1.

  “Post 1.”

  “Pat, this is Tony. Let the Gunny know I’m in position.”

  “ ’Bout time. They’re all here waiting for you. Hold on a second.”

  Sgt Niimoto could hear McAllister call out for the gunny, then a few moments later, the gunny came on line. “You OK? You in the bell tower?”

  “Yeah, Gunny. I’ve got good fields of fire, but man, there are a lot of targets out there. This place is packed!” he said as he looked back out over the crowd.

  “OK, listen up, this is what I want you to do. We’ve got to get Crocker’s PDA, Without it, we can’t talk to anyone. I’ve got four of us here at the front hatch, but we really won’t be able to see much. I’m sending Kramer out to grab Crocker and bring him back in. You’ve got to provide cover. If you see anyone shoot, if you see anyone about to shoot, take him out. Don’t hesitate, just take him out. You’ve got that?”

  “Roger, gunny.”

  “OK, we’re going in just a minute or so. You be ready. Out.”

  Sgt Niimoto felt a wave of emotion well up. He could look down on the courtyard and see Seth’s body. That could have been him down there. It would have been if the president hadn’t canc’ed the Marine Colors. He subconsciously stroked the seam of his dress blue trousers. And he could see Capt Leon-Guerro sprawled across the ground as well. Sgt Niimoto didn’t really know the Captain that well, but he was still a Marine, and that was what mattered.

  He knew he could shoot, but shooting at a range was different from shooting real people. Flesh and blood. He felt a little queasy. Then, looking at the two Marines, the ambassador, and the others lying dead in the courtyard, he felt a degree of hardening. They started this.

  Looking through his scope, he picked out several men who were armed and watching the embassy, not paying attention to the speakers. These were his targets. He put his crosshairs on the chest of a gunman standing on a concrete block up against the embassy wall. Due his high angle, he adjusted his hold, putting the crosshairs a little lower on the man. Taking a couple deep breathes, he slowly exhaled.