Balance of Power: A Novel (42 page)

“I’d kinda like to go up front and see what happens.”

“Mr. Dillon, I have a very clear recollection of the colonel’s words. There were only two of them. ‘Stay here.’ Here means”—he looked around—“here. This oughta be over pretty quick,” he added.

Colonel Tucker thought the same thing as he walked toward the front of the line.

The enemy group was much closer than he would have liked. Still armed and exuding menace, they were concentrated in a nearby clearing. A white woman and young girl stood beside the leader, a small stout man who was holding the woman’s arm. “Tell your men to put down their guns,” Tucker demanded as he walked slowly toward them.

“No!” the man said. “You leave island. Leave us alone or they will die.”

“Who are you?” Tucker asked the woman.

“Missionaries. They…” She was cut off as the man slapped her face.

“No talk!” the leader yelled. He turned his attention to Colonel Tucker again. “Get off the island or they die!”

Tucker tried to control his anger. “Just take it easy,” he said. He turned to his lieutenant. “Get Lieutenant Armstrong
up here, and tell him to get Snake in place. We may need him to interpret.”

The lieutenant reached for the radio transmitter.

“You need to lay down your weapons before more of you are killed,” Tucker said to the terrorist leader.

“You attack us! We did nothing to you.”

“Just put your weapons down, and we won’t hurt you.”

“You get off island.” The man looked desperately around.

Tucker hesitated. He was trained in amphibious attack, not hostage negotiations, and now he was faced with a standoff between the Marines and the terrorists. Tucker took the radio.
“Admiral, you following this?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see what’s happening?”

“Clear as a bell.”

“I’m going to call for Snake. You agree?”

“I’m with you, Colonel.”

Just then Lieutenant Armstrong, the Navy SEAL, came running up. “Yes, sir,” he said, quickly assessing the awkwardness of the situation. “What would you like us to do?”

“Is Snake ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Seems to me,” Tucker said, “the one we need the interpreter for is the one holding the woman. If we convince him, the others will follow. Agree?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think we have any choice. We can’t abandon the operation because of two hostages.” The two exchanged knowing glances. Armstrong evaluated the vulnerability of the enemy’s position and knew it was only a matter of time. “Any sign of the captain of the
Flyer
?”

“No. Look, when I take my helmet off, that would be a good time for Snake to begin interpreting.”

“Yes, sir.” Armstrong ran back toward the hill.

“Let her go,
now,”
Tucker repeated, then “What is your name, ma’am?”

She shook her head, not wanting to anger the terrorist leader.

Tucker walked slowly toward the three. The terrorists had their rifles trained on him. He held up his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “Let them go,” he said.

“No! You get off island.”

“I think we need an interpreter. I can’t really understand you.”

“You understand fine. You stall.”

“No, we clearly need an interpreter,” he said. “Let me call him up here.” He got down on one knee fifty feet from them. As he did so, he unstrapped his helmet, slowly so the leader could see his hands. He took it off and reached for a radio.

The leader was suddenly knocked back as a bullet slammed into his chest from Snake’s long-range Remington 700 sniper rifle. The woman screamed. Tucker ran forward and pulled the woman and child down as a firefight broke out. The terrorists were no match for the Marines, who had taken the time to sight in with their M-16s and were firing with deadly accuracy.

“Get down!” Luther yelled at Dillon. They threw themselves to the ground just to the side of the path.

Fifty feet away there was a sudden explosion. The undergrowth was shredded as another explosion occurred twenty feet closer. Luther raised his head carefully. “Mortar!” he yelled. “Get away from the path!” Corporal Gordon scrambled toward Dillon and Luther in a crouched position. Each Marine grabbed one of Dillon’s arms and dragged him toward the hollow in the hill, as another shell hit. They ran toward the hill as far as they could, then hugged the ground and lay still as shells landed around them. They could hear other Marines running up and down the path screaming instructions.

“Shit!” Luther said. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”

The next shell went deeper into the soft ground, almost
exploding underneath them. Suddenly the ground gave way. Dillon felt himself falling into the earth. Luther and Gordon were falling with him into a massive crater in the side of the hill.

They fell ten to fifteen feet, surrounded by dirt, mud, dust, and brush. A gasp, almost a scream came from Dillon’s mouth.

They hit the ground in a tumble as the noise of the firefight receded. Dillon lay on his back and stared at the sky. “Luther!” he yelled.

“Yeah?” Luther struggled to get to his feet. “Shit.”

“What the hell…” Gordon said as he rolled over and moaned.

The three stood and looked around. They were in the middle of a natural cave. It was the size of a large room, but there was no indication of human improvement other than a tunnel coming in from their left and exiting to their right.

“You all right?” Luther asked.

“Yeah,” Dillon said. “Where are we?”

Luther looked around for an escape route. “No idea. We could try one of these tunnels, but who knows where it leads.”

“Maybe we should just stay here,” suggested Dillon. “Wait until this thing is over.”

“Not a bad idea,” Luther said. Then they heard voices coming from the tunnel on the left.

“Move back!” Luther whispered as he pushed Dillon into the darkest spot. Five Indonesian terrorists burst into the room and stopped. They were dragging a bound and blindfolded white man in tattered and filthy clothes.

Dillon, Luther, and Gordon stood motionless against the wall, hoping their camouflage utilities were doing their job. The leader of the Indonesians looked up at the hole in the cave. The men began poking through the rubble and dirt beneath the hole, then spun around and caught sight of the Americans. The Indonesians pointed their rifles. The Marines did likewise, but no one fired.

“Drop weapons!” the leader yelled as he placed his Chinese Type 64 silenced machine pistol against the temple of the white man. The image was identical to the Polaroid left on the bridge of the
Pacific Flyer.
The leader and the hostage stood directly beneath the hole. The light illuminated them clearly. Dillon could see a dried streak of blood underneath the blindfold.

“Drop weapons!” the man repeated.

“Why should we?” Luther asked in a controlled strong voice.

“I will shoot!” the man said.

“Who the hell is he?” Luther asked.

“Captain of ship,” the man responded.

“Who are you?” Dillon asked, surprising himself.

Luther looked at him.

“George Washington. I fight for freedom of my country, too!”

“From who?” Dillon asked.

“From you and your Western imperialism,” the man said. “Put down weapons!”

“Let him go,” Dillon said as he stepped away from the wall, walking slowly toward Washington.

“I shoot him first, then you.” Washington remained calm.

“I’m unarmed,” Dillon replied, holding his hands out so that Washington could see him clearly.

“Easier for me,” Washington said, his voice rising in pitch slightly. The other Indonesians stood behind Washington with their guns trained on the Marines and Dillon.

Dillon took another tentative step toward Washington.

“Careful, Mr. Dillon,” Luther whispered.

“Stop!” Washington said icily.

In an instant all eyes were fixed on the mouth of the tunnel on the left. They could hear American voices. Someone yelled, “Watch out for booby traps. Check for offshoots; we have to run them all back.” They could hear the footsteps of many men.

“They’re clearing this tunnel,” Dillon said. “There’s no way out.”

“Oh, yes, there is!” Washington looked toward the exit tunnel. “You come with us!” he said. “More hostages the better.” The Indonesians began moving toward the other tunnel.

“Come!” Washington yelled.

Dillon, Luther, and Gordon stood still.

Three Marines came into the cave holding M-16s. “Stop right there!” the lead Marine yelled as he saw the Indonesians.

Washington swung his gun from Bonham’s head and shot at the lead Marine. The three Marines hit the ground and began returning fire.

Dillon ran toward Bonham and grabbed his shirt. “Fall to the ground!” he yelled.

Washington let go of Bonham and ran toward the exit tunnel. As he did, he trained his gun on Dillon. He fired. The first bullet hit Dillon in the chest and spun him toward Luther.

Another Indonesian fired at Gordon, hitting him in the thigh. Luther returned fire and that Indonesian fell.

Washington fired again and his second bullet hit the back of Dillon’s helmet, right between the two
m
’s in “Jimmy.” Dillon lurched forward and fell to the ground.

Six more Marines rushed into the cave and began firing. The terrorists vanished into the darkness of the escape tunnel and the Marines pursued, but a loud explosion rocked them backward. Dust engulfed the cave as the Marines hugged the dirt floor.

As the dust settled, Luther rose to his feet. The tunnel opening no longer existed. “Shit!” he said.

The Marines who had been at the mouth of the cave were uninjured. They rose and dusted themselves off.

“Looks like like they ran into their own trap,” one of them laughed.

Luther ran back to Dillon. He turned him over slowly. “You okay, Mr. Dillon?”

Dillon tried to sit up.

“You got shot,” Luther said. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Dillon said.

“Let me look at you.” Luther checked the Kevlar helmet. Despite the bullet indentation over his taped name, there was no penetration there. He felt the back of Dillon’s head and found a bump starting to rise.

“Ouch!” Dillon said as Luther probed with his finger.

“No blood,” Luther said happily.

He looked down at Dillon’s chest and examined the dent in the Kevlar jacket over Dillon’s heart. “You owe Mr. Kevlar a case of Scotch, Mr. Dillon.”

Back out on the path, the result of the firefight around Tucker became clear. The remnant of Indonesians threw down their weapons and put their hands over their heads.

Tucker stood. “Cease fire!” The deafening noise subsided as the remaining terrorists were thrown down on their stomachs and their hands placed behind their heads. He held out his hand to his radioman.
“Bravo, Bravo, Otter Chief. Island is secure. We have them all. Estimate one hundred fifty dead and fifty prisoners. We have minor casualties….”

Tucker crossed to the woman and girl and helped them sit up. The woman was in her thirties, slim, tan, and blond. She wore Western khaki clothing; the girl, probably nine years old, wore denim bib shorts and a T-shirt. The woman sat quietly, her short hair framing her face. The girl leaned her head against her mother.

Tucker touched the woman’s shoulder. “I’m Colonel Tucker,” he said. “Do you speak English? What’s your name?”

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. She was unable to speak. Tucker knelt next to her. “What’s your name?” he asked again, gently.

She tried to get her breath. “Are you American?” she asked in an American accent.

“Yes. I’m Colonel Tucker of the United States Marine Corps.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She responded almost inaudibly. “Mary Carson.”

Tucker waited and watched her. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“They brought us here.”

“Who?”

“These men,” she said, realizing for the first time that she wasn’t being watched by the men who had brought her there.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Irian Jaya.”

“Where’s that?”

She looked up at him and got to her feet. She wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Indonesia. It’s one of the eastern islands of Indonesia—the other half of New Guinea.”

“How did you get here?”

“Airplane,” she said. “A float plane.” She squeezed her eyes closed as if resisting horrible memories. “We are missionaries. My husband and I, and our daughter. We’ve been in Irian Jaya for five years…. We’re with Wycliffe Bible Translators. We live with the people, learn their language, which isn’t usually even written down, then translate the Bible into their language so they can read it. My husband is a Bible translator.”

Tucker looked around. “Where is he?”

Her voice cracked. “He was in one of those concrete buildings. He’s dead.”

“What happened?”

She hesitated. “We had just gotten up…for breakfast. They told us to come, and he went back to get his Bible so we could have our morning devotions. This bomb hit it….” Her voice trailed off, then stopped altogether as
she looked for something to distract her, to give her an image different from the one that was seared into her mind. “So why are you here?”