Battleground (6 page)

The next time he looked out, Sergeant Wilson saw that the tank was too close to the wall to fire over it. That wouldn’t last long. He looked out the window now every three or four seconds. He took no incoming fire. The snipers must be off the wall.

A moment later he saw the ten-foot concrete block barricade bulging. Then cracks showed, and a second later one large section of blocks crashed down inside the compound. The tank’s gun swiveled around to point to the front again as the tank clanked and rattled as it crawled over the broken and bashed-in blocks, then stopped just inside the compound.

The tank’s machine gun chattered, and the window frame above Wilson shattered as half-a-dozen rounds hit it and rained glass down on him. The last grenade.

Wilson armed it, checked the sight, lifted up, and in another quick move aimed, fired, and ducked. This time he wasn’t quite fast enough, or the marksman outside had been firing already before Wilson had launched the small missile.

The AK-47 round glanced off the rocket launcher, tumbled as it smashed forward, and dug into the right side of Sergeant Wilson’s mouth, then slanted to the left and slashed through the top of his mouth into his brain. He slammed backwards, and died before he knew if his round had hit the tank.

One window down, Private Marshall saw the sergeant’s round explode on the left tank tread and blow it off the rollers. The tank was dead in the water. Then the big gun swung around, and Marshall got off his round aimed at the small driver’s window slots in the front. He saw the round hit and explode, but he wasn’t sure of the damage.

He fired his last RPG round as a dozen Kenyan troops ran
through the hole in the wall. The grenade splattered four of the soldiers into spare body parts, and put down three more. Then Marshall picked up his M-16 and fired out the window. He couldn’t understand why Sergeant Wilson wasn’t firing.

Downstairs at the front window, the Marines kept the machine gun chattering aimed just over the wall. The men there heard the tank and the RPG rounds, but they didn’t know the tank had crashed through the wall.

Two green-shirted Kenyan soldiers worked along the front of the embassy building, tucked in close so no one inside could see them. One crawled the last twenty feet, lay on his back, and pulled the pin on a hand grenade. He tossed it into the window where the machine gun chattered, then ran back the way he had come.

Private Anderson saw the grenade come in. Four-second fuse, he thought. No time to run. The small hand bomb bounced once on the wooden floor; then Anderson dove on it, shielding it with his body as it exploded with a mind-numbing rumble.

The machine gunner’s eyes went wide as he stared at the man on the floor who had just saved his life. Then he bellowed in fury and angled his weapon to the north, where he saw the movement of green uniforms. He fired until his last belt ran out, then grabbed an M-1 and kept blasting away at the oncoming Kenyan soldiers.

Ten minutes later, it was all over. Ten of the twelve Marines were dead. The other two had been knocked unconscious by the concussion of the .75-caliber rounds and captured. Four of the civilian employees of the embassy had been killed by gunfire. The Kenyan troops backed the truck away from the main entrance and opened the gates.

A weapons carrier drove in, and Colonel Maleceia stepped out. Two of his officers had found the ambassador, and brought him to the front of the building.

“Mr. Ambassador. This embassy is closed and all your rights are nullified. This is no longer United States soil. You all are prisoners of war, and will be treated as such. Any
resistance by you, or any of your people, will bring immediate execution. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Ambassador Jerome nodded. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I understand, Colonel. None of my people will resist in any way. Already four of the staff have been killed along with ten of the Marines. You have no right.…”

The ambassador stopped as Colonel Maleceia snapped up his head. “Careful, Mr. Ambassador. What room is large enough to hold all of your people?”

“The formal dining room.”

“Not good. We’ll put everyone in that large room in the basement. I don’t want you to be too comfortable. We’ll see what your government will do to ransom you. How many people do you have left alive, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Forty-two alive and fourteen dead. Fourteen that your men killed when it wasn’t necessary.”

“Don’t criticize me, Jerome.”

“Do you know what you’ve done? The whole weight and power of the United States will bear down on you. You can’t possibly live for more than a week. You are a monster and a dead man. You have violated every diplomatic code of conduct of behavior ever invented.”

Colonel Maleceia growled, and drew his weapon from the holster on his right side. He lifted the automatic, stepped forward, and shot the ambassador in his right eye. Ambassador Harrington G. Jerome jolted backward and died in a sprawl on the front steps of the embassy.

“Clean up this mess,” Colonel Maleceia barked. “The rest of you round up everyone inside and take them to the big room in the basement, the one with the steel doors and no windows. We don’t want anyone to escape.”

Ten minutes later in the locked basement room, one of the Marines still alive used strips of cloth to wrap up Frank Underhill’s shot-up arm. He had lost a lot of blood, but he knew that he would live. There was so much to do. He was in charge now. He shivered when he remembered how matter-of-factly that madman had executed Ambassador Jerome. Terrible.

He made sure the six others who had been wounded were
tended. All were non-life-threatening but one. Madelyn, a secretary and code clerk, had taken a ricocheted bullet in her chest. Evidently it had missed the vital organs. But she was pale and lying down.

The basement room was smaller than Frank remembered. With forty-two people in it—no, only forty-one alive now—there would barely be room for everyone to lie down on the floor. He had no hope for food, water or toilet facilities. There simply were none.

An hour later, Colonel Maleceia had figured out the radio in the communications room. He didn’t bother with the code-books that he found partially destroyed. He would broadcast in the clear. It would bounce off the satellite overhead and be picked up in Washington, D.C., as clearly as if he’d phoned from down the block. He hadn’t spent all of his time at the U.S. military training center working on tactics. His radio and electronics capability was considerable.

First, he broadcast a warning that an important message would be coming. He gave his name and new position as ruler of Kenya.

A frantic message came through in the clear to the embassy asking if all was well. They knew it was not. Maleceia ignored it.

His message was brief.

“To the United States of America. This is a notification and a warning to the people of America. First, I now hold one hundred and sixty of your sailors from the
Roy Turner
and forty-one members of your diplomatic staff at the former U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. These hostages will be humanely treated pending your acceptance of my conditions.

“The United States of America will pay to the nation of Kenya the sum of one hundred billion dollars in gold, food, merchandise, jet fighter aircraft, naval ships, and in credits around the world that Kenya can draw upon, for the release of these two hundred and one individuals.

“There will be no attack or threat of attack on Kenya soil
by U.S. forces. Any such attack will result in the execution of one hostage for every hour of any such attack.

“The United States has forty-eight hours to start delivering the gold, the merchandise, the ships, and planes as demanded. If this schedule is not met, one hostage will be executed and the video beamed to the world on television every hour until delivery starts.

“There is no alternative. I know of the wealth and squandered goods and riches in the United States. The people of Kenya are starving for such goods and food. It will be delivered on schedule or the dire measures will be carried out.

“This is General Umar Maleceia, Premier, President, and Commanding General of the great nation of Kenya, ending his proclamation.”

General Umar Maleceia toured the ambassador’s private quarters and bounced on the bed. He chuckled.

“I will sleep here tonight,” he told his aide, a major who had taken advanced lessons in kowtowing.

“Yes, General,” the major said, recognizing the new rank the colonel had granted himself.

Maleceia smiled at the man. “You’ll go far, Major. What was your name again?”

“Ralston, General. An English name my parents liked when I was born.”

“Too bad. Yes. Now, the kitchen. Send for the chef. Bring him from the basement. Tonight I will feast on roast duck or maybe a roast turkey dinner with all the trimmings like we had twice a year in Texas. Yes, a roast turkey dinner.”

Five minutes later, the cook, a smiling little Italian man from the Bronx, explained the problem.

“General, sir. We have no turkey, no duck. I can prepare a feast for you from some chicken breasts, stuffing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberries, peas and carrots, with fluffy dinner rolls and strawberry jam.”

General Maleceia frowned. “I can’t make a turkey appear. All right, the chicken dinner. You have an hour. Now get to it.”

Back in the ambassador’s suite, he broke open the locked
liquor cabinet, selected a fine scotch, and poured himself a shot. That was so good he had two more. He didn’t offer any to the major.

“Oh, yes. Now, Major, we visit the hostages below.”

In the basement room, the general looked over the people. Some were still crying. He selected a young blonde girl he guessed was a secretary, and a slightly older redhead who looked to have some fire. Both were young and slender.

“You two, go with the major.”

The women pulled back. The First Secretary, Frank Underhill, now in charge of the embassy, started forward.

“At ease, all of you,” said the general. “I’m not going to shoot these hostages. There’s some secretarial work I need to take care of. Both you women can read and write, I assume?”

They nodded.

“Very well, go with the major.”

Upstairs in the ambassador’s suite, the general closed the door, dismissed the major, and pushed the women into the bedroom.

“Now, ladies, I want both of you to undress without a lot of tears or anger. As they used to say in Texas, you might as well relax and enjoy it. One way or another you’re going to get fucked. Clear?”

“You have no right.…” the redhead began. His look of anger and rage cut her off.

The blonde girl began crying softly.

“No,” Maleceia thundered. The roar stopped her weeping. Slowly both disrobed. They turned their backs as they took off their underwear.

“Turn around,” the general demanded. They did, and he smiled. “Nice, extremely nice. I like big tits. You’ll enjoy tonight. I’ve never disappointed a woman in my entire life.” He watched them both, men moved first toward the blond woman.

“You have a name?” he asked.

“Sally,” she said so softly he could barely hear.

He faced her, and she shivered. The redhead behind him moved forward without a sound. He had taken a stance with
his feet apart in front of the much shorter Sally, and reached both hands for her breasts.

Marilee Zilke, a C-2 Field Agent with the CIA, moved the last few feet silently and kicked with her right foot as hard as she could. Her foot scraped past his thigh, and slammed into General Maleceia’s crotch with crushing force. Only his thick military pants saved him from a shattered testicle. He lunged forward, almost lost his feet, then righted himself, and bent over for one long agonizing moment. Marilee darted forward, swung both of her hands made into one fist at the back of his neck, and drove the big man to his knees. She was about to kick him again when he turned, lifted his pistol, and fired six rounds into the CIA agent. She jolted backward three steps and crashed to the floor. He fired once more into her head, and turned to the weeping Sally.

General Maleceia could hardly talk. He pointed to the bed, and Sally sat down on it.

“No more trouble,” he squeaked out. Sally had never seen a human being die before. She had shrieked in horror when the bullets hit Marilee. Now she couldn’t utter a sound.

The general pulled off his clothes, and stared down at the softly weeping secretary from Elbow Bend, Wisconsin.

“Like I said, little lady, I’ve never disappointed a woman yet.”

1513 hours

Wahhabi Air Base

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Third Platoon had landed, at Wahhabi ten minutes ago. There was a rush on, but Murdock led the SEALs in a ten-minute double-time workout around the edge of the taxi strip. Then they loaded into the U.S. Navy C-2A Greyhound, a two-engine turboprop cargo plane that had the ability to land on an aircraft carrier.

The plane took off as soon as the SEALs had buckled in. Don Stroh had gone on the jog with them, and had been talking with Murdock. Now he motioned to one of the Navy airman on the ship, and he brought out box lunches for all seventeen of them from the base galley.

“Not much, gentlemen, but something to last you for a couple of hours.” The airman passed around chilled cans of Coke, and the SEALs grinned.

Later, Stroh called the SEALs around, and waved at the familiar faces and the two new ones.

“Another walk in the park, gentlemen. The President is really pissed about this one. We train this mountain of a man, and he goes back home and grabs control of the army and then takes over the whole fucking country. Promotes himself to general.

“You know he knocked over the
Roy Turner.
Then he
assaults and captures the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. That just isn’t done anymore. Not after Iran. So we move in and get some payback. He’s asking for a hundred billion dollars in goods and materiél. Ransom. I guess he hasn’t heard that the U.S. never pays ransom no matter who is kidnapped or taken hostage. That demand was B as in billions. The United States does not pay for hostages, not even two hundred of them. We also don’t send bundles of goodies to dictators.