Falling Star (20 page)

Mike heard a rustling behind him.  Rolling over, he trained his rifle on the source of the noise and pulled the trigger sending a volley of bullets into the body of his young attacker.  This one, blond and tanned, was dressed in a yellow knit polo shirt, lime green shorts, aviator sunglasses with red holders, and Puma running shoes.  The attacker had a Striker 12 shotgun aimed right at Mike.

The volley from Mike's AR-15 caught the attacker by surprise.  The look of utter astonishment on his face was replaced by a scream of horror as the rounds from Mike's rifle practically severed his body in two.

Bernstein and Lee lay prone in their location hidden by underbrush.  Bernstein attempted to raise Wicker on his handheld communicator.  Lee, whose head wound was now wrapped in gauze from his emergency kit, kept watch with his AR-15 carbine at the ready.

Suddenly, there was a rustle behind the two and before they could turn around, an attacker had pounced on Bernstein and had plunged a Bowie knife between his shoulder blades.  Bernstein made no sound as the blade found his heart, and blood pulsed out of the wound, showering both Lee and the attacker.

Lee quickly turned around to confront the attacker, his rifle aimed at the person.  He pulled his trigger, nothing happened.  His magazine had been exhausted in the prior firefight.  Tossing his rifle aside, Lee was instantly on his feet.  The attacker, a slim but athletic man with his black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing a white shirt opened at the collar, attempted to pull his knife out of the lifeless back of Bernstein.  The force of the assault had embedded the knife in bone and the attacker was unable to extract it.  He dropped his effort and rose to face Lee.

The two opponents circled one another, each assuming the particular attack pose learned through years of training in the martial arts.  As they circled, each combatant tested his adversary with feinting moves, a jab here, a sidekick there.  The attacker attacked first, landing a foot kick to Lee's side.  Despite the sharp pain in his side, Lee grabbed the foot, pulled and twisted it, causing his dark-haired assailant to fall forward.

Exploiting that advantage, Lee landed an elbow into the small of his attacker's back as his body flew forward.  A small crunching sound could be heard as the vertebrae in the attacker's spine were broken by Lee's well-placed hit.  As the dark-haired man's body hit the ground, Lee stomped on the back of his neck, breaking it instantly.  The lifeless body twitched for a few seconds and then collapsed into stillness.

There was no time to revel in this small victory.  Lee leaned forward to pick up his carbine and replace the magazine with a fresh one from his belt.  Kneeling next to Bernstein's prostrate body to feel for a pulse, he concluded there was little that could be done for his old friend.  Lee cursed, grabbed the communicator, and called Wicker.  "Unit Leader 3, Bernstein is down, what's the situation?"

"Dave, we've got air cover, for what it's worth," said Wicker.  "But we can't assess damage right now, looks like everyone is on his own."

"Aiee-Yah," muttered Mike as his AR-15 rifle jammed.  Tossing it aside, he reached behind his back and drew his Walther.  He hoped this thing doesn't last too much longer.  The Walther held only seven shots.

1430 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

The Marine flight leader's radio suddenly came to life.  "Digger, I've got a bogey at one o'clock on my screen, its range is, ah .., approximately fifteen miles and she's headed right for us.  Request permission to break off and intercept."

"I see him, be careful."

"Roger."

As the right wing man broke formation and banked right, he saw the fast approaching Maryland Air National Guard A-10 Warthog.

"Air Guard A-10, this is Marine Hornet.  Request response.  A-10?" radioed the right wing man as his Hornet approached the mysterious jet aircraft.  "Digger, I've got an Air Guard Warthog who will not respond to my hailing frequency, please advise."

"ATC says there are no other authorized aircraft assigned to this sector, Repeat, no other authorized aircraft."   The flight leader and his remaining wing man immediately banked right to join their colleague.

Just as the right wing man received that message, the pilot of the Warthog opened fire with his 30 millimeter Avenger cannon.

"Hostile fire," said the Marine pilot as he pulled back on his control stick as hard as he could and went into a steep climb.  Sweat poured profusely down his face, fogging his face mask.  The Warthog made a steep bank, turned around, and climbed after the Marine's Hornet.  The tracers in the Avenger ammunition belt streamed toward the Hornet.  The faster Hornet lengthened the distance between it and the Warthog, but not before some rounds reached their target.  Mindful of his position, the Marine pilot banked toward the Chesapeake Bay so that the aerial battle would not be fought over populated areas.

The flight leader and his left wing man followed in pursuit of the two jets.  Within seconds, the two Marine airmen caught up with the two jets and noted that some of the rounds from the aggressor jet had struck the Hornet.  A thin contrail of white smoke issued from the right wing of the Hornet, although it remained airborne and under control.

The flight leader maneuvered his Hornet behind the Warthog as the formation of four jets streaked over the sky above the Chesapeake Bay.  The pilot of the Warthog dropped to near water level in an attempt to escape the Marine jets.  The flight leader dropped to wave height as well and fired a warning shot from his M61 20 millimeter gun.  The ground effect of such low level flying buffeted the two jets.  Staying in the air required intense concentration.

The Warthog initiated evasive action, slewing sideways, climbing rapidly, and hugging the treetops on the shore.  For a moment, the pilot of the Warthog captured the admiration of the two Marine pilots in hot pursuit, but that admiration was short lived as the flight leader's avionics and fire control electronics homed in on the fleeing Warthog.

As he heard the tone and saw the green box flash in his heads up display, the Marine flight leader pressed his fire button and a slim AIM-9 Sidewinder missile dropped from its rack and made a bee-line to the Warthog, leaving a thin white contrail.  The pilot of the Warthog banked sharply to the left and climbed frantically in an effort to escape the fast approaching Sidewinder, to no avail.  The heat-seeking Sidewinder easily sought and acquired the exhaust port of one of the Warthog's jet turbines.  Few recognizable parts of the Warthog splashed into the gray-blue waters of the Chesapeake.

The right wing man requested and received permission to break formation and return to Pautuxent.  The flight leader and his remaining wing man banked right and headed back to the ground action on Huntersville Road.

"Pautuxent Control.  What was that about?" radioed the flight leader.  "One Maryland Air National Guard A-10 downed and one of my wing men hit.  Over."

"Red Leader, Maryland Air National Guard reported one of their Warthogs was missing this morning.  We just received the report on DODNet.  Guess you found it."

"Hope there aren't any more surprises."

"Me too.  Pautuxent Control out."

1445 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Over Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland

On the ground, the attack was over.  The superior firepower and training of the Marines were evident in the body count.  Twelve attackers lay dead on the road and in the woods.  Several were taken down as their ammunition ran out and they sought to flee.  The fleeing assailants were easy targets for the laser-equipped marksmen.

Besides Bernstein and the Marine lance corporal, two more Marines lay dead.  This left a complement of about eleven men, including the three wounded men and Mike.

Hearing only reports from his Marines' weapons, Lee concluded that the battle had run its course and his men were now shooting at each other.  Without any effective way to stop the gun battle, Lee decided to do the only thing he could to get his men to stop firing.  He rushed onto the road screaming, "Hold your fire!  Hold your fire!"

As the deafening roar of small arms fire ceased, the young mother looked out of her front windshield, still shaking violently from the fear she had for her kids' safety and her own welfare.  A religious person, she quietly thanked the Lord for delivering them from this danger.

Still shaking, but trying to compose herself for her children's sake, the young mother tried to make light of the situation.  "My, wasn't that exciting?  Just like T.V."

The left front door of her yellow Cutlass was yanked opened.  The young mother screamed as an unshaven, middle-aged John Trent slid into the front seat, pushing her over to the passenger side of the car.  Holding a small automatic to the woman's back, Trent yelled, "Stop screaming, lady, god damn it.  God damn it."  He started the car and placed it into reverse.

"Hey!  Some asshole's getting away!" shouted Wicker, noticing the yellow sedan backing up.

He ran for the Suburban and jumped into the driver's seat.  He put the vehicle into gear and roared off after the sedan.  Mike and the rest of the men ran toward the Cutlass.

Wicker's Suburban caught up with the sedan just as Trent placed it into drive.  Seeing that the vehicle contained not just the fugitive but also a female civilian and two small children, Wicker decided he had to stop the sedan at all costs.

Trent stepped hard on the accelerator.  The car jerked forward and its front tires squealed as they grabbed the road.  Trent, the woman and her children were slammed back into their seats as the Cutlass bolted forward at great speed.  Wicker stepped hard on the accelerator of his Suburban, catching up to the sedan in a matter of seconds.

As Wicker's Suburban drew parallel to the yellow sedan, he pulled his steering wheel to the right.  The Suburban slammed into the side of the Cutlass with a loud crunch.  With this maneuver, Wicker bumped the Cutlass into the brush lining the narrow road.  The Cutlass came to a stop.  Trent opened the front door, grabbed the woman around the neck, and pulled her out of the car.

The young mother screamed uncontrollably, as did her two small kids who cried, "Mommy!  Mommy! Don't let him hurt Mommy!"

Trent pointed his automatic at Wicker and pulled the trigger.  The bullet ricocheted off the Lexan window.  Wicker murmured to himself, "Thank God for modern science."

By this time, Mike and the others had reached the scene.  Rifles were aimed at Trent and the screaming, crying, hysterical woman.

Mike stepped forward, Walther in hand.  "Drop that weapon.  No one is going to hurt you if you let that woman go."

"If you don't drop your fucking guns, I'm gonna blow this fucking broad's brains out," screamed Trent.  The young mother let out a loud cry and shook violently as Trent put the muzzle of his automatic against her forehead.  "I said drop your guns, assholes!"

Mike dropped his Walther to the ground.  As the gun fell to the blacktop with a metallic clatter, Trent swung his gun at Mike.  Seeing Trent's gun swing from the woman's forehead, a Marine squeezed off one shot from his AR-15 carbine.  The full force of the bullet caught Trent square in the right temple, passed through his brain, and explosively exited from the left side of his face, splattering blood, skull fragments, and flecks of grayish white brain tissue onto his hostage and the ground.

Trent's facial expression was one of utter surprise.  In one last spasmodic twitch, his trigger finger tightened and one shot from his automatic caught Mike in his upper right arm, ripping through the uniform jacket.  Trent released his hold on the woman and his body sank slowly to the ground.  The shriek from the young mother was deafening.  A Marine rushed forward to catch the woman as she fainted and started to fall.

"Good shot," said Mike, holding onto his right arm as his uniform sleeve became bright red from the rivulets of blood streaming from his superficial wound.

As the HumVee came to a halt, the Marine platoon leader leaped out from the front passenger's seat.  He ran up to Mike, whose Navy uniform identified him as the highest ranking officer present.  Saluting Mike, the Marine said, "Seems like you have everything under control, sir."

Overhead, the Marine flight leader saw the HumVee and the troop truck reach the battle zone and noted that the action below had died.  Banking left, the flight leader contacted the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center.  "Pautuxent Control."

"Pautuxent Control."

"This is Red Leader, ground action has been secured, cavalry has arrived, returning home."

As the Marine flight leader continued his bank, his remaining wing man silently followed suit and soon the two remaining Hornets had disappeared.

Mike, Wicker and Lee huddled together and discussed their strategy.  Mike and Wicker would take six of the uninjured men and proceed to CSAC/Washington.  David would take the wounded and the rest of the men on the trooper carrier back to Pautuxent.  Three Marines were assigned to assist the young mother and her children and to await a special CSAC incident team to arrive and debrief the family.

The ride in the sole Suburban was mercifully uneventful.  No one spoke a word for the remainder of the trip.

Deep in the woods, the driver of the white Ford F-100 truck crouched under the dense undergrowth.  He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily.  His rimless eyeglasses had fogged over.  He kept muttering to himself in a high pitched stutter, "Th-those f-fools, those g-goddamn fools."

0800 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"I heard that you had a tough time yesterday," Smith said to a tired and bandaged Mike.  "Seems a lot of people want you very badly."

The two were sitting at a conference table in a room constructed of sterile off-white Masonite paneling.  The seats in the conference room were made of molded blue plastic, the kind normally found in school cafeterias.  The fluorescent lights lent a harsh brilliance, further adding to the sterile environment.  Mike wondered who the designer of this conference room was; making a mental note never to hire that person for Franklin Smedley Associates.