Call to Duty Read online

  “Can you make some coffee?” he called.

  “Coming right up,” the girl answered and appeared in the bathroom’s doorway, still not dressed. “Trouble?”

  Courtland grunted an answer and watched her walk across the room, dragging a towel. She is beautiful, he thought, and the same age as Heather. He worked through the contradictory emotions he felt for his daughter. Heather in trouble again, this time serious. Goddamn! Why couldn’t she stay low-profile? Out of trouble. And who in the hell has kidnapped her? I never did think much of her going on that trip anyway, not that telling her would have made a difference. Probably just made her more determined to do it.

  The senator thumbed through his small black notebook, finding the telephone number he wanted. He quickly dialed the number, calling Troy Spencer’s parents. “Hello, Keenan? Bill Courtland here. I’m afraid our kids are in some trouble.” He went smoothly through the motions of telling the Spencers what he knew about the kidnapping and reassuring them that everything possible was being done. “I’ve already contacted the President and he’s agreed to see me first thing,” he told them. “Yes, I’m quite sure he will be responsive to this. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll call you right after I see him.”

  Courtland hung up and smiled when he thought what a good political ally the Spencers would be in his ongoing battle with Pontowski. I’m going to get you, you dumb Polack son of a bitch. It was an old promise that burned deep inside of him and one that he had been making to himself for years. “Coffee yet?” he called.

  “Not quite ready,” the girl answered and walked back into the bedroom. “You want something else first?” she smiled and held up one of her small and immature breasts for his inspection. He threw the covers back for her, momentarily forgetting about his troublesome daughter.

  The Malaysian Jungle

  Mackay crouched motionless in the underbrush, his legs aching. Insects buzzed around his head and he fought down the urge to slap at them. Out of the question, he reasoned. Any unusual noise in the jungle would be a dead giveaway, blowing the ambush. Sweat poured down his face and for a moment, he wondered if his ancestors in Africa had had to cope with the same problem. Probably not, he decided; they had to be smarter than me. He concentrated on watching the spot where Carlin, the sergeant carrying the Racal SatCom, satellite communications radio, had disappeared. He moved his muscular six-foot-four-inch frame into a more comfortable position. His foot made a soft squishing sound in the wet earth as he shifted.

  The foliage in front of him moved and Sergeant Carlin’s face appeared, his eyes hard and full of reproach. The grim set of his lips told Mackay that his movement had been heard. How can those British bastards move so quietly? he wondered. He knew the answer. Practice. Now they had to wait.

  Lieutenant Colonel John Author Mackay, United States Army, forced his restless mind to split and work in two modes. One part of his mind would work on the training problem at hand, the laying of an ambush deep in the jungles of Malaysia, while another part would roam elsewhere. Between the mental gymnastics, he could forget about the insects buzzing around him. Remember to check for leeches the first chance you get, he added to his checklist of things to be accomplished. Mackay had a very well-organized and disciplined mind. Much like his body.

  At thirty-seven years of age, Mackay was still a young lieutenant colonel. He knew there was little chance of his being promoted to colonel in the near future, at least not in the peacetime army. He suspected that he would eventually be promoted and that it was just a matter of time. He had been told many times that he was an outstanding officer with unlimited potential. Never mind that as a lieutenant he had chalked it all up to his being black and a patronizing attitude by the white establishment in the U.S. Army.

  But when a white colonel with a deep southern accent drove home a series of lessons to Mackay, he realized what the Army was telling him was true. The colonel didn’t care about the color of Mackay’s skin as long as he could do the job better than anyone else. A good thing that, Mackay often thought, considering the fact that I’m so damn ugly. The harsh reality was that his high forehead, jug-handle ears, misshapen nose, receding chin, and bad case of pseudofolliculitis barbae terrified children on sight. Smiling only made the overall effect worse.

  To compensate for his harsh scarred looks, Mackay had taken to sports as a teenager and learned that along with his large size, he was extremely well-coordinated. And much more important, he had discovered that he was smart. It had come as a shock when he realized he could outthink his teachers and all the bloods who terrorized his high school. When a cousin had come home on leave from the Army, Mackay had listened to him and seen a way to escape from his home in Washington’s black ghetto. He had immediately transferred to another high school, worked on his grades, and excelled in sports. During the eleventh grade he had applied to the military academy at West Point and was accepted during his senior year.

  West Point had opened up a new world to Mackay and he thrived on the competition and challenges. He graduated number two in his class. The newly commissioned infantry second lieutenant was five years too late for Vietnam and went through a series of assignments as the U.S. Army rebuilt, trying to recover from the damages it had suffered in the Far East while re-forming into an all-volunteer service. Mackay had played a small role in that transformation as he pursued a career centering on the infantry, Rangers, and Special Forces—the Green Berets. The war in the Persian Gulf had almost passed him by and he was lucky to have gotten in on one small operation. It amused him that his only contribution in that war had been to accept the surrender of twelve hundred Iraqis who acted as if he were their savior.

  His current assignment as an exchange officer with the British Special Air Service regiment, the SAS, was a logical step in his career. But he had not been prepared for the reality of the SAS. His first lesson had to do with military dress and courtesies. The “Sass” as the SAS called itself, had little time, or respect, for the conventions of normal military units and was totally committed to battle discipline. They demonstrated that while he passed through the four-week selection course that all volunteers underwent before being chosen for SAS training. One man drowned during a swimming exercise and most dropped out before the halfway point. Only three men emerged at the end of the four weeks and Mackay was one of them. After that, he wore the regiment’s beige beret and winged-dagger badge with pride. As he trained with the SAS, he came to appreciate their motto, Who dares wins. And he learned what was important.

  A slight movement in the jungle foliage off to his right side brought the two halves of Mackay’s mind together and he tensed, ready for action. Captain Peter Woodward stepped into the clearing and motioned his patrol forward, abandoning the ambush site. Silently, six men emerged from the underbrush and shadows. Woodward glanced at Mackay and motioned him to fall in as number three, an indication that he was being punished for his clumsy noise. It could be worse, Mackay thought. Woodward had thrown one man fully clothed and equipped into a stream when the trooper had made too much noise during a river crossing. The line of eight men disappeared into the jungle, making their way westward along the Thai-Malay border.

  That evening, the patrol made camp. No fires were lit and they ate a cold meal. The blocklike shape of Woodward emerged out of the shadows and hunkered down beside Mackay. As usual, the thirty-three-year-old British captain was all business. “Not bad out there today,” he said. “Other than your mucking around behind that tree.” He cracked a smile. “I suppose all that brawn and muscle you carry around is an inconvenience at times.” Mackay didn’t respond. His entire body ached and he wondered how many others were feeling as tired as he was. “We did make good time today,” Woodward said. It was as close to a compliment as the Englishman would come. “Interesting message came in on the SatCom,” Woodward continued, getting to the reason for the one-sided conversation. “We may have to send you back.”

  “Why?” was all Mackay asked. He knew it had nothing to
do with his performance on this training exercise. He was holding his own.

  “There might be some trouble in front of us.” Woodward looked at Mackay. “A small group of terrorists, really nothing but a bunch of thieves and murderers left over from the MRLA, is operating in the area. We’ve been asked to drop in on them.”

  Mackay grunted, thinking about what Woodward had said. The MRLA, or Malayan Races Liberation Army, had not been heard from since the early 1980s. Something was up. “Cut out the crap,” Mackay said. Woodward only looked at him. “Was this ever meant to be a training exercise?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve come this far. I’ll go the rest of the way.”

  Woodward nodded. “Get some rest. We’ve got a long way to go tomorrow.”

  The American lieutenant colonel was up and ready to move out before the first trooper stirred the next morning. Woodward was surprised to see him sitting against a tree, his Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun resting in his lap. The MP5 was the personal weapon of choice in the Sass. “Bloody hell,” Woodward mumbled, impressed underneath his hard exterior. “I suppose you want to lead?”

  “Rangers lead the way,” Mackay said, his face impassive. “Now what’s going down.”

  Woodward rolled out of his hammock. “Realistic training.” Mackay waited for the captain to continue as the men went about the routine of breaking camp. The SAS was divided into four Sabre squadrons and Woodward’s specialized in cross-country mobility and long-range patrols, which was also Mackay’s specialty. “The Sass has an informal arrangement with the Malaysian government to train in their jungle,” Woodward said. “If we should ‘happen’ to stumble on any suspicious characters, well, we can also train them. All left over from the Emergency in the 1950s.”

  Mackay suspected that the Englishman was glossing over a security agreement the Malaysians had with their former colonial ruler. It was the way the Brits worked, he thought. He regretted that the United States didn’t train the same way for he had some definite ideas about what the Rangers or Special Forces could do in the Philippines or Latin America. “And according to the SatCom,” Mackay said, “there are some ‘suspicious characters’ out there.”

  “Apparently,” Woodward allowed. He opened a meal pack and started to eat. The patrol was almost ready to move out. “Some fishermen,” the captain explained, “who fancy themselves pirates in their spare moments, captured an American yacht. The crew got a message out and a Thai customs plane overflew them. The bastards took six Americans hostage, burnt the yacht and are heading toward the coast. They should land not too far from us.” He dug out a map. “Probably here.” He pointed to an abandoned Gurkha camp that the British had used during the Emergency in the 1950s. Mackay noticed that an airstrip was next to the camp.

  Mackay asked, “When do they make landfall and how far?”

  “This afternoon. Eight miles away,” Woodward answered.

  “I suppose calling for a helicopter for insertion is out of the question.”

  The captain grinned. “This is a training exercise.” It was his way of telling Mackay that they were strictly on their own and could not ask for such obvious support.

  The lieutenant colonel stood up and looked around. There was enough light to travel. One of the first lessons he had learned was that it was too dangerous to move at night in a jungle. Better to rest and travel more rapidly during daylight. He punched at the buttons on the hand-held Magellan NAV1000M he carried to fix their position. The Magellan was a monitor that linked them into the Global Positioning System, or GPS. It weight less than a pound and could fix their position to within twenty-five meters, eighty-one feet, anywhere in the world. It took all the guesswork out of navigating through the jungle and no one had an excuse for getting lost. Mackay oriented his map and took a compass bearing. “I’ll lead,” he said, putting the map away. “Have Carlin follow with the SatCom. We’ve got to move fast.”

  Both men knew that eight miles was a long trek through a jungle. “Wish we knew what the bloody clock was,” Woodward grumbled. The SAS ran every exercise or operation on a precise time schedule and trained to “beat the clock.” It was part of their formula for success.

  The long range-patrol fell to and moved out, leaving no trace of where they had spent the night.

  For the first few miles they moved fast because the jungle floor was relatively free of underbrush and open under the shade of the rain forest. Mackay hunched forward under the weight of his ninety-five-pound pack and set a relentless pace. Again, he split his attention. But this time, one part of his restless mind concentrated on land navigation while the other evaluated the situation and planned ahead.

  What’s the threat? he asked himself. Their eight versus a small number of fishermen. Bound to be more, he thought. Why was the boat heading for the old Gurkha camp? Was it the closest landfall or was it because of the airstrip? Has Woodward told me everything? Probably not. What was the best course of action? Get the patrol there with time to reconnoiter and plan an attack. The attack would be Woodward’s responsibility. Would Woodward let him be part of it? Probably not. We’ll see about that, Mackay thought. He increased the pace.

  A nagging question kept hovering over him, refusing to go away. Why wasn’t the Malaysian or Thai government responding? They certainly had plenty of time to move a police detachment or a conventional military unit into place. He didn’t like the answer—they didn’t want to get involved.

  No longer did the patrol stop to practice the immediate action drills that had been a constant part of their routine. They just slogged on. Sweat streamed down Mackay’s face and his back ached from carrying his heavy pack. He ignored the pain. Every fifty-five minutes, he would break and take a five-minute rest before resuming the march, not wasting a second more.

  They had covered over six miles, fortunate to be able to follow jungle ridges and ravines rather than having to cross them, before they hit the coastal swamp. “Can we break, sir?” Carlin, the SatCom operator asked, fatigue and respect in his voice. Mackay halted and the men moved into cover.

  Woodward camp up and checked their position on the Magellan GPS monitor with Carlin. “Good navigation,” he said. Carlin told the captain that Mackay had only double-checked their position once during the trek. Woodward lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll be damned,” he allowed, beckoning Mackay over. The two men hunched over a map, plotting a way through the swamp. “A mile and a half, direct,” Woodward said.

  “We can make faster time by making an end run around the swamp and coming down from the north,” Mackay said, tracing a route on the map. For the next few minutes they discussed the tactical problem in front of them. Finally, it was decided to split their small force. Mackay would lead one team to the north and move into a blocking position on the coast while Woodward would penetrate the swamp, following what looked like a low ridgeline.

  When Woodward asked the men who would like to go with Mackay, Carlin said that he would go just to see if Mackay could maintain the same pace, which he doubted. Each of the other men responded in the same vein and Mackay knew that he had been accepted as one of them without reservation. There would be no question about his taking part in the action. A look crossed Mackay’s face that none of them recognized. “My God,” Woodward muttered, “I hope that’s a smile.” It was.

  Mackay continued the punishing pace when he led out the three men. The route Mackay had picked led them across a series of gentle hummocks and through shallow streams and pools and they made good time as they skirted the swamp. They reached the coast and moved down onto the northern side of the Gurkha camp, arriving thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled time Woodward had set for them. Mackay sent two of his team, John and Trevor, forward to scout while Carlin contacted Woodward on the small hand-held radio each member of the patrol carried.

  The reply was not reassuring; Woodward could not penetrate the swamp and had retraced his steps. He was following Mackay’s route and was at least two hours behind him. “This one’s yours,” he t
old the American, “until we join you.”

  An hour later, John, the younger of the two men Mackay had sent forward, came back. The twenty-two-year-old man had been hardened in the rough and impoverished working-class section of Manchester and then found a home in the SAS. His youthful looks gave no indication that he was a deadly, professional killer. “The place is crawling with little brown buggers,” John told them. “All armed…mostly AK-Forty-sevens…. Two of them have Uzis. One boat at the dock—not a fishing boat. I counted seven down there and six more at the airstrip. Looks like they’re expecting someone to drop in for a visit. Trevor’s working his way around to the southern side. Should be there by now.” Mackay did not approve of a man operating alone but made no comment.

  John drew a map of the compound on the back of Carlin’s map and they discussed possible ways to enter the camp. Mackay was hoping Woodward would catch up with them before the fishing boat arrived. His personal radio crackled and the fourth member of their team, Trevor, checked in. The southern side of the camp was deserted and his head count agreed with John’s. Mackay was fairly certain that there were thirteen men in the camp. “I hope they’re only carrying small arms and nothing big.”

  “If they’ve got anything else,” Carlin said, “it’s probably on the boat. We’ll have to neutralize it first.” They all knew what he meant. “Trevor’s got his Hilton.”

  Mackay grunted. The Hilton was a multipurpose single-shot gun that could quickly convert from an extremely accurate twelve-gauge shell to a forty-millimeter grenade launcher. Trevor had a particular fondness for the weapon because it was light, rugged, and multipurpose. Since the men carried everything on their backs while on patrol, it was the logical choice over weapons like the much heavier Hawk multiple-round grenade launcher. Mackay had seen how Trevor could lob ten rounds a minute at maximum range with extreme accuracy and provide fire support much like that of a small mortar. “Find out if he’s in range of the dock,” Mackay said. Carlin keyed the radio and relayed the question.