Don Pendleton - Trial By Fire

“It is possible, given the nature of the emergency, the pilots did not get out a distress call. By the same token, it is possible that the United States has the power to suppress the situation. My best guess is that the plane crash-landed. If there are survivors they most likely used their cell phones to call for help, which we could not monitor or intercept. The United States has no realistic way to project force into the Congo, much less do so without creating an international incident. The northeastern corner of the DRC is one of the most violent, lawless places on Earth. The United States would not want to advertise they are missing people in the region. Any number of groups hostile to them could retrieve the survivors. A hostage situation involving U.S. military school cadets in Equatorial Africa would be a worst-case scenario for them.”

Rhage glanced at the tri-corner border region of Sudan, Uganda and the DRC. “The best they could immediately manage would be to drop in Special Forces operators.”

“Yes, but from where?” Pakzad pondered. “The United States? Divert them from operations in Afghanistan?”

“Nevertheless, I am taking this continuing silence to mean the Americans are up to something.”

“Very well, Captain. Let us assume the Americans have somehow dropped in a rescue team. That leaves them trying to walk out of the Congo. In that case, their best option would be to make for the Ugandan border.”

The corner of Rhage’s mouth quirked up. Pakzad’s plan was growing more momentous by the minute. “Straight toward us.”

“Yes, Captain, and if you are correct, then I suspect the CIA station in Kampala is quietly arranging a team to meet them.”

“I want you to quietly assemble a team of our own, and we will need native trackers who know the area.”

“Yes, Captain!” Pakzad smiled. “We shall herd the little ducks and then pluck them!”

“You are confident, Sergeant Major. You are aware of the fact that U.S. Special Forces operatives are the best in the world.”

“Yes, Captain. Yet I doubt they could have mustered a full Delta Force team, and they will be saddled with children.”

“Military students, Sergeant Major.”

“American teenagers,” Pakzad scoffed. “Soft cadets.”

Rhage smiled tolerantly. “Did you know that I attended academy in my youth?”

“No, Captain. I did not.”

“Oh, I will admit, the greater proportion of my youthful studies stressed the glory of the Revolution and utter loyalty. Nevertheless, it was at academy where I first learned to read a map, use a compass, route march, and fire and field strip an automatic rifle.”

“Yes, Captain. I understand,” Pakzad’s smile suddenly turned sly. It was a smile Rhage knew all too well, and it always meant something was afoot in the man’s mind. “Captain?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“I have an idea.”

“I look forward very much to hearing it.”

“I am reminded of the siege of Troy…”

THE CADETS SQUATTED in the morning mist and made a cold and meager breakfast of the individually wrapped cress-and-cucumber finger sandwiches that they’d despised during the flight, the few packs of peanuts and remaining odds and ends. The cadets had changed out of their dress uniforms and wore the T-shirts and shorts or casual pants they had packed for South Africa. Jovich eyed his tiny sandwich that consisted mostly of leaves. “Man, who is that guy, Rambo?”

Cadet Shelby ate the last honey-roasted peanut. “Sarge rocks.” She carefully opened the empty foil pack like a letter and licked the salt and dust from the inside.

Metard and King immediately followed her lead and began licking foil.

Jovich shoved his sandwich into his mouth and glanced around to see if the sergeant was lurking. “And what’s with the fraternity pledge names?”

Johnson licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “Actually, I kind of liked it when he went all Heartbreak Ridge on us.”

Eischen took a swallow from the last can of Coke and passed it on. His eyes narrowed slyly. “He’s taking a ragtag band of pubescent cadets and turning them into a well-oiled fighting machine.”

Several cadets laughed. Rudipu eyed the battered ladder-sight of his Kalashnikov dubiously. “Man, I sure hope so.”

Bolan appeared out of the mist with the plane’s emergency folding shovel in hand. “Grave detail. Fall in.”

The cadets stared as a unit. “Sarge?” Johnson asked.

“The first officer died around 4:00 a.m. last night. Follow me.”

The cadets stared around at one another glumly. They rose and followed Bolan a little way through the trees. The copilot lay in an open grave about five feet deep and just long and wide enough to fit his frame. Miss von Kwakkenbos knelt beside the grave weeping. The copilot lay with his arms crossed over his chest holding his uniform cap. He looked at peace.

“I dug his grave, but he was your first officer. He was part of your flight. Flight 499. I figured you might want to cover him. Maybe say something over him.”

Hudjak took the shovel from Bolan’s hand without a word. He stood over the grave for a moment and then looked back at Bolan. “Sarge?”

“Huge?”

“They’re just going to dig him up, and do him voodoo-style like they did the captain. Probably going to eat him.”

“You’re right, Huge.” Bolan nodded. “Can anyone tell me why that doesn’t matter?”

“Because there’s nothing we can do about it.” Shelby looked down at the dead copilot. “It doesn’t matter what they do. What matters is what we do, and we respect our fallen.”

Hudjak nodded and began shoveling.

The cadets watched silently as Flight 499’s first officer went beneath the ground. “Hey,” Metard said. “Huge.”

The young man didn’t look up from his work. “What do you want, Meatwad?”

“A turn.”

Hudjak straightened. He gave Metard a look and handed over the entrenching tool. One by one each cadet took a turn burying their flight officer. Rudipu spent long moments patting the grave flat and even.

Bolan nodded. “Anyone want to say anything?”

Rudipu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He called me Sprout.” A few of the cadets laughed quietly or smiled. Rudipu wiped tears from his face as he gazed upon the grave. “But he gave me a tour of the cockpit before we took off. He showed me his gun.”

Shelby sniffed and pushed at her face. “He called me Sheila. When I said I was Air Force, he said he liked lady pilots. I liked him.”

“He fought them.” Johnson stared long and hard at the grave. “Even with two broken legs. He fought them.”

Tears spilled down Cadet Eischen’s cheeks. “Even when we didn’t.”

The cadets lowered their heads.

Bolan spoke over the grave. “He was Pieter Llewellyn, Lieutenant. He flew 604s for the Royal Australian Air Force, Transport Wing. He was honorably discharged after two enlistments and became a private contractor, specializing in the African VIP hub. He fought that plane to the ground.” Bolan looked around at the survivors of Flight 499. “He said you were a likeable bunch of lads and sheilas. He said he’d brought you down, but it was up to me to keep you safe. He said take care of his Niners. He said take them home.”

The cadets nodded at Bolan, who shook his head. “I couldn’t promise him that.”

The squad stared.

“I can only promise you two things. I leave no one behind, and I’ll die before I let any of you get taken again.”

Profound silence filled the gravesite.

“Flight Officer Llewellyn,” Bolan intoned. “Niner Squad! Salute!”

The cadets saluted their fallen copilot with parade-ground precision.

“Fall out,” Bolan ordered. “Gear up. Line up for inspection in one minute.” The cadets and Von Kwakkenbos fell out and grabbed their kit. They were armed and in line in fifty seconds.