The following unpublished short story is a
prequel to Peace Force. It's a more detailed
account of events that were briefly recounted
in the book, which took place almost ten
years before the storyline of Peace Force,
beginning on Friday, August 13, 2041.
Black Friday
Lieutenant Turner Andrews was huddled in the dense jungle with the
five squad leaders from his platoon and the sergeant who had led the
recon mission. Turner had already seen video of everything that Sergeant
Milkin had seen, thanks to the tiny camera on the front of every soldier’s
helmet. Their objective was a well-defended hilltop half a mile to the north,
the enemy’s local command center. It was the final target before they could
declare victory and return to camp.
The enemy knew that an attack was imminent, probably just after
sunset. That was pretty much what Turner’s own commander was
expecting, that they would wait to attack under cover of darkness. The
enemy had the advantage of being dug in with dirt mounds reinforced with
sandbags for cover, but they were in fixed positions. Turner’s soldiers
would be able to attack from anywhere. Colonel Whitman’s final order had
been, “I want that hill taken by midnight.”
But Turner intended to be sipping a beer by midnight. They would
attack them in the daylight and take them by surprise. There was a deep
crevice to the west that led right up to the base of the hill before it ran into
a monolithic boulder jutting up out of the ground like a gigantic jagged
tooth. The split in the ground was overgrown with brush at the top, so it
was almost like a tunnel leading right up to the hill.
“Is that crevice big enough for us to get through it?”
“Yes sir…in single file.” Milkin replied. “It’s at least three feet wide at
the narrowest and seven to eight feet deep.”
“Perfect. They’re not going to have as much defenses behind that rock
because they can’t see downrange. We take out that heavy machine gun
on the south side of the rock and swarm up the hill.”
Thirty minutes later they were in position, lined up in the narrow trench
just yards from the nearest enemies. Two soldiers with RPGs were boosted
up above the rim to fire their rounds at the machine gun position nearby.
That was the signal--all of the troops scrambled out of their cover and
began their charge up the hill.
Turner was near the front of the loosely staggered formation that
jogged up the hill as they fired to the left or right. They were receiving fire
from nearby foxholes and he could see a lot of enemies scrambling around
in the trees above them, looking confused. Suddenly an enemy soldier ran
out in front of Turner, weapon raised, taking aim. But Turner shot first. A
red laser light from his weapon hit the other man’s chest and little red light
started flashing on the center of his vest.
“Son of a bitch!” The enemy soldier looked down at his weapon and
cursed, as if it was the weapon’s fault that it had deactivated.
Turner chuckled as he continued his charge up the hill. He took out ten
more “bad guys” before his troops were surrounding the command tent at
the summit. When Turner pushed through the flap into the tent the six
people inside were standing with their hands on their heads.
One of them was Lieutenant Glover, his friend and fellow platoon
leader. “You’re early, Turner.” He smiled. “I guess I owe you a beer.”
Within an hour they were back at the World Peace Force base on the
outskirts of Panama City. The Battalion’s headquarters was filled with the
soldiers returning from the field, rushing around to complete their tasks.
Whitman’s rule was that nobody leaves until everybody’s weapons and
equipment were cleaned and checked in, so there was a lot of peer
pressure to move with a purpose.
The colonel stopped Turner as he made his way through the crowded
main hallway. “Lieutenant! Nice job on that final assault.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But--” he emphasized the word, “I think the daylight raid was a little
rash. Now, your platoon’s casualty rate was only twelve percent and
anything up to fifteen would have been acceptable for an attack on that
hill. But think how low it might have been if you did the same attack under
cover of darkness.”
“My plan was to take them by surprise, sir.” He refrained from adding
that also, just about every military force in the world has night vision
technology so in the real world darkness doesn’t provide such great cover.
Just because they don’t let us use it in these exercises doesn’t mean it
doesn’t exist.
“Plus you made it back in time for the big speech, yeah?” Colonel
Whitman smiled.
“That is today, isn’t it?” Turner asked innocently. He knew full well that
it was scheduled to start in about ten minutes and he had been making his
way to the day room to claim a good spot in front of the big TV.
The “big speech” was going to be delivered by his grandfather, the
venerable James Vincent Andrews Sr., who was in the middle of his third
four-year term as the chairman of the World Peace Council. He had led the
world government since its inception ten years ago and had done an
incredible job. He seemed to enjoy unprecedented levels of admiration and
respect throughout the world. But very few knew the great man as well as
Turner. He had spent a lot of time with this incredibly wise and
compassionate man at the family estate near Denver, in the same house
where his father the Senator now lived.
He had seen his grandfather give many speeches before, on television
and even in person. But tonight’s speech promised to be historic.
Chairman J.V. Andrews was going to speak outdoors, on a stage set up in
front of the Brandenburg monument in Berlin, and the media was predicting
that more than a million people were going to fill the square and
surrounding streets. By far the largest crowd ever gathered voluntarily to
hear a politician speak.
There was already a crowd gathering in the dayroom. After all, this guy
was also their commander-in-chief. Aside from representing Earth's
interests in the Intergalactic Confederation of Planets, the world
government's main responsibility was to enforce international law and order
and the Peace Force was their big stick. It was an enormous multi-national
military force that operated under the authority of the World Peace
Council. They had never been called into action, but that was the idea, to
be a deterrent against international aggression. A tyrant would have to be
really crazy to attack his neighbor knowing full well that the Peace Force
would inevitably get involved.
Turner managed to find a spot on a couch just as Germany’s president
was introducing the Chairman. It was already dark there, but the stage was
brightly lit.
V.J. Andrews was greeted with several minutes of thunderous applause
as he made his way to the podium, waving to the sea of faces that was
spread out before him. Finally he began, “I’m glad to see so many of my
friends made it out tonight.”
Turner smiled as he watched his grandfather speak. He had this way of
connecting with people. Even people who disagreed with him would
describe him in the most respectful of terms.
The chairman was saying, “It has been my distinct pleasure to serve the
citizens of Earth for these past ten years, and for the rest of my term I will
continue to do everything in my power to give the people the kind of
government that they deserve.”
The crowd erupted in applause. Then, suddenly, the chairman fell.
Others fell who had been on the stage behind him. Deafening screams
could be heard as the camera was jostled and then panned down to show
people crowding around the figures that were lying on the stage, bleeding.
A reporter’s voice broke in, “Oh my God, shots came out of nowhere!
Chairman Andrews and several others have been shot! The crowd has
become hysterical, people running and screaming everywhere! My God,
how could this happen?”
Turner and his fellow soldiers sat in shocked silence as the television
reported on the panicked crowd and the police and security forces attempts
to control it. After several minutes a voice reported somberly, “I’ve just
been told that Chairman Andrews has been declared dead at the scene.”
Turner was in as a fog as he was led from the dayroom and placed in
Colonel Whitman’s office. Once he was alone he allowed himself to cry. It
seemed like he was in there for a very long time before Whitman entered.
“Hey Turner…how ya doin?” The colonel’s gruff drawl was quieter than
Turner had ever heard it.
“I’m all right, sir. I mean…considering…”
“I know. I thought you might want an update. Their was a team of five
assassins shooting from a penthouse a few blocks away. The security
forces trapped them in a parking garage and killed them all in a shoot-out.
The press is reporting a rumor that they were Libyans.”
“Khaku was behind this?” Gaifi Khaku was Libya’s self-appointed
president. If any government could have been behind the chairman’s
murder, it was his.
“There’s no official word on that, but I just got the order that our whole
base is going on alert. Probably the same as every Peace Force base in
the world.”
“You think we’re going to go after Libya?”
“That’s not for you to worry about. Rebecca called a few minutes ago
and I told her I’d be sending you right home. I spoke to your old man too,
he said your family was gathering in Denver for the funeral. You need to
go be with your family, son.” Coincidentally, Whitman and Turner’s father
had worked together as young officers in the U.S. Special Forces.
“Yes sir.” He replied numbly.
The moment he walked in his front door his wife wrapped her arms
around him tightly and buried her face in his chest, crying. “I can’t believe
this, Turner.” She sobbed. “How could this happen?”
“I don’t know, Becky. I just don’t know.”
He did his best to comfort her for at time, then convinced her to start
packing a bag while he made phone calls to his father and grandmother.
They didn’t exactly agree with his decision, but they understood it and they
knew that he had made up his mind and nobody was going to change it.
He was a lot like his grandfather that way.
He put Rebecca on a flight to Denver and headed back to the base.
Just three hours after he had left he was walking back into the Third
Airborne Infantry Battalion’s headquarters building.
Colonel Whitman did a double-take when he spotted him in the
hallway. “Andrews! What the hell are you doing back here? I signed you
out on leave.”
“Sign me back in, sir. I can’t take leave with the base on alert.”
They were face-to-face now and the colonel spoke softly but sternly.
“You’ve suffered a loss son, and I’m putting you on emergency leave. You
need to go grieve with your family.”
“Sir, I have a duty to be here and lead my platoon. And if the Peace
Force is going to avenge my grandfather’s death I’m not giving up my
chance to play a part in it.”
For several long moments the colonel stared into Turner’s eyes.
Perhaps he saw the determination there, or maybe he was just thinking
about what he would do in Turner’s place. When he finally spoke he
sounded exasperated, “Okay, you win. Check out your gear and make
sure your platoon has all of theirs. We need to be ready to go on a
moment’s notice.”
The moment didn’t actually come until the next evening. In the
meantime all of the soldiers had to stay in their Battalion area, keeping their
weapons and other gear with them at all times. Turner spent most of that
time monitoring the news. The entire World Peace Council had rushed to
New York to mourn their fallen leader. Then they elected Rudolph
Guilliame, another representative from the U.S., to complete Chairman
Andrews term.
Shortly after dinner, just a little more than twenty-four hours after the
assassination, they started loading up in buses for the short drive to the
airfield. They didn’t receive the final briefing until they had been airborne
for nearly an hour, with Turner and the other officers crouching around a
map in the back of the crowded cargo jet. The target was indeed Libya.
No surprise there.
“The initial attack has already started.” Whitman informed them. “Right
now there are hundreds of cruise missiles coming in, taking out the power
grid, communications and AA defenses. Soon their skies will be filled with
bombers and their fighter escorts, hitting every conceivable target. By the
time we jump in their defenses should be pretty well softened up, but be
ready for anything. We’re going to jump into this park,” he made an X on
the map with his grease pencil, “and our first objective is to secure and
search the president’s main residence, over here. If Khaku’s still alive,
there’s a good chance he’ll be hiding in there. Once we’ve secured a
perimeter around the palace two platoons will go inside to search for the rat
bastard--or his body.”
“I’m going in.” Turner met Whitman’s steely gaze. “Sir.”
It was well after sunrise when they parachuted onto an empty, grassy
expanse of the public park. Fortunately the bombing had been incredibly
thorough. As he floated down to earth Turner didn’t spot a single building
that didn’t bear scars, and many were nothing but smoking skeletons.
Their target was missing half of it’s roof and a large section of one wall, but
it was still standing.
They didn’t meet any resistance as they moved out toward the palace,
which wasn’t too surprising. There were paratroopers dropping all over
Tripoli and in every other city in the country. The Libyan troops that
survived the bombings had their hands full.
But as they approached the walled compound shots rang out. There
were several dozen of Khaku’s elite guard firing from windows and from
behind crumbling sections of the walls. These guys were fanatically
devoted, sworn to protect their president or die trying. Within minutes they
did the latter as the thousand-strong infantry battalion overwhelmed them.
Once the palace was surrounded Turner led his platoon through a hole
into the building. They rushed from room to room, declaring each one
clear before moving onto the next. Walls were cracked and glass broken
from the force of the earlier explosions that had rocked the building. They
kicked around the broken furniture and chunks of plaster to check for
casualties or hiding enemies.
In a walk-in cooler in the big kitchen they found several members of the
kitchen staff huddling on the floor. As Turner pushed open the door with
the barrel of his weapon they all screamed and threw their hands up in the
air. A couple of them yelled, “Please no!” and “Don’t shoot!” All of their
terrified eyes were glued on the opening at the end of that rifle.
Turner stepped forward and placed the barrel against the head of the
oldest and largest man in the group. He looked like he was in charge. He
demanded, “Where’s the basement? How do we get downstairs?” He knew
that if Khaku was here and alive, he was going to be below ground level.
The kitchen manager’s hand shook terribly as he pointed toward a set
of double doors on the other side of the enormous kitchen area. “Through
the doorway are the stairs.”
“Sanchez, guard the prisoners. If they move, shoot ‘em.”
“Should I let them out of the cooler? They look cold.”
“Negative. They stay in there until the whole building is cleared. Let’s
move out!”
At the bottom of the stairs they found a warehouse-sized storeroom
containing not only food and other dry goods but a large cache of weapons
and ammunition. There were two other staircases going up and a small
suite of offices. Then they found a door that was marked with the words
“wine cellar” in Arabic. Behind it was a spiral staircase that took them down
for a surprisingly long descent--at least two stories. At the bottom was a
large, well-stocked wine cellar.
But Turner was sure that this had to be it. He started examining the
racks along the walls until he shouted, “This is it! See those tracks on the
floor and the ceiling? This rack is made to slide over on rollers.”
The rack wouldn’t budge, however, and they couldn’t find a mechanism
to unlock it, so Turner ordered, “Tear it down!” That, too, was easier said
than done. They beat at it with rifle butts and pried with knives and
entrenching tools but it was built even more solidly than it looked. Finally
they stuck a hand grenade underneath it and then tore the pieces away.
Behind it they found a big vault-like door.
Fortunately he had the foresight to bring along a couple of demolition
specialists with plenty of plastic explosives. “Let‘s get it open, guys. Set
some charges to blow that door.”
The platoon took cover behind the racks of wine as they detonated the
charges and knocked the thick steel door off its hinges so that it crashed
down onto the floor. Turner moved cautiously toward the doorway and
called out, “Gaifi Khaku! This is the World Peace Force! Lay down your
weapons and come out with your hands on your heads!”
Turner’s orders were to take Khaku alive to stand trial if possible, but
he was secretly hoping that it wouldn’t be. Whoever was inside the bunker
responded to his command be spraying gunfire through the doorway and
Turner smiled. He gave them their chance.
“If that’s the way you want it.” He gave a signal and four of his soldiers
ran forward and took turns tossing a grenade through the doorway, two
concussion grenades thrown far across the room and two smoke grenades
lobbed in close to the door.
Then he led the rush into Khaku’s underground command center,
spraying every part of the room with gunfire. By the time the entire platoon
was inside the president and all of his top aides lay on the floor or draped
over their consoles, bleeding from numerous wounds. Turner found Khaku
and nudged his body with a boot to make sure he was dead. He noted with
some satisfaction that he was in the area where Turner had been firing.
“Any survivors?”
The troops that were standing over the bloody corpses all answered
negatively.
Turner remarked, “Nice work, people,” before he unclipped his radio to
report to Whitman. “Big bird, this is Mongoose. We’ve found the viper’s
nest and all of the snakes have been exterminated.”
Of course, the Colonel could see the images from their helmet cams.
“Good job, Turner. Finish sweeping the building for enemies and then
report back to me. We’ll let the medical team take care of those bodies.”
“You heard him, guys.” Turner called out as he clicked off the radio.
“Let’s finish checking out this dump so we can go get our medals.”
He didn’t really expect to get a medal. They didn’t do anything
incredibly heroic or brave, they just carried out their orders in a proficient
manner. But a month later, less than a week after his unit returned to
Panama, he was flown to New York to receive a Peace Force Medal of
Valor during a special ceremony at the World Peace Council Building. It
didn’t take him long to realize that the whole thing was just a big photo op
for the new chairman, who presented the award after giving a lengthy
speech.
Also at the ceremony was Turner’s father, who had been appointed by
the president to finish his father’s term as a U.S. Representative to the
World Peace Council, as well as his mother, grandmother and wife. They
all sat together in the front row of spectators, beaming proudly.
As Turner stood on the stage and listened to Chairman Guilliame’s
long, self-serving speech he decided that he didn’t much like the new
commander-in-chief. He was such a consummate politician.
After the speech Turner stood at rigid attention as Guilliame pinned the
medal to his chest and then he saluted the chairman. But after returning
the salute he smiled warmly and said, “You’re grandfather would have been
proud.”
Turner bristled a little at that. He said, “Thank you, sir.” But he was
thinking, “My grandfather was always proud of me and I don’t need a
preening politician in an expensive suit to tell me that.”
Then he spoke to the audience, “I didn’t do anything spectacular, I just
did my job like all of the other fighting men and women who keep our planet
safe and secure. It’s my honor to serve with them.” Then he snapped to
attention and saluted the generals who were seated in the front row next to
his family.
THE END