North Korean Blowup (3 page)

Lt. Ronkowski came running up with six of his Marines.

“What the hell?”

Bancroft told him the story.

“Didn’t figure they had that much explosives. Must have stolen it from some army unit. Wonder if they have any RPG’s or mortars? Now would be a good time to use them.”

“You said they weren’t well equipped,” Hunter said.

“Mostly rifles and guts. Tough way to go against a pair of machine guns.”

It was almost noon before the rebels showed up again. This time they came with a line of four cars side by side driving slowly up the street. Behind them Hunter could see fifty to seventy five men crowding close behind their protection.

“Poor man’s tanks,” Nelson Foster said from the wall. We take out the cars first, Cap?”

“At a hundred yards we open fire with twenties contact rounds on the cars. We stop them. Go for the gas tanks. Then we laser over the cars for the ground troops. Once we stop the cars, the easy riders down there may cut out for the safety behind the houses.”

Lt. Ronkowski stationed two of his Marines on the boxes so they could shoot over the wall. That put eight weapons on the wall and the two machine guns.

“Hold your fire,” Hunter said. “They’re about a hundred and fifty yards. Another fifteen seconds or so.”

They waited.

“Fire,” Hunter said and he heard five of the 20mm weapons go off with their familiar bark. He looked past the machine gunners at the cars. One of the middle rigs took a round in the engine and stopped. The others rolled forward a moment before another one caught a 20 mound in the side and the gasoline tank exploded, showering burning gasoline over some of the men crowding behind the rigs. The other two cars made it almost twenty feet more before they caught half a dozen rounds from the twenties and rifle rounds and slewed to a stop.

Twenty black men in civilian clothes, charged past the smoking cars toward the gate firing their weapons as they came. Both machine guns chattered out deadly bursts of twelve rounds and six of the first line went down screaming. More 20 mm rounds hit in front and among the runners and the shrapnel blasted into them killing many and wounding most of the rest.

Four of the original group made it through the screen of hot lead and got within fifty feet of the wall. Both threw grenades before they tasted the wrath of the machine gunners and died on the spot. The grenades came close but missed the gate and exploded harmlessly against the block wall.

The fire fight was all over in twenty seconds.

“Cease fire,” Hunter said. “Let the stupid bastards pick up their dead and wounded.”

Sergeant Philbin came from the embassy and talked with Ronkowski. The Marine went over to Hunter.

“Philbin tells me that the ambassador just got word from the President that two of the rebel strongholds have been smashed by the army and the remnants of the militants are running for their mountain hideout. The commanding general said he would send a company of infantry to defend the embassy, but he doesn’t think there will be any more organized resistance. The rebels have abandoned the Swiss and British embassies that they had captured. Looks like this crisis is about over.”

“This bunch won’t fight much anywhere else,” Hunter said motioning out the front gate. “Ronkowski, does the embassy have a doctor or a nurse on board?”

“We have a nurse who is as good as most doctors.”

“We have a man who needs some stitches.” He looked around and saw the medic. “Foster, get McNally into the nurse and get his leg stitched up. We may need him again.”

“Roger that, Cap.”

Hunter used his shoulder mike. “Rattigan. Dig out the SATCOM from the barracks and set it up. We could be on the move before sunset.”

Hunter sent the rest of the SEALs back to the barracks like building where they had slept. They cleaned weapons, resupplied their ammo vests, and took a break. Lt. Ronkowski and his Marines manned two ladders on the front wall, one on the back wall, and the two machine guns the SEALs left in place.

Rattigan had trouble getting the six-inch fold out disc antenna for the SATCOM angled properly to pick up a satellite. At last he locked on it and called Hunter over.

“Home Base, this is your closer.”

“Closer, what’s the report?”
               “We’re in the bottom of the ninth here, Admiral. Looks like we’ll get a clearance to evac within the next three or four hours. Can you alert the choppers?”

“I’ll put them on alert now. Give me a go when you’re ready for them.”

“That’s a Roger. Closer out.”

Hunter used his shoulder mike. “Mo, find me.”

A minute later Mohammad stood in front of his commander.

“You three leave any brass upstairs at those windows? Go check it out for sure. And close the windows. Leave it like you found it.”

“Yes sir,” Mo said and then looked for Tanner. The two headed for the third floor.

Hunter went back to his personal radio. “Anyone have any wounds or injuries that Foster needs to look at? Sound off.”

There were ten seconds of dead air. “Then I guess everyone is duty ready for our twenty mile hike we take before the choppers get here.”

“Cap I’ve got a sore knee,” someone said.

“Bad scrape on my leg,” someone else chimed in.

“Got this terrible bad case of the hiccups, can’t stop,” a third voice said.

Hunter grinned. “Okay, we’ll cancel the hike. Maybe if we wash up and mind our manners the cooks here will get us some chow.”

Three hours later, the President’s Platoon boarded two Seahawks and charged across the peaceful fifty miles of Eritrea heading for the destroyers just off shore. The birds refueled and then flew north to meet the carrier that was steaming south to meet them. A day and a half later the President’s Platoon landed at Andrews Air Force Base just outside of Washington. From there it was a quick trip in a van to their quarters at the Farm in Virginia.

It was the second day of the five day leaves for members of the President’s Platoon. Nelson Foster, the platoon medic, settled in at the James Wyatt Memorial Free Clinic in one of the poorest sections of Arlington, Virginia. He worked there as a volunteer whenever he could. This time he was at the receiving desk, signing in people and doing triage on them and assigning them numbers. Some would have long waits. The critical and serious problems always had to come first.

He looked up in surprise at the two young black men who burst through the outside door and pushed aside three people waiting at his desk. One held up the other with one arm, and his free hand gripped a Glock 9 mm pistol aimed at Nelson.

“We got to see a doctor right now, asshole. No shit about get in line. My buddy took a round to his chest and he’s bad. Move it motherfucker, or I’ll start blasting whoever is nearest me. Get us to   an operating room right fucking now.”

Foster came to his feet and his five-ten didn’t come close to the over six foot size of the gunman.

“Take it easy with the piece. You’re moving, right this way, through this door and I’ll get you to the doctor. We don’t have a real operating room here. This is a clinic…”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll give you a new hole in your head. My man here is hurt bad. You get him fixed.”

Down the hall Foster saw Dr. Claremont. He called to the doctor who looked up and spotted the gun. Dr. Claremont was as black as the gunman. He hurried up.

“Trouble?”

“My buddy took a round in his chest; you got to save his life, Doc.”

“We have no real operating room here. He needs a hospital. Bring him in here and we’ll call an ambulance. Until it gets here I’ll do what I can.”

In the one room that could be used for an operation, a nurse spread a clean sheet on a long table with hot lights above it. They eased the wounded man down on the table and Dr. Claremont unbuttoned his shirt.

“Yes, lucky. The round missed your heart, son, but probably clipped a lung. You breathing okay?”

The kid on the table couldn’t be more than fifteen. He tried to nod but his eyes kept closing.
               “His name is Somestuff, you just fix it for him doc,” the gunman said. He leaned in closer to watch the doctor. He was too close, the gun hand to one side. Foster reacted as he would on a mission. He slammed his left fist down hard on the gunhand wrist, dumping the Glock on the floor. In the same instant he powered his right fist into the side of the gunman’s jaw and slammed him away from the table and down on one knee. Foster followed with a sharp kick to the man’s chin. His head snapped back and he collapsed on the floor unconscious.

Dr. Claremont looked at Foster in amazement. “Good Lord, I didn’t know I had a karate expert on my team.” He returned to the patient as a nurse hung a bottle of saline solution and they pumped in some antibiotics.

Foster grabbed a roll of tape and fastened the gunman’s wrists together. Then did the same thing to his ankles. He rolled the still dazed gunman to the side of the room.

A nurse came in and smiled at Foster. “The ambulance will be here in about five minutes.” They knew him as Nelson at the clinic. The nurse smiled again. “Goodness, Nelson, do you go up against a man with a pistol that way all the time?” Her name tag read “Shirley.”

“No ma’am, just when the situation calls for it. The police will want to talk to him, charge him with a few things and find out who shot his buddy here.” He hadn’t told them he was a SEAL, just that he was a hospital corpsman and wanted to help.

“His vital signs are high but not critical,” another nurse said. “At least he’s not bleeding out on us internally.”

The wound on the black man’s chest was a slightly pink button on the black skin. Almost no bleeding. The round hadn’t gone out his back so it was still inside somewhere and would have to come out. Foster knew that much.

“Get that gun toting hoodlum out to the back door,” Dr. Claremont said. “That’s where the ambulance and the police always come. Undo his feet and walk him out there.”

“Yes, sir,” Foster said. He cut the tape with a glistening sharp pocket knife and hoisted the gunman to his feet. He was still woozy, or he was faking it.

Foster pushed him toward the door and then down the hall. He edged up close to him. “Look, asshole, you try to get away, and I’ll kill you. You dig that?”

The tall black man’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then the sneer came back.

“You something of a big tough man with my hands tied, motherfuck.”

“I took you out when you had that Glock in my face. Remember? Now shut up and maybe the cops won’t rough you up on the way to   county jail.”

The ambulance came then, three paramedics and a driver. They looked at the victim and put him on a gurney, kept the saline and antibiotic drip going and wheeled him out to the ambulance. Then they took his vitals again monitored the saline, and checked his breathing as the door closed.

Two minutes later a police car eased to a stop near the back door and two Arlington cops got out. They talked to the doctor and then put the gunman in the back seat of the patrol car.

Foster had picked up the fallen Glock by the barrel and offered it to the officers.

“You disarmed the man I hear,” the officer said.

“Seemed like a good thing to do at the time.”

“Understand you’re military.”

“Navy hospital corpsman second class. We get arms training and some karate moves.”

“And some street fighting. Good thing. We know this tall kid. He’s Long John Garrison, only seventeen but looks older. Been looking for him on a gang shooting. This was probably a payback and they hit the wrong man. He held you hostage for a time?”

“That’s right, all of us.”

“So we’ve got him on kidnapping. I’ll need your name and address so we can call you for testimony if he gets to trial.”

Foster gave him the street address of the Langley headquarters.       

“Thanks, Foster, that was a good piece of work. Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything around here. This is a damn tough neighborhood. Somebody could have been hurt bad in there. We’ll put his pistola with the other evidence we have on him.” He waved and left.

 Nelson went back to the front desk and looked at the room full of people waiting. He knew the feeling. Before he could get started, one of the nurses came out.

“Nelson, I’m so proud of you. Do you realize you probably saved somebody’s life today?”

Her name tag said Shirley Shannon, and he remembered her as always having a friendly smile and greeting.

“Shirley, just doing my job.”

Her face lit up as she smiled again. Light blue eyes, a soft creamy complexion with high cheek bones and bushels of wavy blonde hair down across her shoulders.

“No, Nelson, it was much more than that. The staff has decided that we should take you out to dinner tonight to thank you. I’m the only one who isn’t tied up. So I’m in charge of the celebration. We’ll go right after we clear out all the patients about eight, probably. Now promise me that you won’t run off and stand me up.”

“Dinner?” He lifted his brows. This was unexpected. He’d almost got up nerve enough twice to ask her out. Now this. “Well, I’ll have to check with the admiral and my social secretary, but I think I’m free.”

She laughed at that. “Good. Now any serious problems out here?” She was back in her business mode. He looked over the papers and found one man who was wheezing and short on breath. They put him in exam room one and then he triaged the rest of the paper. It was easier that way than telling the people why they had to wait. Twice or three times he looked at the front door, but no tall black kid with a big gun came storming in. They worked until almost nine p.m. before the last patient was sent on her way.

Shirley came out wearing a blue dress and a light jacket.

“I’ve never seen you in anything but your whites,” Nelson said. At once he regretted it. “What a pretty dress.” Sounded like a dope. But she smiled.

“Hey, I’m not only a nurse, you know. I’m a female of the opposite sex, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, I noticed. Your car or mine?”

Shirley drove. She had picked out a mid-level restaurant where they didn’t have linen on the tables and there were women waitresses and the dinners were from eight to ten dollars. His kind of place to eat.