Mando Bk. 02: Good Badass Bitch Ch. 07

CHAPTER 7: THE RESCUE HAWK

DANNY'S STORY

A uniform from out front ran over to tell us the hostages are safe. She said hundreds of butterflies filled the air when you waved your hands. Then she told us you hurled water balloons at the guy, but that can稚 be right, can it?

"Right as rain on the plane in Spain. Sounds insane, right?" Chuckles tumble through my lips when I finish. May be I'm coming out of shock too after that mother of a bomb.

"That may be no joke, but this must be. She swears you were firing a paintball gun at a man with a fully automatic assault weapon outfitted with a double drum of two hundred rounds of ammo. She told us you ran straight at him like your ass was on fire after he mowed you down with a shit load of bullets, and after you caught a grenade he threw at the hostages. She's joking for real on this one, right? Paint balls against a machine gun?" He's obviously skeptical. I guess he thought the lady officer was playing a prank.

"Right on the money," I confirm again.

He gasps for air. "What?"

"Yep. She got it right." A smile crosses my lips. A real one. Not forced. God bless morphine.

"Damn! I'd bet my paycheck she was spreading bullshit on that one. All right, I know she got this one wrong, though. She swore you caught a live grenade and put it in your pocket, or tote bag, or something. That's bullshit, right?"

I chuckle at Chuck. "It's no shit, Sherlock. The grenade had to hide in my pouch until I had time to dispose of it safely. She must have been watching the monitor. Those are silk butterflies for the kids to cheer them up."

"So she's right about all of it? Paint balls, water balloons, all of it?"

"Yep. She's right about all of it. I couldn't show up empty-handed, could I?"

Chuck laughs. "You went against a crazy man with three automatic weapons and hand grenades up the wazoo throwing water balloons and shooting paint balls? " He breaks into a fit of laughter. "Mando, you're the only one I know with enough balls to pull off a stunt like that without a hitch. No pun intended."

I chuckle. "When you put it that way I suppose there's some truth to it, but there was a hitch or two. That free falling grenade definitely goes in the hitch file." We both laugh.

"But you surly didn't, put a live grenade in your pocket without defusing it, did you?"

"Yep. Couldn't be helped. I had a schedule to keep."

How is that possible? If you pull the pin, the handle flies up, and the clock ticks its countdown because that little bomb is cooking. It's live. You either diffuse it or toss it. But you did neither. Wasn't it still ticking?"

"No, Chuck, it was an impact grenade; not a time delay fragment grenade. Impact grenades won't explode without direct collision. Defusing it wasn't necessary."

"I'm glad you know the difference and didn't let it land. Another thing; there was no paint anywhere on the guy. What was in the balls if it wasn't paint? There wasn't a drop of paint on him. Anything else either, so what did you shoot him with?""

"Paint balls loaded with chloroform soaked cotton-let's keep that between ourselves." I tell him.

"Now that just makes sense. 'He laughs. " Mando, just between us rabbits, that fall couldn't have killed the man, but he's stone cold dead."

"I punched that murdering psychopath into the next life. Just wish I was a few seconds faster so he'd be the only one dead. We lost two children, Chuck. They were practically cut in half by machine gun fire."

Chuck hears the regret in my voice. "That's sad news, alright. But remember this: A few seconds slower we'd all be dead, instead of just two, right?"

"Right. But I've never lost kids, Chuck." I stop just before my voice breaks. "He's cured of his hostage-taking syndrome, though. Got my out ready? "

"A car is waiting just a block over to take you to the chopper. Your SEALS are on the way, I take it?"

"Yes. I sent pictures of the bomb to them and to your phone."

"Is the bomb as bad as you feared? Is it completely neutralized?" He inquires, trying to mask the hint of worry and fear leaking into his words.

"It's live but secure. I disabled the main mechanisms, but there's another bomb in the false bottom below the canisters. The Seals will handle that one."

"What kind of bomb? The kind you described that scared the B-Jesus out of all of us?"

"Yes. It's the kind that can have a blast radius of ten miles or more and reach a temperature of up to a hundred thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Chuck, before we discuss this I need to stabilize the bomb with water so it won't blow when the canisters are removed. Have the fire department park a fire engine beside the window above you and send a fireman with an extension ladder to bring up the booster hose. Tell the engineer to start pumping. While you talk to the fire chief, I'll check on the ETA of our disposal team."

I confirm the team's ETA and send text to the CIA, Secret Service, Home Defense, and the General. By the time I affirm the situation is contained so the President and Vice President and Pentagon generals can leave their bunker, a firefighter's helmet appears at the window. There's a face under it, hiding behind a transparent shield. "Where's the fire, Sir? There's no smoke."

I wave him over to the toy box. When he steps off the ladder, I see he is covered from head to foot in fire resistant gear and bundled up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. "Listen carefully. What needs to be done is not a fireman's job. You don't get paid enough to do the bomb squad's job. Right?"

He breaks into a broad freckled grin. "Bomb? Not my yob, Hefei! But really, what needs to be done?"

I point to the box. "Fill this box to a third from the top of the canisters with calm still water. Use the spray nozzle against the side of the box. You want to do it until the squad gets here and they take over?"

"Is it dangerous? If I do it wrong will I blow us all up?" He doesn't seem too happy with the idea. Can't say I blame him.

I shake my head. "It's stable at the moment, and the sooner you have that box at least a quarter full the happier we'll all be."

"Shazam! Say no more."

He has water at the quarter mark in record time "Thanks. Your name?"

"Jake, Sir."

"Good job, Jake. Add three more inches of water and then get a vacuum system to remove the water when the canisters are out, and two large ventilation fans."

"Yes, sir." He jerks his head in a single, short nod.

Chuck comes on the line. " Tell me what we have up there and what apparently scared the blood out of your heart."

I tell him about the different trigger mechanisms, the failed jammers, answer his questions, and finish with, "Chuck, I've sent pictures of the bomb to the seal team and explained what needs to be done. They know what to do. I'm leaving before the reporters stick cameras and microphones in my face."

"Right. Your voice sounds a little strained. Are you hurt?"

"A little, but nothing that won't heal. I'm going to speak with the teachers and then I'll be off. See you later."

I scurry over to the teachers and address the principal. "Mrs. Smyth, it's time to march these soldiers downstairs and give the world a concert."

The principal bobs her head in understanding. "Yes, we'll line them up at the entrance steps like a choir and sing two or three verses to show their families they are all right. "

"Great. Have the kids clap for themselves when they finish, and the crowd will join them. This should restore order."

"Wonderful! This singing idea is as good for the teachers as the children and parents. Thanks, ...I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."

"Mando, mam."

"Thank you so much Mando. That is the most horrible experience most of us have ever gone through. I am proud of your wisdom, and the wisdom of those who chose you for this rescue."

I'm glad she can't see me blush under the makeup. "Thanks, Mrs. Smyth."

She uses a wet and worn tissue to dab her eyes before resuming. "I'm heartbroken over the children we lost, but most grateful for the ones still with us."

Her remarks tear at my heart. "Mam, you'll never know how upset I am over losing those children. How it eats at me."

She sniffs, and gives me a warm smile followed by sincere commiserating advice. "I can only imagine, son, but like us, you must treat guilt like the impostor it is. None of us did anything wrong, but we still awful our children were forced to endure such horror."

She shakes her finger at me like a granny about to admonish a grandchild."Now don't let those "if only" thoughts work you over and get you down and feeling useless. Lord knows when you'll be needed again; you must stay at the top of your game., young man. You didn't fail today. Don't you think that for a second."

I can't stop the grin from popping up like a ping pong ball bouncing over the net. "Thanks. I needed that. Now take those happy children to cheer the world with happy songs."

I watch her, and her staff lead the balls of fire and energy on legs around the room singing and making hand motions. They look like a dwarf army on their way to defend the steps. Their little hands, feet, mouths, and eyes are so busy singing and doing hand motions in the air they've no time to dwell on having been hostages five minutes ago. They sing for TV and their families. The teachers add a delightful touch. The children pause between each step and clap once during the pause. Now we have a parade.

Part of me is still sad over the fallen, but I am button busting proud of the teachers for showing strength and confidence to the parents and children. Watching the children sing and swing and sway is tonic for my torn spirit too. For a few seconds I forget about the two lifeless bodies of five year old little people.

Through the school's cameras, the world watches excited children chasing butterflies and having fun. They see them march around the room, down the stairs, and out the doors singing in happy voices. The children were seconds away from death a few minutes ago, and full of life now. A hundred thirty-three ex-hostages march and sing as carefree as if just returning from the playground. It's a powerful thing to see. It's like they returned from the dead. Except for two, damn it all.

The NAVY SEALS rented van pulls in next to the building behind the fire truck unnoticed. Five figures clad in black hop out the back and silently go up the fireman's ladder and climb up to the second-floor window like black ants searching for a tasty morsel.

I finish briefing the bomb squad leaders and hurry to meet the SEAL team, answer questions and introduce them to Chuck and the bomb squad Captain. Then I slip away while the boom boys talk.

I scoot to my entrance window and bend out to look for my pole. I see it right away. My favorite vaulting pole is leaning against the wall within reach waiting for me like a faithful horse. I grip it with my good hand and slide down to the ground the way firemen slide down brass poles from the bunkhouse to the fire truck. My feet hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth and scramble my brains. Pain ripples through my body. That medic is right. I'm hurt. I land and flip the pole parallel to the sidewalk and dash to the next block. My get-out-of-town car waits to drive me to my get-home-for-dinner helicopter. In three seconds I'll be nothing more than a memory.

On the way home I call Gino . "Hi Danny! I just saw a crazy woman pole vault into a room armed only with water balloons and a paint ball gun against a man shooting a machine gun. Know anything about that?"

I giggle. "I might."

"That was sensational, Danny, but are you hurt? Did the armor hold at that range?"

"Gino, come home as soon as you can, I need a healer."

"If it's an emergency come land on our heliport. Otherwise it'll be over an hour."

"My hand is shot to shit. I have morphine at home. I can wait."

"Yes, you can, but you don't need to. Come on and call me five minuets before you land."

"That won't interrupt your life?"

"What are you talking, girl, you ARE my life. How close are you?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes."

"Come then."

"K. I love you Gino."

"Then I'd say we're even, 'cause I love you too. See you soon. Bye."

"Bye."

***

Gino is waiting when we land. He throws open the door, hops in, and starts to take me into is arms and stops. "Um, let me see your boo boos first before I start squeezing. Did the armor hold?"

A sunburst of purple bruises on my midsection and chest give me a distinct tie/dyed look from my sternum to my belly button.. "Barely. I expected standard 9mm, but he used full metal jacket ammo in a .223 caliber burp gun. At that range he would have executed me with more hits in the same area. Re-enforced armor is on the list." I hold out my battered hand. "This baby needs a lot of love and attention, though. The bones look pulverized."

"Relax." He rests one hand on my mid section and the other on my arm. A delightful tingling sensation starts in my chest and flows down to my belly button, and then into my hand. I don't know how long it takes, but when he stands, I'm whole.

"Wow Gino, Wow! I feel great. Thank you-thank you-thank you!" I hug him tight and kiss him over and over. "I SO needed that."

He flashes his pearly whites and kisses me again. "See you tonight. You too, Kammy. Thanks for bringing her to see me."

She snickers. "That girl 'll do anything to get to see you, won't she?"

***

Kammy and I are home and I'm watching the rescued children's choir sing on a news program. When the clapping subsides, the principal leads the crowd in Amazing Grace. Tears stream down every face as they sing: "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved someone like me."

All were convinced the crazed captor was about to execute his hostages when the daredevil rescuer crashed the party. Each survivor was standing on death's trap doors when an unexpected stranger locked the door shut. These realizations deluge teachers, parents, officers, and witnesses like torrents of acid rain. Gratefulness for life, second chances and living children is written on every face, in each note and words sung, and in the hugs and kisses. The scene is a tearjerker.

Some mothers hug their children tighter than a boa constrictor hugs a rabbit. Others are smothering them with kisses and drenching their little heads in tears. I worry I'd saved the hostages from being shot or blown up, only to see them squeezed to death by relieved parents. The whole crowd is a rain cloud.

Even though I'm many miles from the school, their tears make my vision blurry and my cheeks wet. I sniff and wipe them away, trying to keep the image of a tough, merciless person intact. I don't like appearing weak or showing my emotions. My enemies could use that against me. But images of two children being riddled with bullets won't leave me alone.

Madonna, Moses, and Mother Theresa! Won't I ever get the kids I failed out of my head? I finally get a grip and tune back into the show. The scene of the kids singing and marching around the room replays, followed by the concert on the steps.

The children's happy faces, cheerful voices, and enthusiasm send a simple message to parents and TV viewers worldwide. We are all right. We're not hurt; we're safe and not afraid.

It's a no-brainer. When people are upset, calm them down. Now how hard is that?

This is fodder for the news reporters. It is heart-string pulling stuff, and they know just how to pull those strings.

Selected scenes of me flash one after another on the screen. Getting shot with a swarm of bullets, catching the hand grenade followed by the paintball gun attack dominates the airways. I'm not sure how I feel about killing a guy on public TV even if he deserved it. At this point, the news anchors don't know that was a death blow. I have a reprieve until they put an expert on the show.

I can't take anymore. I can't focus on the saved hostages without the picture changing to those I lost. This downhill ride to remorse, guilt, shame, and depression is new to me. I've lost buddies in battle, killed, destroyed, and survived some hairy scary situations, but none affected me like this.

I throw the remote across the room so hard it bounces off the wall and shatters on the hard tile floor. "DAMN IT! JUST A FEW SECONDS SOONER! JUST A FEW MEASLY SECONDS TOO LATE AND WHAT HAPPENS?! THOSE KIDS ARE DEAD. I bury my head in my hands and sob.

My scream draws a worried Kammy to the room on bare feet. She slides on the couch beside me and pulls a broken hero to rest against her tiny body and rocks gently.

After my wails and moans die away she speaks in a soothing voice. " Danny, remember what you said the principal told you about guilt being an impostor?"

I nod.

"Is it true?"

I don't answer.

"Well, is it?"

"Yes, and a damned good one. That bitch is beating my brains out."

"In this round, yes, but will you throw the fight?"

"Huh?"

"A fighter that throws a fight is washed up. Will you give in and throw the fight? Are you defeated?"

I explode. "Damn it all to hell Kammy, I'm hurting!--not dying!"

She kisses my on the forehead like a mother reassuring her child. "Glad you cleared that up." She puts a paper in my lap. "Here's something I want to read to you."

What?" I wipe my eyes and focus. "What is this, Kammy? A list of names?"

"Yes, relax and I'll read them to you."

"What names?"

"The names of people who are still alive because of you, then the populations of cities that still exist because of you, and major places like Reagan Airport, Smithsonian Institute, Pentagon, White house, military and commercial shipyards that owe their continued existence to a Dare Devil with a vaulting poll and a pocket full of toys with the knowledge and fortitude to disable a bomb that could have blown up America's freedom and way of life forever."

She's reading before I can protest. Each name softens my nerve's hard, torn edges. I listen to names of cities and townships with their populations and significant landmarks and world renowned institutions and facilities with an air of appreciation. It overrides the devastating depressing thoughts of those five year old kids take me to. When the last word leaves her lips I am calm and composed. She stops and remains silent.

Half an hour later I'm me again. Calm, confident, and self assured. "Thank you Kammy. You are a good friend and companion. That guilt thing was tearing me a new asshole. It was seeing those innocent, helpless children being gunned down on my way in that hit me so hard. Two seconds stood between them and death. Two seconds late. "

"That would tear anyone with a heart to pieces. Those memories can remind you of what you train so hard for instead of sending you into a state of despair." She flashes her toothy "Kammy grin." "One more question, OK?"

"K."

"Can you name anyone capable of responding as fast as you did? Someone with the skill to pole vault through that window, the balls to rely solely on non-lethal weapons and means, and here's the biggie, could have disabled that bomb in sixty seconds?"

I laugh, "Got it. You win. Game point." I sift her radiant demeanor. I know what she wants. "Kammy, you've trained a long time now. Within a year you'll be an expert in handling most forms of transportation in combat type situations. You flew me to the scene in record time today. My victory is your victory. We are truly a team now, do you realize that?"

She beams like a beacon in the night. "Really?"

"Yes, and one day you'll take calls on your own. You've seen first hand that the enemy isn't always out there; sometimes he's in here." I tap my skull. "This is a well rounded OJT program, isn't it?"

She claps her hands, squeals, and dances around. "The best! And every other week starting next week I'll spend a week learning evasive driving, demolition derby, dirt track, and daredevil driving! That is SO exciting!"