Mystères Élémentaires

"I'm loosing engine authority," he called out.

"Roger, Four One, you are now two hundred feet below the glide slope, speed 1-6-1 knots. Two-seven-hundred feet, ten miles from the threshold."

"Work the problem, work the problem," he said as he scanned his stand-by instruments. One and four at idle, two and three levers forward, thrust falling. One and four are on a separate bus than two and three, so..."

He pushed the throttle levers for one and four forward, and they began to spool up...20% EGP, 35%, 50%...and the rate of descent stabilized. Okay, flaps and slats to 20.

"Okay, Four One, you are now on the glide slope, speed 1-6-5 knots. One-seven-five zero feet, five miles from the threshold."

He reached over, hit the landing gear lever -- and there were no red or green lights lit.

"Heavy, Eagle lead. You see any wheels on this tricycle?"

"Lead, say again?"

"See any landing gears?"

"Ah. Yes, three down. Main bogeys look good from here."

Flaps to thirty three, re-trim the aircraft, landing lights on. Arm the spoilers.

"Four One Heavy, you are a little above the glide slope, one-three-seven-zero feet and at the outer marker, speed 1-6-5 knots. Now four miles from the threshold. Now a little low, increase power."

"Eagle Seven, I have the lights."

"Heavy, I see the runway!"

"Four One Heavy, passing the middle marker, four hundred feet and one mile."

"It's all over but the shoutin' now, boys!" Chanming said as he cut power and flared over the threshold. He felt the mains touchdown and hit the spoilers, began breaking, and he saw dozens of fire trucks lining both sides of the runway -- then two Chinese Air Force J-10s power away, circling the airport.

"Four One Heavy, Hong Kong Ground, will you need a tow?"

"No, but I could use a change of underwear."

"Roger that."

He taxied to the cargo ramp, but the ground crew guided him to a maintenance hanger; he began shutting engines down as a boarding ladder was driven up the main door, and just moments passed before he heard people coming up the little crew stairway.

He got out of his seat in time to see two Chinese fighter pilots bound up the stairs, and he went to them, smiling.

VI

"2114."

"2114, go ahead."

"Signal 38, family disturbance at Compton Court, quad C, number 6, screaming and breaking glass reported."

"14, code five."

"2110, code five. Notify tactical, get a couple more units headed that way," the district sergeant added.

"At 0125 hours," the dispatcher said. "Jesus, another one? That's two nights in a row."

'Out there' was Compton Court, and she didn't have to say the largest public housing project in the city. With the largest concentration of 'them,' too. Africans, mainly Somalians, and a few Cambodians, as well. When 'they' weren't at war with one another, they were holed up in their warrens -- killing each other, and usually too stoned to care who they hurt. And almost every night, all summer long, they'd had multiple calls there. With two cops shot already, and three stabbed, the mayor was thinking of demolishing the place, and forcing all of 'them' to be retuned -- to wherever the hell they came from.

She radioed the TAC sergeant, advised a callout was in progress, then turned to the PSO working dispatch that night: "Red Team is on call tonight," she said. "That's Hendricks' team. Got it?"

"Yes, Ma'am," the kid said. The boy was new, wanted to be a cop when he grew up, but after a few months working the station, all these so-called Public Safety Officer usually quit and fled for something, anything saner.

She shook her head, then turned to the radio as more units checked en route to 'the Hood.'

+++++

"Check the shotgun, make sure a round is chambered," 2114 said to her rookie. 2114 was Carol Danforth, a five-year veteran of the department. Thirty two years old and an Iraq war veteran, she was single, unapproachably aloof and considered by all her fellow officers as one of the best cops in the department. She was smart, agile, and tough -- not to mention the top marksman on the combat pistol team, yet she was finishing her Bachelors degree next year, and she read books all the time. Usually books on ethics and philosophy. People kidded her about that, too.

Her rookie was twenty three years old, fresh out academy by way of a local college. Tim Henderson had majored in Criminal Justice, therefore knew absolutely nothing about being a police officer in a city like this; what knowledge he did have was an impediment to life learning about life on he street, and he was slow to act when confronted with danger. She'd warned him time after time -- you had to react, not think, when danger was present. Thinking cost you time, and time usually wasn't on your side.

"Got it," Henderson always said. "What is this? Third time this week out there?"

"Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends..." she sighed. "So glad you could attend, step inside, step inside."

He laughed. She was always quoting that song, but he hadn't listened to it yet. He'd only been out of academy for a few months, was still on probation, and didn't want to rock any boats. He kept his shoes shined and his nose clean, as the saying went, and did what he was told -- without question.

"2114, call us code six in the area," she said to dispatch -- as she began surveying the scene around this part of the complex. Lots of men standing around in shorts, fanning themselves in the 90 degree mid-summer heat, a few near the building in question -- but as soon as they saw her patrol car they melted away into the night. "I don't like the way this feels," she whispered, and in a flash she was back in the skies over Fallujah, reefing her Blackhawk into a steep turn, looking at a patrol on the ground and realizing they were walking into an ambush.

She shook herself back to the present and stopped short of the quad.

Every living soul had simply disappeared, except for one kid sitting on the bare muddy grass outside by a dilapidated swing-set.

"The bait," she sighed, if only because she'd seen this particular trap too many times. It always worked because Americans were suckers for kids, and these jackals didn't care who they sacrificed in their ongoing war.

"The bait?" Henderson asked. "What do you mean?"

"The ragheads know we'll come in to get the kid out of the way, and when we do that's when they'll hit us."

"Ragheads?" He looked at her, wondered what was going through her mind. "You think this is an ambush?"

She turned and looked at him, shook her head. "Christ," she whispered, "where do they come up with all these meatheads..." She opened the car door and waited for a response, then -- in a low crouch -- she darted to the trunk and got out the M4 and her tactical vest. She strapped in, checked that a round was chambered -- and flipped the safety off. "Come on, Meathead," she said to Henderson, "get on my six and check our rear as we move in."

She looked across the quad, saw four more officers -- all in combat webbing, all with M4s or MP-5s at the ready, and she used hand signals -- standard combat infantry hand signals -- to communicate now.

'I'll take this side,' she signaled. 'Keep me covered,' and she pointed at the building behind the little kid.

+++++

"Jamal, where is your brother?"

The boy looked at his mother, then down at the floor. "He is out front," the boy said, now feeling a complete fool. "I ran, when they came. I am sorry."

"The troops are coming, he will be hurt," she said, looking reproachfully at her oldest. "Go fetch him, now!"

The boy went to the window and shook his head. "The black helmets are here, mother. They will shoot me."

She looked at her son and knew what she'd always known: Jamal was a coward. She frowned and walked to the bedroom where her other son lay sleeping and she went in, shook his shoulder.

"Majoub, quickly," she said, rousing the boy from his sleep, "Halima is out front, and the black helmets are here. You must get him, now."

The boy sprang up and ran to the front room; he looked out the window, saw at least four of the black helmets across the yard, advancing along the wall slowly, their guns up. He knew there would be more troops on this side, along this wall, but he took a deep breath and walked to the front door, then opened it.

He stuck his head out the door and looked to the right -- nothing -- and to the left. He saw the soldier, saw the rifle in her hand, and he looked down, saw the red dot on his chest.

"That is my brother," he said, pointing at Halima with his head -- and the toddler was squalling on the ground, obviously frightened. "May I go and get him, please?"

+++++

She saw the hand signal -- Stop! Danger ahead! -- and she froze, brought the sights up to her eye. She heard the door open, saw a head emerge, and she sighted low when the boy emerged, looking for his hands.

"That is my brother," she heard him say. "May I go and get him, please?"

"Show me your hands, NOW!"

The boy held his hands out, and she could see they were empty.

"Step out of the doorway, slowly," she commanded, and the boy came out -- slowly. She looked for bulges under his clothing, any sign of a vest under his shirt, but he was wearing a tight fitting t-shirt and briefs -- and nothing else, not even sandals. "Okay. Keep your hands where I can see them, then walk out slowly."

"Yes. Thank you."

+++++

"Who is it? Can you see?"

"It is Majoub."

"It cannot be helped. Get ready."

+++++

Majoub walked slowly towards his little brother -- taking care to keep his hands out to his sides -- and when he reached Halima he bent over and picked him up, held him close, and the boy stopped crying. He turned and saw the men on the rooftop, then he looked the lady soldier.

"Up on the roof," he whispered loudly. "Take care, up on the roof!"

+++++

"Up on the roof," she heard the boy say. "Take care, up on the roof!"

She looked up, on top of the building across the way, saw four men on the roof, and she sighted her Colt on one of them and yelled "Halt!" -- Just as she saw a Molotov cocktail arcing through the air. She fired once, saw the man up there double over and fall, then the bottle hit the ground in front of her and sat there, inert.

She saw a plastic sports drink bottle and almost laughed, but she did not see the brick hurtling through the air, the brick that hit her at the base of her neck -- instantly fracturing her collarbone. The bone was forced down by the impact, impinging blood flow through the brachial artery, and she fell to the ground, suddenly gasping for breath and sure she was suffocating.

+++++

Majoub ran now, carried his brother inside and put him on the floor, then he turned and ran back out.

"Majoub! No!" he heard his mother say, but he ignored her, ran to the lady soldier and covered her body with his own as more rocks and bricks rained down. He heard gunfire, saw soldiers on the other side of the yard shooting at the rooftops, then he heard the lady soldier gasp. He got off her, and turned her over.

He saw the bruising under the neck, the depressed fracture, and he had seen this before. At home. In Somalia. And he remembered what to do.

He ran inside again, to a toolkit his father kept in the closet, and he opened it, found what he needed and ran back outside. There were other soldiers by her side now, and as he sat beside the lady soldier the others jumped back, aimed their rifles at him.

"Get back!" one of the shouted. "NOW!"

He looked at the soldier, eye to eye. Man to man. "The artery is crushed," he said, "and she is dying. I know how to fix this."

+++++

Henderson saw the soldiers gather around Danforth, saw the boy return with the pliers, and he saw the TAC officers getting ready to shoot the boy...

"Wait!" Henderson cried, jumping down by the boy's side. "What do you know, son? Can you tell me?"

+++++

She looked at the boy, but she was past fear now. Suffocating, she thought as her vision began to fade, to death. She looked into the boys eyes in that moment -- and she thought she'd just looked into the face of God.

+++++

"The brick, it hit her neck. The bone has fallen on the artery, it is causing her to die. Let me pull the bone up, and she will breathe again."

He heard the new soldier telling the others to move aside, to give him room, and he leaned close, looked into the lady soldiers eyes. "This will hurt," he told her panic-stricken eyes, "but you will be able to breathe again. Soon."

He pushed the pliers around the bone, felt flesh giving way under the pressure, but he had it now and he pulled once, then again -- as hard as he could -- and the bone popped up.

The lady soldier coughed once, then began breathing normally.

VII

He heard his phone beeping. The urgent tone. Someone had just put out a National Security Alert. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs out of the bed, picked up the phone and looked at the message. He blinked rapidly, his heart began to race, then his phone rang.

"Did you get it?"

"Just finished reading it," he said. "You dressed?"

"Gotta shower. Can you pick me up?"

"Wait one. Looks Razor 21 -- wait one." He watched as the alert came in, then read through two texts from the AD. "Okay. I'll pick you up on the way over to Andrews. "

"What the fuck -- a 21? Are you serious?"

"Not now. I'll be there in twenty."

He brushed his teeth and put on his slacks, slipped his shoulder holster on over yesterday's shirt, then grabbed his jacket as he dashed for the garage.

There was no traffic at four in the morning, and he picked her up ten minutes later; they were on the Beltway within minutes, then exiting on Suitland. He drove to the NSA ramp off San Antonio Road, and he handed off the car to an airman, then they ran to the air-stair and up into the waiting Gulfstream C-20-H. The aircraft was rolling before they made it to their seats; he sat across from the Assistant Director while she sat across the aisle; both looked unsure of the situation when they saw the look in the ADs eyes. The Gulfstream was airborne thirty seconds later; the jet turned right -- towards the Chesapeake -- then south, skirting the coast as it climbed to it's maximum rated ceiling.

"Here's what we know so far," the AD said as she unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned forward. "An SAT flight from El Salvador dropped off some assets at TNT; the pilots left the aircraft a little after midnight local, bound for Naples. A State Trooper found this," she said, handing her iPad to him, "at 0242 hours."

He took the device and studied the image, then whistled before he handed it to his partner. She looked at the images -- there were five more, she found -- then looked at the AD, incredulous now.

"Who's on scene?" she asked.

"State Troopers blocked the highway, both directions, as soon as a watch commander knew this wasn't a prank. Call it an hour. Images were taken by someone from the FBI field office in MIA; he's vetting everyone he thinks has seen it. Air Force is on scene, trying to assess the radiologic signatures, and that's it -- as far as I know."

"What's the cover?"

"Tanker crash, hazardous chemical spill."

He looked at his watch -- coming up on 0400 hours -- and he knew the sun would be coming up soon. That would mean trouble, too. "Has anyone made a sweep of the area?" he asked.

"Air Force radiologic assessment helicopter from MacDill -- that's the only air asset that's been allowed overhead. What are you thinking?"

"Just a hunch. We should check for blooms in the area, or get some eyes up there before some news crew finds something we missed."

"We've closed the airspace..."

"And someone always gets through," he said. "Or some kid with a drone gets a lucky shot and sells it to CNN."

The AD sighed, nodded her head and got on the encrypted phone, asked for IR and radar scans.

He looked out over the left wing, saw the far horizon turning a deep salmon color and he knew it wouldn't be long now.

+++++

The Gulfstream flared over the threshold and settled down on it's mains, then the nose dropped slowly and thrust reversers roared, splitting the morning into shattered bits and pieces. He saw three UH-1-Vs on the ramp by the Falcon, and a half dozen agents pouring over the aircraft -- inside and out -- as they taxied up to the darkened operations shack. The air-stair opened and a blast of hot, humid air flooded the cabin.

"How do you want us to handle this?" he asked the AD.

"Classified ULTRA for now. Eyes only, communicate with me only."

"Got it," he said as he stood. He loosened his tie then walked down the air-stair, tried not to gag on all the jet exhaust fumes hovering in the dank air.

A Marine walked up to him, his carbine aimed at his face. "ID. NOW," the guy said, and he handed him his wallet. The Marine looked it over, then handed it back. "First chopper, sir," he said, pointing at the UH-1-V. Beacons came on and the turbine began spooling up, blades began turning -- slowly -- until they built up speed, and he dashed into the waiting Huey, the door slammed shut behind him. He watched as his partner climbed into the second Huey, then they both took off, while an airman handed him a headset he slipped on. He followed the cord to the comm panel and saw it was set to intercom, so he spoke to the pilot next.

"Follow the highway, but stay about a half mile south. Tell the other unit to stay about half mile north. If you got any lights on this thing, get 'em sweeping."

"Got it," the pilot said. "What are we looking for?"

"You'll know it if you see it."

"Roger that."

He had the ADs iPad in hand, and he looked at the image again, and he wondered why. Why do it -- why so brazenly?

'So...brazenly,' he thought. 'So, in our face.'

'Like a calling card?'

"Sir, we've got some kind of smoke ahead, and I'm picking up a bloom on IR."

He went forward and crouched between the pilots, and he could just make out the smoke-plume in the early morning light. "Let's put a little distance between us and the ground, Captain," he said -- and the Huey went up to a thousand feet over the ground. "What frequency in the other bird on?"

"Switch to COMM 2, sir."

"Jester one, Jester two, you on?"

"Two, go."

"We've got smoke ahead. Stand by one."

"Got it."

"Uh, sir," the pilot said, "you better take a look at this."

He turned and scuttled forward again, and it was obvious what he was looking at. "Jester two, this is it. Get over here, now." He flipped to the intercom again, spoke to the pilot. "I need to talk to that Gulfstream, call sign Jester Lead. And I mean right now."

"Yessir."

He went over to the side door and asked the airman to open it, and he leaned out, looked at the scene and felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Sir," he heard the captain say over the intercom, "Jester Lead is on COMM 3."

He crouched and scuttled to the panel and hit the switch. "Jester One, to Jester Lead."

"Lead, go ahead."

"Ma'am, there's a ship down, looks like it's crashed. I'd say it's about 200 meters in diameter. Big. Real big."

"You're sure?"

"Yes Ma'am, and there are survivors. I count fifty plus."

"So, Razor 21 confirmed?"

"Confirmed."

"Alright, go to the original site, avoid contact for now. Go to Case Yellow at this time. 100% containment."

"Got it. Jester two, you on this frequency?"

"Roger."

"Form up on this aircraft, let's go see what's down their."

"Four."

He switched back to the intercom: "Captain, let's go. To the main site."

"Sir? It looks like there're injured...uh -- people...down there, not to mention a shitload of alligators."

"Captain? You got family?"

"Yessir?"

"You want to see 'em again, you haven't seen anything out here tonight but a lot of swamp and a shitload of alligators -- doing the huncka-chuncka. Am I making myself clear."