Stampede

STAMPEDE

AUGUST 2021

Other than on the tarmac, there were civilians everywhere. Most were men: perched on and inside half-retracted gangways, mashed cheek by jowl on dead grass, hunkered in meager slants of shade thrown by the terminal and the few parked civilian planes empty of cargo and personnel. Deserted passenger jets, their cabin doors open against the heat, were jammed with those who'd monkeyed landing gear and crammed through hatches. Even more men perched on the jets' large tires or simply sprawled in lozenges of shade thrown by the planes' wings.

Everyone watched the gray and ungainly C17 transport drop lower and lower, the rumble of its engines growing so loud, it was as if someone had taken a giant eggbeater to the air.

"I count fourteen Marines." Roni lifted her chin to point at a line of armed men along this near side of the runway. "That's not enough. These civilians stampede..."

And it will not be pretty. The Marines would be overrun as civilians swarmed the plane. Even the additional soldiers with whom they were standing wouldn't be enough. Need at least two more squads. He didn't have a radio; he was a doctor, for crying out loud. Turning on his heel, he threw a desperate look left and right. There had to be someone who could get word to Command and?—

"Hey." When Roni turned, he pointed to a series of hangars on the right and at the end of the airport's single runway. Two Humvees were parked at the hangar's open bay. Clustered round were a quartet of men, all in virtually identical garb: cammies, black-and-white shemaghs knotted around their necks, wraparounds hiding their eyes. Football Sunday scruff over their jaws and neck. "You recognize those guys?"

"Yeah, from the transport. They got off at Doha."

"And now they're here," he said as another man, whippet-lean and clad in NATO-issue cammies, emerged from the hangar. The transport's engine noise had swelled to a loud whirr, and he leaned to talk into her ear. "Same guy who met them, the one you pegged as CIA. What are they doing here?"

"Probably grabbing assets to get out of country." Roni blotted sweat from her upper lip with the back of a hand. "I swear to God I know that tall guy with dark hair. Just can't place…"

Another Humvee screamed across the runway from the military side, swung around, and jerked to a halt in front of the same hangar. Two men unfolded from the front seat. The driver, an Afghan, was a big brooding guy with a broad chest, tree trunks for thighs, and thick arms: the kind of man who could pull a plow by himself. Hopping out of the Humvee, he kept his head on a continuous swivel. His hands never left the rifle strapped to his chest.

"Bodyguard." The engine rumble had intensified to the point where she was shouting. "See how he's letting the smaller guy lead the way?"

He'd noticed. That shorter guy was also…interesting. His eyes were invisible behind his wraparounds, a black-and-white shemagh pulled up tight over his nose.

Cupping his hand around his mouth, John bawled into Roni's ear, "Those guys don't look regular military!"

"CIA!" Roni shouted back.

"Evac?" When she shook her head, he said, "Why not?"

"The jocks!" She was so close, her lips brushed his ear. "You don't bring four guys to take out only two people who can take care of them?— "

"Hey." He pointed over her shoulder, back toward the civilian terminal. "Look."

All along the edge of the tarmac, civilians were scrambling to their feet. The men who'd been perched on gangways were slithering to the ground on wheel struts like firefighters ready to battle flames. Others clambered onto the wings or simply hooked their hands into the cabin door's edge and swung out, dropping to the ground. A second later, the terminal doors popped open, releasing a gush of people who instantly flooded onto the blacktop.

Roni, in his ear: "This feels like a disaster in the making."

"They're not going to get in the way of the plane. They're not dumb."

"Maybe not, but they're something worse," she said. "They're desperate."

The C17 dropped fast. The lower the plane got, the louder the crowd became, jabbering and pointing and snatching up rucksacks, bags, rolling luggage, children. He spotted one guy with two small goats in his arms bulling his way through the crowd, which had begun surging forward.

As they clamored and swarmed the tarmac, the Marines started shouting and pointing and motioning the crowd back. But no one paid them any mind at all and, as the enormous Moose finally touched down with a squeal of rubber, a burst of dust, a sudden throaty cough of deceleration, the watching mob roared.

"Maybe that's the worst of it," John said.

"You keep thinking that." Roni's tone was grim. "The cavalry had better get here fast."

As the Moose neared the far end of the runway, the plane turned in a lazy half-circle to present the aft cargo bay and rolled to a halt. There was a puff of air and that high-pitched squall everyone swore was the bellow of a female moose in heat. At the noise, the jabber from the waiting throng ceased; a few children began to cry as people backed up in alarm.

Good. The whole scene was like something out of a science-fiction movie with Tom Cruise, gawking as a Martian death machine unfolded from a deep crater. If people only looked and stayed put, that would buy time for real troops to get here and secure the plane.

"What's taking so long?" Roni murmured. "I don't see anyone here to offload anything."

"They'll come," he said, though he worried this wasn't a given anymore. Which means someone else has to step up. "The important thing is everyone's staying put." Although, if the shuffling and rising swell of murmurs was any indication, that might not last. Inside the plane, he knew the C-17's pilot and co-pilot were securing the aircraft while, in the cargo bay, the loadmaster would be waiting for the ground crew to connect them to external electrical power. The pilot had to have seen the crowd and radioed for help. So, maybe the lull was to give troops a chance to get here, but jeez, hurry up already?—

"There." He looked toward a Humvee speeding across the tarmac from the hardened side of the airport. Although he knew how to count: a single vehicle might hold five troops, maybe six if everyone held his breath. "Got to be help."

"Only sort of," Roni said, as the Humvee screeched to a stop. Two men jumped from the back and raced for the waiting transport at a dead run. A third, holding a coiled electrical cord attached to a mobile generator, emerged from a ground crew's station below the main terminal, pushed his way toward the nose of the plane, jammed in the plug, raced back, and flipped a switch. The generator came to life with a cough and splutter as if clearing its throat then settled down to a steady thump.

"Well, that's three more guys than there were before," he said, trying to stay positive. "And power's good." Power meant that the loadmaster inside could go through his prechecks: electrical, hydraulic fluid levels, everything required before opening that cargo door and them getting their supplies.

"There just aren't enough troops here for crowd control."

"Then let's stop standing here and go get some help," he said, already half-turning, wondering as he did so just where all the regular troops there only five minutes ago had gone. "We need to move those supplies out fast and get that transport turned around."

"You go." When he turned a questioning look, she said, "I don't like the look of things here. The minute that cargo door opens, they'll have a hard time keeping everyone back."

"And then you do what, exactly? Come on, let's go back. Help me round up—" He stopped at the high-pitched whirr of hydraulics followed by first a hush and then an excited gabble as the door came slowly down.

"Too late," Roni said, as the crowd's clamor became a roar a second before they stampeded—and the Marines started shooting.

"Come on." Wheeling round, Roni dashed for the hangar where the jocks still clustered. "Come on!"

"Roni! Wait, what are you doing? Where…?" Al armed, he caught up, flinching at every rifle shot, his shoulders hunching up around his ears. Snatching a quick glance over a shoulder, he saw that the Marines were shooting into the air. Which was pretty much the same as doing nothing because the crowd knew the Marines weren't the Taliban. But what, exactly, did all these people think would happen once they reached the plane? They'd never get in.

At the hangar, the two Afghans moved to block them, but Roni ducked, shoved the smaller one aside and squirted under the big guy's reach.

She got into the face of the dark-haired jock. "Give me the keys!" she shouted. "Give me the keys and a weapon, Daniel, or it's going to be too late!"

She knew that guy? "Roni!" John tried interposing himself between her and the man she called Daniel. "Roni, stop. What are you doing?"

"Stay out of it, John!" Jamming her hands in his chest, she straight-armed him out of the way with a furious shove before whipping round to the other man.

"Help me, Daniel!" she said, fiercely. "Give me a weapon!"

"I don't know you," the dark-haired man said at the same moment the weedy, knife-nosed CIA guy planted a palm against Roni's chest, holding her back the way a parent might keep a child throwing a fit at bay.

"Problem here?" He looked down the length of his nose. "Do you need something, Captain…" He squinted at Roni's name tape. "Captain Keller?"

"Yeah, for you to get your hands off me." Roni brought a forearm up in an abrupt movement and knocked the man's hand away. "I'm not talking to you."

" Oooh." One of the other jocks, a guy with beach-blond hair in a tail, elbowed a neighbor. "Hellcat."

"Stow it, Flowers." The one she'd called Daniel squinted down at her. "Have we met? I think I'd remember you. Got a brother in the Marines?"

She shook her head. "My dad's an instructor at Mountain Warfare. You probably know him."

The man opened his mouth, closed it then brightened. "Roni. He was always talking about you. But I still don't..."

"Because I know your dad," she said. "I've been in your house. You know your dad still has your induction picture on his mantel?"

"Roni?" John frowned. "What are you?—"

"He's Driver's son," Roni said, never taking her eyes from the other man.

His mouth fell open. " Our Driver? From DCC?"

"Lucky you," Daniel Driver said. "Piece of work, isn't he?"

"Stop being an ass," Roni said. "Take a look around you. We need your help, Daniel. We need weapons and a vehicle, and we need them right now."

"We?" John said at the same moment the CIA guy said, "Out of the question."

"Stow it, Mac. I got this." Driver's voice was as brooding and dark as his looks. "Nice that you know that son of a bitch," he said to Roni. "Say hi next time you're stateside. But those people, whatever happens to them…not my problem. I have my own mission specs here."

"But you're a Marine ," Roni said.

"That's debatable," Mac said, his voice dry and just the near side of sarcastic. "In any event, he's not on loan to you."

"And I'm still not talking to you." Roni kept her gaze squarely on Driver. "Once a Marine, always a Marine, and that transport is a U.S. military aircraft in need of help."

"It's a big plane," Driver said. "All it has to do is take off and then land again when the crowd's under control."

"What is wrong with you?" The cords stood out on Roni's neck. "Those people are in the way. They'll get sucked into the engines if they're too close and if that happens, the plane's crippled! How will you have done your job if you ignore?—"

A screech cut the air that John recognized as the scream of the Moose's hydraulic winches and just as he was thinking, Wait, that's too early. They can't possibly have offloaded everything, the air swelled with a sudden, enraged roar, the whine of gears and then a sustained burst of gunfire. Spinning on his heel, he looked toward the terminal and felt his heart stutter.

The tarmac had gone from a simple crowd to a mosh pit.

The C-17's pilot seemed to have finally realized that without additional troops they couldn't do anything. But that also meant they had to reverse what they had begun: get that loading ramp closed, unplug from that generator, and get the hell out of Dodge.

If they could. People clawed for purchase as the Moose's aft loading ramp slowly ground and whirred its way back to safe. Shouting, the loadmaster tried kicking himself free of one man who'd hooked his hands around the loadmaster's left ankle. Grabbing a long grappling hook, the loadmaster whipped the hook down, hard, smashing the man's wrist. Screeching, the man fell back even as another, younger and stronger, took his place and then a third and then even more men, all scrambling and trying to monkey their way aboard.

Crouching, one wiry guy in a torn tunic leapt from the backs of those struggling for purchase and collided with the loadmaster. Knocked off balance, the loadmaster swayed, his arms frantically pinwheeling, feet jittering a tap-dance. The toe of his left boot caught the wiry guy under the jaw and as that man tumbled off the ramp, the loadmaster toppled. He hit the ramp so hard, his head bounced. Dazed, shaking his head like a dog who's just bitten into something nasty, he managed to crab back on all fours.

Got to do something. The melee reminded John of another scene from War of the Worlds : of that ferry pulling away as the desperate clung to the ramp; of Robbie running to save them. Of the ferry captain gawping at a bright green whirlpool alongside his ship because he knew that, in another five seconds, they would all be dead.

Even as the ramp was still going up, the Moose was backing away from the terminal, but the mob—all men—followed, heedless of two Humvees filled with shouting Marines spinning futilely alongside. Having managed to climb onto parts of the plane, some men clung to sponsons; others swarmed over one another, using each other as a human ladder to try and boost themselves onto the wings. Over a dozen men balanced on the plane's gigantic wheels and were monkeying up the landing gear.

This is insane , John thought as he watched two agile men—my God, they looked like teenagers— shinny up into the wheel wells. A person would never survive at altitude.

"No, they won't." He wasn't aware he'd spoken aloud, and he turned to look down at Roni who stood, grim-faced, her body rigid with frustration. She said, "If they don't let go in time..."

She didn't need to say the rest. There is no wasted space on any military aircraft. That includes the wheel wells. Anyone in the way ends up as a smear. Worse, as soon as the pilot powered up, John remembered the night at Benning when the ambulance brought what was left of an airman who'd been sucked into an engine. Hamburger had more shape and a better consistency.

"She's right." He turned back to Daniel Driver, a man he did not know but whose help Roni thought they needed. "We can't stand here and watch this go down without trying to help. I'm in," he said to Roni. "You got a plan?"

"Yes," she said. "Driver gives us weapons and a Humvee."

"And then what?"

"I drive," she said, "and you shoot."

"What?" He gawped. "Roni, are you?—"

"No, I'm not nuts. You're a better shot than I am, and we both know it."

Yes, they did. He could thank Emery for that. He was, in fact, better than good; he'd known that, too, for a long time before that nocturnal visit to a rifle range. "But what am I supposed to do with a rifle?"

"Easy," she said. "Don't hit the plane."

At that, Driver snorted. "What do you think this is, a Clint Eastwood movie? Next, you'll tell me you can shoot a kerchief out of a person's hand."

"As a matter of fact, I can." Roni hooked a thumb at John. "And he's even better."

"Roni," John said, a little too sharply. He really didn't want to advertise because, sooner or later, that meant questions he shouldn't answer.

"Even I'm not that good," Driver said.

"Then isn't it fortunate we're not you?" Roni snapped.

At that, the smaller Afghan let go of a short bark of a laugh—and John thought, Wait a second…

But then Mac, the CIA guy, said. "Look, Captain…Keller, is it? Captain, if it makes you feel better, I'll put in a nice word with your command."

"A nice word ?" Roni's eyes blazed. "I don't give two sh?—"

Mac spoke over her. "But this isn't our concern. Those people are not our concern. Really, it's very simple. No one will be able to hang on. Once the transport's airborne, the altitude will take care of any lingering problems."

"That's pretty cold," John said as Roni seethed, "You heartless son of a?—"

Driver cut in. "Yeah, he kinda is an SOB. Being CIA, he comes by it naturally." He favored Roni with another long look then said, "AK or M4?"

"Driver," Mac warned. "We shouldn't?—"

"M4. Better sights." Roni looked at John, who nodded. "Make that two. And it's Roni. He's John."

"Okay." Driver motioned to another jock, one with a sandy beard and sunburn, who jogged into the hangar. He and returned ten seconds later with weapons and the last two men who'd flown with them from Germany in tow.

"Wait." Mac put both hands out like a traffic cop. "You men work for me!"

"Oh, stow it, Mac." Driver turned to Roni. "You and me, we're together. Meeks." He tossed keys to the guy with the sunburn, who caught them in a one-handed grab. "You're driving us. Harris, you and John are together. Flowers, you're driving."

"Ah, man ." With his sea-blue eyes and that beach-bum hair, Flowers seemed a bit of a stoner. "I'm always driving." Flowers hooked a thumb at John. "Why can't he drive?"

"Because Roni says he's a better shot," Driver said

"Yeah, and you're so good at driving, Flowers," Harris said.

Flowers opened his mouth to reply, but Mac cut him off. "All of you, stop . We have another mission. This isn't why we're here."

"Your mission can wait five minutes." Driver followed Roni who'd already clambered into the Humvee after Meeks. "Let's go, Marines!"

"Wait." The smaller Afghan stepped forward. "Musa and I, we will help you."

At that, John's jaw almost dropped. Oh my ? —

"What is it about a low profile you don't understand?" Mac snapped. "You can't ?—"

"But we can , if only because the women those men will leave behind end up widows and will starve." The Afghan looked at John. "If you are so good a shot, come with us."

"Go, John, go with them!" Shucking her helmet, Roni braced her knees against the back of the driver's seat and readied her rifle as Driver took up the opposite position. Then Meeks gunned the engine, and they were gone in a screech of tires and spume of dust followed a split second later by Harris and Fellows.

"You men!" Mac shouted. "Damn it, wait !"

No one paid any mind. As John clambered into the back seat behind Musa, the smaller Afghan added, "Be careful where you aim, yes? I not come all this way only to get shot by…erhm…how do you call it?" The Afghan searched for the word then said, "Yes, a friendly ."

And that was the moment the smaller Afghan pulled the shemagh down past his chin—and became a woman.