Twelve minutes later, they were assembled in the company briefing room with the thirty-two men, including Lieutenant Childers of 2nd Troop, Mike Company, 43 Commando.
“Attention on deck!”
The brisk shout was followed by a sharp rustle and scrape of boots and chair legs as the men leapt to the ramrod straight position of attention. Colonel Farris strode briskly to the room and made his way directly up the aisle to the front. He turned behind a small podium and set down a small binder, which he opened, then spoke. “As you were, men,” He said in low, serious voice.
The men sat back down in the metal folding chairs and stared up at their leader. The colonel spoke in a straightforward tone of command.
“As of this moment and until further notice, your passes and liberties for this evening are cancelled. An order has come down directly from Number 10 Downing. It is labeled urgent. As all of you know, Sierra Leone, a former British Protectorate, has been in the midst of a civil war for several years now. We have stayed out of it, with the exception of a handful of military advisors, primarily SAS, who work directly with the recognized government.”
He paused as an IT specialist finished setting up a laptop and projector, from which an image gradually glowed onto the wall behind Colonel Farris.
“In recent weeks, the anarchist Revolutionary United Front has received a mass of weapons and cash, believed to be coming from several anti-west governments in Africa. Since receiving this fresh supply, their activity has exploded, particularly in the eastern regions. This is where you come in. Up until now, the RUF has left most outsiders, non-Africans, alone, or at most, ordered them leave the country. Last week, this changed. A Nigerian peacekeeping force came across the burned and mutilated bodies of half a dozen nuns from a medical clinic in a remote village in the northeastern jungle. They were all British subjects. The following day, an orphanage in a neighboring village, housing some two hundred children and staffed by an Irish Catholic priest and twelve nuns of both Anglo and African ethnicity, was put to the torch. All of the staff and most of the children were locked inside and burned to death. The boys of fighting age, which, down there, is only about ten years old, were taken by force to serve the rebels.”
He clicked the mouse on the laptop and the image on the projector changed to a picture of several men and women.
“These pictures are of several UK nationals, two priests, a dozen or so nuns, and several NGO workers who are in the area. We have been tasked to get in there as fast as possible, retrieve them, and get them to safety. I will be briefing the troop lieutenant and squad sergeants with the precise details and they will pass it down to the rest of you. In the meantime, you have about four hours to gather your gear, kiss your families goodbye, and meet on the airfield in full kit. Go with God, Marines.”
At this, the junior enlisted men rose and left quickly. The married men went to kiss their wives and children, and the singles returned to the barracks and wrote quick letters to their parents. With goodbyes said, every one of them checked and packed their gear.
Chapter 12
Fairbanks Northstar Public Safety Building
Fairbanks, Alaska
December 18th
04:25 Hours
Lonnie heard Beed’s call for emergency backup and rushed to the scene. She arrived within seven minutes, alongside six other police and trooper patrol cars, to find Officer James Beed flat on his back, dead in the snow at the base of the porch steps.
The officers cordoned off the house and yard with bright yellow plastic police tape, strung from trees to fence posts. The city crime scene van, a large, black panel truck with the logo and insignia of the State of Alaska Crime Lab emblazoned on the sides, weaved through the maze of police cars and came to a halt in the street in front of the house. Two men and a woman in black coveralls and large, puffy black parkas with the words “Crime Lab” stenciled in yellow across their backs climbed out of the van and approached the scene to begin the meticulous process of evidence gathering.
“Damn,” said one Fairbanks Police officer, who stared down at Beed’s body. “Jimmy was such a nice guy.”
“To think he survived two tours in Iraq with his National Guard unit just to come back here and get killed like this,” said an officer named Clark.
“Think it’s gang-related?” said the first.
“Dunno. CSI is gathering evidence,” Clark replied, “but it seems a bit too clean to me for a gang shooting.”
“Someone with a place to hide,” Lonnie said contemplatively.
“Yeah,” Clark said. He looked out to the road, past the gaggle of police cars, ambulance, and the CSI van. “Jergens and Porter just drove out looking around the neighborhood to see if they can find anything.”
The city cop’s radios started chattering. Officers Jergens and Porter found the Blazer abandoned in the woods less than half a mile away. Footprints led from it, but the track was lost where the owners of the prints had stepped onto the plowed surface of the street.
Lonnie tried to focus on the radio traffic and started toward her car. She got in the front seat of the cruiser and sat down. She had been tired when she arrived—now she was exhausted. The realization of this exhaustion told her that if she kept going, mistakes would be made. Lonnie had been working for nearly twenty hours straight. She was going to fall over if she didn’t get some rest soon. She climbed back out of her cruiser and found the on-scene commander, a police sergeant named Rimes. She asked him to send a copy of
