Call to Duty

By Richard Herman

Call to Duty is a novel of epic scope and breathtaking adventure that races at mach speed between two deadly wars -- one waged five decades ago against a madman with dreams of world domination, the other to be fought tomorrow against well-armed dealers in poison and death. For there are times that call for swift, decisive action -- as unforeseen global events threaten to shatter an uncertain peace. There are times that test the mettle of even the most courageous of men and women -- as four young Americans taken captive by a power-hungry Asian drug lord. And now, a beleaguered Commander-in-Chief -- beset upon by internal political turmoil and terrifying international intrigues -- must find guidance and strength in his own heroic past. Then he must act.

For these are certain times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Sep 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9780061951367

Richard Herman

A former weapons system operator, Richard Herman was a member of the United States Air Force for twenty-one years, until he retired in 1983 with the rank of major. He is the author of ten previous novels, including The Warbirds, Power Curve, Against All Enemies, Edge of Honor, and The Trojan Sea, all published by Avon Books. Herman currently lives and works in Gold River, a suburb of Sacramento, California.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1942

RAF Church Fenton, England

The driving rain propelled the sergeant through the door of the officers mess. He saw the man he was looking for and walked quickly across the room. Mr. Ruffum, he said, catching the young RAF officer’s attention. The weather prophet says the rain is lifting and you should be able to take off in thirty minutes. You best find Mr. Pontowski.

Pilot Officer Andrew Ruffum gave the middle-aged sergeant his most disinterested look. Right, he said and tapped the crud out of his pipe. The twenty-year-old ex-university student thought the combination of Royal Air Force uniform and big pipe gave him a mature look and the pipe had become his constant companion, clenched firmly in his teeth. He went in search of his pilot. Another navigator pointed him in the direction of the room where they stowed their flying kits.

Yank, he called from the doorway, you in here?

Back here, a voice said from the far corner where a light was glowing. Ruffum worked his way past the parachutes, heavy flying jackets, boots, helmets, and other paraphernalia required to fly a British night fighter over the North Sea. His pilot, Matthew Zachary Pontowski, was stretched out in a deck chair with a small reading lamp perched beside him.

Whatever are you reading now?

Matthew Zachary Pontowski gave him a crooked smile and held up a leather-bound volume. A history of your Anti-Slavery Society. I found it in a used bookstore in York.

Ah, William Wilberforce, Ruffum replied. Not very fascinating stuff in this day and age.

I had no idea how bad it was, the lanky American said. Did you know they packed them into the slave ships bucknaked. Men and women.

Sounds lascivious, Ruffum replied.

Not if you were one of them.

Ruffum put on a serious face. Sorry to interrupt your education about human bondage, Zack, but Met says the weather is lifting. Time to go. Zack Pontowski closed the book and followed his navigator as they collected their flying kit and headed into the rainy night.

Hello, Falcon. This is Red One. Any trade? Zack Pontowski’s distinctive American accent was easily recognizable over the radio/telephone as he entered his assigned patrol area over the North Sea.

Sorry, Red One, the controller at Ground Control Intercept answered, his clipped British words in sharp contrast to Zack’s California-bred accent, I have nothing for you at this time.

Zack returned to his battle with the blind-flying instrument panel on his Beaufighter, trying to decide which of the instruments were lying to him. Probably the artificial horizon, he decided; it always gave up first. He cross-checked the air speed indicator, altimeter, rate of climb, turn and slip, and direction indicator. Why can’t they call the DI a directional gyro like everyone else, he thought. As usual, the ways of the Royal Air Force both puzzled and amused him. Pay attention to business, he reprimanded himself. You went to a lot of trouble to volunteer for this war.

Set course one-three-five degrees, Ruffum said over the intercom.

Got it, Zack replied and turned to the new heading, establishing them on the first leg of their first night patrol over the North Sea. He glanced outside the cockpit, surprised at how bright it was. Then he realized they were skimming along in the top of a cloud deck. He pulled back on the control column and climbed twenty feet before breaking out on top. The bright moonlight gave him a distinct horizon and he felt better. The blind-flying instruments had not been lying to him. Zack Pontowski forced himself to relax as they droned through the night.

It’s gorgeous above the clouds, Ruffum allowed, taking in the night from his perspex dome mounted on top of the fuselage, halfway between the cockpit and tail. Flying Officer Andrew Ruffum, known simply as Ruffy, had been with Zack since Cranfield, site of the operational training unit where they had both been sent to train on the twin-engine Beaufighter. Ruffy had taken massive amounts of goodnatured ribbing about being teamed with a Yank but had taken it all in his easygoing way and they had become good friends.

In the air, the two were an ideal match and complimented each other perfectly. Zack was a superb pilot and a natural at the controls of the blunt-nosed tanklike Beaufighter, while Ruffy took to the cantankerous Mark IV airborne intercept radar set with an instant affinity. They rapidly surpassed their instructors and then, in one of its rare moments of sanity when it came to personnel assignments, the RAF assigned them as a crew to 25 Squadron, currently on operations at RAF Church Fenton, an airfield ten miles south of the old city of York.

Time to reverse course, Ruffy said over the intercom, bringing Zack back to the moment. The pilot banked the night fighter to the left, away from the coast, and traced a northward track in the box they had been assigned to patrol. He cross-checked his instruments when he rolled out and again scanned the night. Above the clouds the visibility in the moonlight was excellent.

It was in June of 1941 on a night flight like this one, Zack remembered, that he had decided that the war in Europe was also his war. Hitler’s blitzkrieg had rolled over Western Europe, the Battle of Britain had been fought, and Russia had been invaded the day before. He had mentioned it to his flying instructor and was given a phone number and the name of one Ernest W. Bellway. Bellway’s the guy to call, his instructor had said, if a pilot wants to join the Royal Air Force.

It had been deceptively easy. When Ernest W. Bellway discovered that Zack had a pilot’s license, money for a one-way train ticket to Ottawa, Canada, had magically appeared. It started to get complicated in Chicago, where he, and two of his fellow-pilot traveling companions, had to change trains. The FBI was waiting with orders to enforce the Neutrality Act and had arrested the other two pilots while he was purchasing their tickets. He had seen the commotion, slipped away, and boarded the train to Ottawa. There he was met by a car that took him to an RAF group captain who sent him on to Halifax. Six weeks later, he was on the Duchess of Richmond sailing for England.

In England, after still another delay, Zack was assigned to an OTU, operational training unit, that had been set up to rapidly evaluate and process pilots into the RAF. Things turned sour when the engine of the Avro Tutor biplane he was training in quit in mid-flight and nothing he did could get it restarted. He had to deadstick it in for a landing on a freshly plowed field. It didn’t work and he crashed, killing the instructor and badly breaking his right leg. It was months before he could fly again and, by then, the RAF had decided to send him through an extensive flight training program. He had endured the needless repetition until he found himself assigned to the OTU at Cranfield where he had met Ruffy.

Hello, Red One. This is Falcon. The GCI controller’s voice was much more rapid. Zack acknowledged the call. I have a customer for you, the controller said, vector one-eight-zero. Buster. Zack turned to the south, bumped up the propeller speed controls and shoved the throttles forward.

Anything on the box? Zack asked Ruffy, hoping for an early pickup on the radar set.

Nothing yet, Ruffy answered.

Zack knew the GCI controller had to get them within four miles of the customer, or bandit, for their radar set to acquire the target. The airspeed indicator was hovering around 230 miles per hour. He made a mental adjustment for altitude and temperature and came up with a true airspeed of 280—four and a half miles a minute, probably with an overtake of 60 miles per hour, so it would be a while before Ruffy could paint anything on the radar. He flicked on his sight and moved the gun master switch up, activating the six Browning .303 machine guns in the wings and the four 20-millimeter Hispano cannons fixed in the underside of the forward fuselage. He selected the machine guns for firing. He mashed the button on the yoke, testing the guns. The Beaufighter had an awesome amount of firepower, if it caught anyone.

Control your breathing, Zack cautioned himself. This may not be the real thing. He swept the horizon hoping he might see a vague shadow, anything to tell him that he had finally met the enemy. This will be something, he thought, action on our first patrol. Not what they had told me to expect.

Their sector had been quiet for the past few weeks and the crews were bored, longing for some action. The squadron’s intelligence officer made it worse by constantly updating them on the action farther to the south, where the night fighters seemed to be constantly engaged with Heinkels and Junkers.

Red One, this is Falcon, the GCI controller transmitted. Your customer is on your nose, moving southward, range twenty miles.

It’s turned into a tail chase, Ruffy said.

Zack checked his engine instruments, not ready to give up yet. All were fine and the big fourteen-cylinder, 1,590-horsepower, Hercules XI engines were humming smoothly. The sleeve-valve radial engines were amazingly quiet. Red One, Falcon, the GCI said, bandit now turning to the east and descending. Vector one-three-five. Falcon was turning them to a cut-off heading.

Hope he doesn’t go to low, Ruffy said. Below five thousand feet, ground clutter blotched up his radar and it was impossible to break out the target. If the bugger doesn’t change course, intercept in four minutes, Ruffy had worked out the geometry of the developing intercept.

Zack glanced at his watch, noting the time and when four minutes would be up. He wished the clock on his instrument panel had an elapsed minute hand. He made a mental note to mention it to the maintenance officer, but he wasn’t worried—Ruffy would back him up. Ahead of him, he could see the end of the cloud deck below them and the night became beautifully clear, right down to the surface of the North Sea.

Red One, bandit turning south, Falcon said.

Turn to one-eight-zero, Ruffy said. They were in a tail chase again.

Red One, vector now one-eight-zero, Falcon said, reacting slower than Ruffy to the bandit’s heading changes.

Red One, Falcon said, the bandit has dropped from my coverage. Maintain your current heading.

The bastard’s taking advantage of a break in the clouds, Zack said over the intercom. He’s dropped below Falcon’s radar coverage and running for home on the deck. The flickering of a light on the horizon caught his attention. Ruffy, get your binocs on that light at ten o’clock. He waited for his navigator to rotate his seat forward and focus the binoculars he always carried.

Can’t tell much, Ruffy said. Maybe a fire. Hold on…I believe it’s growing. Yes…much bigger now. Definitely a fire on the surface.

Zack relayed the information to Falcon. Red One, the GCI controller answered, Air-Sea Ops reports a sweep in that area. Zack acknowledged the transmission. The RAF had its own fleet of small, very fast launches known as the Air-Sea Rescue Service that operated in the waters around Britain, rescuing airmen forced down in the sea. If one of their boats was on patrol, that fire could mean trouble.

Ruffy, I’m going to check it out. Zack radioed his intentions to Falcon, retarded the throttles, nosed over, and headed straight for the glowing beacon. He descended to five hundred feet and slowed as they circled the brightly burning fire, sizing up the situation and not closing. Now Zack could clearly see a burning boat and rafts in the water. He gauged the boat to be about sixty feet long—the right size for an Air-Sea launch.

A stream of tracers reached out of the night, slicing across the dark directly in front of them. Zack’s reflexes were razorsharp and he wrenched back on the yoke and ruddered the Beau around, easily avoiding the tracers. At your four o’clock, Ruffy shouted, on the surface, another boat.

Out of the corner of his eye Zack caught a dark movement in the water—the source of the tracers. The shape took on a harder definition as he circled and maneuvered until the unknown boat was between him and the moon. I think it’s an E-boat, he said, climbing to three thousand feet. Falcon, Red One, he transmitted over the radio. We are in contact with what looks like an E-boat and a smaller launch that is burning in the water.

Red One, Falcon answered, I hold you in the area where bandit last observed.

A warning signal started bonging inside Zack’s head, jolting his emotions. Without thinking, he hauled back on the control column and firewalled the throttles. At the same time he sawed back and forth on the rudder pedals. What… Ruffy said over the intercom, the sudden erratic maneuver throwing him around. A dark shape materialized out of the darkness, skidding across the sky beneath them.

A Junkers Eighty-eight, Zack said, breathing hard, working against the heavy control loads. Night fighter. Where the hell did he go?

Tallyho! Ruffy shouted. At your three o’clock. Low. Zack rolled the Beau and pulled down to his three o’clock position. He caught a glimpse of the German plane as he turned, its nose on him and climbing. He skidded the Beau to the right and jabbed at the gun button. A short burst of tracers reached out for the Junkers as he passed under the German, going in the opposite direction. He missed. Now he pitched back after the German, trading his airspeed for altitude.

Falcon, Zack radioed, help please. He wanted to know where the Junkers had gone.

The bandit is to the north, came the immediate reply. Zack turned northward and continued to climb.

I have him on the box, Ruffy said, his voice amazingly calm. Four miles, slightly left and above you.

Contact, Zack radioed to Falcon as they entered the cloud deck. Christ! We’re in the clouds, he told Ruffy.

It’s okay, he’s not maneuvering, Ruffy said. Come left five degrees; we’re closing. Zack followed Ruffy’s directions as he played the throttles. They slowly closed. Range, half mile, Ruffy said.

The cockpit filled with light as they broke out on top of the cloud deck, directly behind and underneath the Junkers. Zack drove in closer. The German filled the lighted gun ring on his reflector sight and he selected the cannons. His right thumb brushed the firing button but he hesitated, wanting to close. Suddenly, the Junkers skidded to the right and pitched into a steep dive. The German crew wasn’t going to be surprised.

Zack hauled the Beau around, following, determined to get the Junkers, and chased him down into the cloud deck. Now they were in a sixty-degree dive in the clouds. On the nose, two hundred yards, Ruffy said. Lost him in the ground clutter. Sorry.

The engines howled and the fuselage shook as Zack pushed the dive past 350 miles per hour. He concentrated on the instruments. Come on, baby, he coaxed, hoping the artificial horizon wouldn’t give up. He was sweating from the strain of muscling the ten-ton fighter through the sky. Again, that internal warning screamed at him and he hauled back on the control column and raked the throttles aft. The warnings grew louder and he pulled back harder while he spun the elevator trim wheel with his right hand, feeding in nose-up trim. He used both hands to pull back on the yoke, forcing the nose of the plane to lift. Slowly, the nose came up and the wind noise quieted down.

They bottomed out of their dive as they broke out of the clouds, two hundred feet above the choppy surface of the North Sea. The Junkers screamed by them, going straight down. What the hell, Zack shouted as the German crashed into the sea, we overshot him in the dive. He pushed the throttles forward and circled the sinking wreckage. Silence. An empty feeling that had replaced his stomach and a weariness from hauling the Beau around the sky mauled his emotions. Then it hit him: Only that eerie warning, that strange sixth sense he had never experienced before, had saved them—twice. He wondered about that. Another thought occurred to him. Did we get a kill? he asked, more to himself than to Ruffy.

Looks like Sir Isaac got him, Ruffy allowed.

Beg pardon? Zack asked, confused.

Sir Isaac Newton. Gravity.

Zack returned to business and headed south, hugging the surface and staying below the clouds, returning to where they had last seen the burning boat. When they broke free of the clouds, they could see a glow on the surface in front of them. Got it, he told Ruffy. As they approached, the pilot could make out the silhouette of the E-boat, motionless on the surface. A burst of tracers reached out from the boat toward them and Zack hauled the Beau around, staying out of range. What the hell… he muttered.

I’ve got the glasses on him, Ruffy said. He’s picking up survivors still in the water.

For a moment, Zack considered attacking the E-boat—a strafing run with the twenties. But an attack would drive the E-boat off and leave the men to their fate in the frigid waters of the North Sea. How long do you think they can last in the water? he asked.

In December? Ruffy answered, Not bloody long. He was thinking the same thing. Why don’t you drop it in Falcon’s lap? Let him make the decision. Zack agreed and climbed above the E-boat, staying out of range. He could see it start to move while he established contact with GCI. Falcon asked him how certain he was that it was an E-boat and Zack admitted that he could not be positive as it was night. Falcon gave them a vector back to their patrol area and said he would pass the sighting on to Coastal Command and Air-Sea Ops. It could be one of ours, old chap, the controller told him.

You think it might be Young Ernst? Ruffy asked. Young Ernst was the name Intelligence had given to Enrst Hofmann, a twenty-four-year-old E-boat captain whose reputation had reached legendary proportions as he worked at will along the British coast, sinking targets of opportunity with impunity.

It all came together for Zack. Ruffy, I’ll bet you a pint that Junkers was working with that E-boat.

Flying cover?

Perhaps. Maybe finding targets. The Jerries might have come up with a new tactic. He made another mental note to mention it when they debriefed Intelligence.

An hour later Falcon told them to return to base and they headed back to land.

THE PRESENT

The Andaman Sea, Between India and Malaysia

The girl’s head popped above the coaming of the cockpit and her eyes blinked, driving the haze away. Nothing had changed from the day before—the water’s surface was mirror smooth and the sails hung empty in the still, unbelievably clear morning air. Frustration clouded her eyes and she refused to accept the lack of motion, the sense of nothing happening, a world at rest. She kicked out a long leg and banged her foot against the lifeless wheel of the sixty-five-foot sailboat. The only response was a sharp pain in her ankle.

Roll with it, Heather Courtland told herself as she rubbed her foot. So you’re becalmed in the Andaman Sea, about two hundred miles north of nowhere. She studied the horizon, trying to see the coast of Malaysia or Thailand to the east. You can’t get any further out of it, she moaned to herself. Why did I ever do this? The haze was threatening again, moving onto the shoreline of her awareness.

Again, she swept the horizon, wondering how far she could see, looking for the telltale signs of a wind stirring the sky or water. Nothing. Then she caught a smudge on the horizon but dismissed it. Probably a freighter sailing between Singapore and Calcutta, she thought, or maybe a supertanker headed for the Straits of Malacca on its way to Japan. She was too lazy to reach for the binoculars hanging from the compass in front of the wheel. A mistake.

The top of Troy Spencer’s mass of tangled blond hair appeared in the dark of the cabin’s companionway and hesitated as he stumbled up the ladder. Then the rest of his head appeared in the sunshine. He scooped up the bottom of her bikini and tossed it overboard when he reached the deck. She watched without comment as it drifted beside the boat before sinking. They were a matched pair: naked, skinny, blue-eyed, and with blond hair that reached to their shoulders. Even the single diamond earring that dangled from their pierced nipples was part of a matched set that had cost over four thousand dollars on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Only their tattoos differed. His was a bold spiderweb on the right shoulder, hers a small coiled snake and impossible to see unless she wanted to show it. That was one of the many deferences paid to her father—something they both understood.

You still with it, babes? he asked.

No way, she groused. I need a blast. Gimme a bullet. Troy Spencer grunted and disappeared back down the companionway.

She slapped the teak deck surrounding the cockpit as she waited impatiently for him to return. She drew her fingernails across the well-oiled teak, not caring about the beautiful sloop that belonged to Ricky Martel and Nikki Anderson, the other couple with them. The sailboat was a masterpiece of yachting perfection with its gleaming varnished woodwork and polished brass fittings. Down below, the cabins were comfortable and the boat was packed with the latest electronic gear for communications and navigation. Only the constant attention of the professional crew, Mark Livingston and his wife, DC, had kept the boat in tiptop shape and in good order. Heather wasn’t sure which of them, Ricky or Nikki, owned the sailboat and doubted if they really knew or cared. Ricky Martel and Nikki Anderson had made a small fortune from their heavy-metal band, Poison Pig, and its number one hit song, Cock the Bitch Silly. Not that they needed the money, since both came from wealthy families.

Heather wished she had never let Troy, Ricky, and Nikki talk her into flying to Mombasa, Kenya, to board the boat, which Mark and DC had sailed down from Cannes, France. But Troy had promised her an endless supply of good coke and that had been enough. Once at Mombasa, Ricky and Troy had purchased a kilo of coke from a contact Troy knew and they had set sail for Karachi, Pakistan. There, Ricky had wheeled and dealed a half kilo of high-grade heroin from a dissipated, and very rich, fan of Poison Pig and stashed it aboard the boat. Then they had sailed around Cape Comorin at the southern tip of India and called in at Madras. But the Indian authorities had proved to be less than tolerant of the rich Americans and only a large and well-placed bribe had allowed them to escape with their cargo intact. Rather than retrace their steps, they had decided to sail into the South Pacific and consume their hoard of drugs in the idyllic solitude of a blue lagoon. Now they were becalmed in the Andaman Sea between India and Malaysia.

Come on, Spencer, she urged, impatient at the long delay in his return. The corners of her lips pulled down and she smothered her irritation. Instead, Heather Courtland contrived ways to make Troy Spencer more attuned to her desires. It was a lesson she had learned from her father. Dear old father, she said as a mental image of Senator William Douglas Courtland in a full rage played in front of her. Her soft lips pulled into a dark frown and she forced the image away. She never wanted to experience the reality of that rage again. Heather had learned discretion.

Her father had driven that lesson home to her from that very first time when she was eleven and later when she was a teenager. He had made it most clear that discretion was a key to survival, especially in the political jungle he prowled. Rebelling and determined to be free of him, Heather tried to do as she pleased. He had been most gentle and kind trying to persuade her to follow his rules. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of continuing to go against his wishes and ran headlong into the impenetrable wall of resistance her father built around her. Overnight, her privileges and pampered way of life started to disappear. The more she rebelled, the more things disappeared. Then she found herself in an all-girls school in Colorado that operated on the principle that good conduct had rewards of many kinds. Heather Courtland soon learned how to change her behavior to get what she wanted. Her education was complete.

Loud voices echoed up from the cabin and she could hear Mark Livingston’s loud bellow. Heather! Get your ass down here!

What now? she mumbled as she pulled herself up.

Mark’s wife, DC, short for Dana Claridge, was standing in the galley as she climbed down the ladder. For God’s sake, Heather, DC snapped, put something on. She threw Heather one of the T-shirts from Ricky and Nikki’s band. Heather threw the shirt onto the settee and ignored DC. The hired help would not tell her what to do. She deliberately rubbed past Mark as she moved forward to where Troy and Nikki were standing. Heather admired Nikki because she was living proof that a girl could never be too skinny or too rich. Unlike Heather, Nikki Anderson was wearing clothes—the bottom of a bikini. Nikki’s small breasts were firm and pointed. A fine gold chain was strung between the gold rings that pierced each nipple.

I got this off Troy, Mark said, his voice low and full of anger. He was holding one of the plastic bags that contained three bullets and a vial of cocaine. You are the stupidest collection of dumb shits I have ever met.

Not your fuckin’ worry, Ricky Martel said. He was sitting at the table eating the breakfast DC had cooked, seemingly unconcerned about Mark’s anger. Ricky and Troy were mutual clones and both were highly ranked in the heavy-metal hierarchy with masses of teased hair, tattoos, and a hard-core drug habit. Like Troy, Ricky was skinny but his arms and legs were sticklike with no muscular development. The other noticeable difference was their hair. While Troy’s was a natural blond, Ricky’s was dyed jet black and had a hairpiece woven in to give it the fullness required by his rank.

Heather had never seen Mark Livingston so angry and she felt a tingle in the area below her navel as she watched the heavy chest muscles of the former football player from the University of Miami contract and expand. She liked Mark’s well-conditioned body and her eyes dropped, studying his cutoff shorts. She wondered what he was like in bed.

Look, Mark growled, now in control, we’re low on water, food, fuel, and just about everything else except this goddamn shit. He waved the plastic bag. I told you we’re going to Penang in Malaysia and you promised me the boat was clean.

Like I said, dude, Ricky replied, it’s not your worry.

I guarantee you it won’t be after we reach Penang, DC said from the galley. Mark’s wife was the image of the all-American college girl, athletic with an eye-catching figure, pretty face, and light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail.

You thinkin’ of jumping ship? Troy asked.

For-get-it, Ricky snarled. No way I’ll pay you. What you gonna do without bread in shit-ass Malaysia? He had kept Mark and DC from leaving earlier by threatening not to pay them. He was confident the threat would work again.

Watch, Mark said. He threw the plastic bag to DC, who threw it out the hatch and overboard.

What the fuck you think you’re doing? Ricky roared. He and Troy ran up the ladder and dove overboard to save the bag. Heather and Nikki raced after them. Once the two couples were out of the cabin, Mark banged the hatch shut and dogged it down, sealing them in. Hey, you assholes! Troy yelled when he climbed back on board, Open the fuckin’ door.

No way, Mark yelled back. Come on, he told DC, let’s shake the boat down. They made sure the other hatches were secure and started a methodical search for the rest of the drugs.

DC found a small sealed plastic bag with white powder and threw it out a porthole. They heard a splash as someone dived in after it. We’ll have to scatter it, she said, pouring another bag of cocaine out of the same porthole. They went about their work with a vengeance and ignored the threats coming from the deck.

On deck, Heather kept looking from Troy to the first plastic bag he had saved from sinking. Come on, she begged.

Okay, he said and opened the bag. He fished out a bullet, a small transparent plastic capsule about an inch long. It was shaped like a Mercury space capsule, big at one end and then tapering to a small neck at the top. Heather turned a valve on the side that released a charge of cocaine inside and sniffed sharply at the neck. Troy snatched the bullet out of her hand and dropped it back into the bag. Heather relaxed as the cocaine did its work.

Troy looked over the side and froze when he saw a cloud of white powder pour out of a porthole. I’ll kill those sons of bitches, he promised.

What with? Nikki asked as she touched his tattoo. She knew what the spider web meant—he had killed somebody, somewhere. The thought of seeing a murder thrilled her.

Hey, man! Ricky shouted. Help’s on the way. He pointed to the east. The smudge that Heather had first seen on the horizon had turned into a ramshackle wooden fishing boat that was bearing down on them. He moved over to the hatch and yelled, We’re gonna nail you assholes now. There’s a boat coming our way. They moved aside as Mark opened the hatch and climbed out. Troy pushed past him and hurried down to his cabin. Heather followed him, now eager to get out of the hot sun.

DC climbed on deck and studied the boat. What do you think? she asked.

Don’t know, Mark answered. They could be pirates. He walked aft to the steering post and flipped open the panel to the engine controls. He hit the ventilation fan switch to purge the engine compartment and bilge of any fumes.

Pirates, my ass, Ricky said. They hung the last pirates two hundred years ago.

Wrongo, Mark replied. There were some pretty gruesome stories about Thai pirates a few years back. They preyed on the Vietnamese boat people.

Yeah, sure, Ricky said, interrupting him. He never read newspapers or listened to news on TV. His world was what he made it and he tuned out anything that had to do with reality.

I remember that, DC said. But didn’t that happen off the coast of Vietnam? She snatched up the binoculars hanging from the compass and studied the fishing boat. It looked like all the other Asian fishing boats they had seen.

We’re at least seven hundred miles from there and in a different sea, Mark told her. He took the binoculars from DC and studied the boat. No need to take any chances. I’ll start the auxiliary and we’ll move out of their way. His fingers stabbed at the switches to start the small diesel engine that could push them at a speed of five knots. The engine coughed to life and he engaged the propeller.

Why didn’t you do that sooner? Nikki asked. We could have been to Penang by now.

Because I was saving what fuel we had left for an emergency, Mark replied. I never had a chance to refuel at Madras. Remember?

Because you can’t do your fuckin’ job, Ricky snarled.

I do my job, you fuckin’ hair farmer, he shot back, when I’m not bribing the authorities to keep our asses out of jail and your boat from being confiscated.

Troy Spencer came rushing up the ladder out of the cabin. He had pulled on a pair of ripped jeans and was shaking with fury. Heather was right behind him, still naked. You fuckin’ assholes! he shouted. You dumped it all overboard!

Right, Mark shouted back. You know what they do in Malaysia to drug smugglers? He waited for an answer. There wasn’t one. They hang them.

You believe that shit? Troy spit at him. His hand reached behind his back and he pulled a .357 Magnum out of his waistband.

Yes, Nikki breathed. She was shaking with anticipation as Troy jabbed the muzzle of the handgun into Mark’s midsection. She could feel the chain swinging between her breasts jiggle.

You are one dead mutha—

The fishing boat! DC shouted, creating a diversion. Troy glanced in the direction of the fishing boat and was surprised to see it so close. He blinked. But Mark had never taken his eyes off Troy and the distraction was enough to allow his hands to flash in a well-coordinated movement. Mark’s right hand grabbed Troy’s wrist, while with his left hand he swept the gun out of Troy’s grasp in a cross-movement. Mark held the gun by its barrel and swung it back into the side of Troy’s head. Then he dropped Troy’s wrist and grabbed a hand full of hair and jerked. Troy simply obeyed one of the laws of physical anatomy and his body followed his head, which was down to the deck.

The boat! DC screamed, terror in her voice.

Holy shit! Ricky shouted. One of ’em’s got a gun. The fishing boat was bearing down on a collision course and they could see three men on the forward deck. They were short, dark, and wiry. All were stripped to the waist and wearing cloth headbands. One of them was holding a shotgun.

DC, Mark shouted as he spun the wheel to break out of their path. Get on the radio and send an SOS. Get ’em all below. A shot rang out from the fishing boat and a hole appeared in the flapping mainsail. Heather, Nikki, and Ricky disappeared down the ladder after DC. But Troy shook his head, still groggy from the blow, and crawled toward Mark who was crouched low in the cockpit well.

We gotta do this together, he told Mark. Gimme the gun, man. Unlike Ricky, Troy Spencer did not suffer from the same drug-induced mental burnout. He had deliberately turned his back on the wealthy and privileged world offered by his parents and sought out the dangerous, seamy side of life. There, he found a natural outlet for his violent nature. But he had learned his lessons well, and knew they were now fighting for their lives.

No way, Mark growled. You steer if you want to help. Troy nodded and took over the wheel. You got more ammo for this? Mark asked.

In my cabin, Troy said. Heather knows where it is.

Mark bobbed his head up to check on the fishing boat. It was getting closer. He scrambled forward and dropped down the companionway. DC was sitting at the radio. I’m in contact with Thai customs authorities, she shouted.

Stay in contact and tell them everything that’s happening, Mark said. Heather, get the extra bullets for the Magnum. And put something on. The girl nodded dumbly and went into her and Troy’s stateroom. She came back out with a box of ammunition and wearing a T-shirt. Mark grabbed the shells and ran for the ladder. Everyone stay below, he yelled, disappearing out the hatch.

They’re getting closer, Troy yelled at him. Mark chanced a quick look and dropped back onto the deck. Then he bobbed back up and emptied the .357’s chamber at the fishing boat. A series of barked commands in a language they did not recognize were followed by two shotgun blasts. They’re getting closer! Troy shouted.

Mark reloaded and fired. He gauged the fishing boat was less than fifty yards away. Turn! he shouted. Troy spun the wheel and the sailboat heeled over. But it gained them nothing as the fishing boat was slightly faster and could turn more sharply. The distance separating them was now less than twenty-five yards. Mark worked his way back to Troy and handed him the gun. It looks like they’re going to ram us, he said. Fall off at the last moment and start shooting to keep their heads down. I’ll try to push them off with a boat hook. Got it.

Let’s do it, man, Troy said. Mark worked his way forward and crawled along the protected side to the cabin to unlash the boat hook. Now they could hear a series of yelps from the fishing boat as it closed on them. Mark crawled back to the cockpit and waited.

Here they come! Troy shouted. The high bow of the fishing boat loomed over them. Troy spun the wheel and cut loose with a wild barrage. Splinters flew off the fishing boat as the shells tore into it. They could hear more shouting but didn’t see anyone. Mark stood up to push the fishing boat away and the shotgun roared. Mark fell back into the cockpit, his face and chest a bloody, pulpy mass. Troy fumbled as he reloaded and a man jumped off the fishing boat and clubbed him to the deck.

Heather had heard the gunshots and shouting and had cowered in a tight ball on the cabin’s settee. When the fishing boat crashed into them she had shut her eyes while Nikki and Ricky ran forward to hide in their stateroom. DC had stayed at the radio, still transmitting. Then a dark figure appeared over Heather, grabbed her hair and jerked her off the settee. Heather’s anger momentarily flared as she struggled to her feet, glaring at the hard, wiry little man who was shorter than her. He slapped her hard across the face. Then a harder slap followed, knocking her back to the deck. Heather lay there, stunned. She had never been hit that hard, not even at the girls school in Colorado. Such pure physical violence was new in her life, something that only happened to other people or in the movies. The pirate’s brown face split into a nasty grin, showing his yellowed, snaggled teeth. He barked commands in a language she had never heard before.

Another pirate pushed Ricky and Nikki into the cabin from their stateroom. Tears streamed down Nikki’s face and she was shaking from fear. A third man had twisted DC’s arm behind her and was holding her head down on the table in front of the radio. The men pushed the four Americans together onto the settee and exchanged a few words. It sounded like a babbling gibberish to Heather. She noticed that none of them had a gun but all were carrying wicked-looking knives. One man went back on deck while the remaining two jabbered at each other, ignoring them.

What are they going to do to us? Nikki asked, her voice barely audible and quaking.

I don’t know, DC answered, fear in every word, her hands shaking.

Did they hurt Troy or Mark? Heather asked. DC only gave her a worried look in reply. They heard laughter and a loud splash that sounded like someone falling overboard. Then more laughter echoed from outside and they could hear Troy shouting. Suddenly, he was propelled down the companionway, stripped naked. His face was blotched with red marks and his lower lip was bleeding. The two men followed him down.

They killed Mark, he gasped. The three girls stared at him, fully understanding what the splash had been. The oldest of the pirates, who was plainly in charge, grabbed Ricky by his long hair, pulled him over to the dinette table and jammed his face down with a gnarled hand onto the hard surface. He held him there by the hair while he cut his clothes away with a knife. The three other men searched the boat.

Are there only four? Heather asked. She was bitterly aware that she was only wearing a flimsy T-shirt.

Yeah, Troy said. The old man guarding them shouted something and slammed Ricky’s head on the tabletop. He clearly wanted them to be silent.

Now the three men started to ransack the boat while the old man guarded them. Two men threw everything they could onto the deck while the third ripped out the radios, navigation equipment, and radar set. Their guard let go of Ricky but kept him bent over the table.

After what seemed an eternity, they were finished in the cabin and three men went up on deck. Then they heard a winch start to creak. It was twilight before the pirates had ripped out the yacht’s auxiliary engine. Finally, they were finished and the three men came back down the companionway ladder and started eating as they talked. The old man gestured at Ricky, who was still bent over the table, and kicked his legs apart. With the blade of his knife, he scraped the open sores that were festering on the inside of Ricky’s thighs. What’s the matter with Ricky’s legs? Heather whispered to Nikki. Nikki didn’t answer. The pirates continued to discuss Ricky’s sores. A decision made, they grabbed him, tied his hands behind his back and pushed him up on deck. Then the men came back.

One of the younger men dropped his trousers and grabbed Troy’s hair. He held a knife at his throat, bent him over the table in the same position as Ricky had been and hunched over him. You bastard, Troy groaned. The man slammed his face down onto the table, hard, making his nose bleed. I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Again, the man slammed Troy’s face onto the table as he entered him.

The three girls tried to turn away, not wanting to watch the rape. But the other men kept slapping their faces, making them watch until it was over. Troy bucked when they tied his hands. Two men punched at his face until he quit struggling. They shoved him into a corner, laughing at his impotent rage.

The old man’s right hand flashed out and ripped the T-shirt off Heather. He grabbed her by the hair and bent her over the table. Do you know who I am? Heather shouted. The men laughed as the old man shed his pants. My father is a United States senator! There was no sign that they understood a word she said. Senator William Douglas Courtland! she shouted. Again, no sign of comprehension. And then in a low, pleading moan, He’s going to be President of the United States.

The old man paused. I speak English. He grinned at the other men and buried a hand in her hair, holding her over the table, while his other hand stroked her bare back. Then he felt lower and spread the cheeks of her rear end. He barked in amazement when he saw Heather’s tattoo and called the other men over to examine it. They were fascinated by the small snake that had been tattooed on the inside of her cheeks, coiled around her anus. The old man raped her while Troy, Nikki, and DC were dragged to the forward staterooms. Heather clenched the far edge of the table, making herself endure the violation. She forced herself to think about surviving and tried to shut out the sounds of the other three being raped. I know how to survive, she kept repeating to herself. I know how to survive….

Tears streamed down her face. Then the men switched.

An hour later, the three girls and Troy were thrown naked into the fishing boat next to Ricky. They watched as the beautiful sloop was torched, a beacon lighting the night. A small plane flew over and circled before heading back to land. One of the pirates started the engine and pointed the fishing boat in the same direction.

ONE

The White House, Washington, D.

It was the woman’s first solo shift as the night duty officer in the Office of the President and the communications section had hummed with its normal nighttime routine, lulling her into a sense of complacency. The phone call from her counterpart in the State Department had jolted her fully awake. Sally, the veteran bureaucrat said, his voice coming through scratchy on the secure line, a hot one just came in. The Bangkok embassy reports that Senator Courtland’s daughter has been kidnapped.

The woman’s fingers flew over the computer keyboard at her desk as she recorded the details of the phone call for future correlation and reference. When the caller had hung up, she replayed the tape, making sure she had all the details correct. Then she told a technician to transcribe the tape immediately into hard copy. Her lips compressed into a narrow line as she stared at the clock: 3:32 A.M. Then she made her decision—they should wake the President of the United States with the news. But she first had to check with her boss, the President’s chief of staff. Leo Cox answered the phone on the second ring, listened without comment and gave her the okay. Her hand was steady when she jabbed at the buttons on her communications panel to call the President’s valet.

Matthew Zachary Pontowski opened the door that led to the small office off the President’s bedroom and walked in. A simple dark blue robe covered his lanky six feet and he was carrying his glasses. His blue eyes were clear and his full head of silver-gray hair was only slightly ruffled. As usual, he walked with a slight hunch to his shoulders and a definite limp, a legacy from World War II. His prominent, aquiline nose reminded the woman of a hawk but his face was not harsh. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes promised warmth and understanding. He looked and acted ten years younger than seventy-six years of age.

Well, Sally, he began. Charles says you have something important.

She could hear friendliness in his voice and relaxed. Yes, sir, I think so. She handed him a transcript of the phone call from the State Department. He sat down at his desk and adjusted his glasses. Zack Pontowski could read at over twelve hundred words a minute, faster than a person could talk. He preferred to read and to ask questions later. It was a well-established routine in the White House.

Charles, he said through the still-open door, would you please get some coffee. He reread the transcript and thought about the young woman still standing in front of him. Please sit down, he told her, motioning to a comfortable armchair next to him. What do you think Leo will say when he learns you woke me up so early? He glanced at a small carriage clock on the desk. Leo Cox, a former general in the United States Air Force, ran a relaxed but well-controlled office for the President.

He’s already said it, Mr. President. I called him before I called Charles to wake you. General Cox should be here in fifteen minutes. On cue, Charles walked in with a fresh pot of coffee.

Was he the only other person you woke?

Yes, sir, she answered, now certain she had done the right thing. The gentle warmth in his voice was very reassuring.

Pontowski smiled, pleased with her. Cox does pick the right people, he thought. She keyed on the political sensitivity of this immediately and wasn’t afraid to get the ball rolling. How much further can she carry it? What do you recommend I should do first? he asked, his voice serious.

Make a personal phone call to Senator Courtland with the news, she answered immediately, and arrange a meeting with him at the first opportunity.

Pontowski picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. Please put me in contact with Senator Courtland immediately. He hung up. How do you think the good senator will respond? he asked.

He’ll try to crucify you with it, sir.

William Douglas Courtland stretched an arm over the sleeping girl to pick up the telephone. The first insistent ring had woken him and he was fully alert. Yes, he said, not letting the touch of hostility he felt at being disturbed show in his voice. Of course, I’ll take the call.

The girl stirred as he sat upright and pulled the covers away. Oh…what…? she mumbled. The dewiness of sleep gave her

Reviews for Call to Duty

[jennifer35k · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I must confess that I have never read the blog by this author, nor have I read any other works published by her. Upon saying that I have to admit that I had a blast reading her book and wound up sharing it with my spouse. I realize that this book is not for everyone and can be seen as a bit intense with the foul language. However, I would argue that is what gave the book its character and made the author’s experiences more believable. Being a parent to three children who are all on the ADHD spectrum sometimes makes us feel isolated and very frustrated. It is nice to see that others secretly share those hidden feelings that we are not going to utter out loud. Like the author, my kids are also the loud and hyper children that seem to get into everything. I seem to be the one parent that is always NOT bragging about how special my kids are today. I am just grateful they are not trying to get into something or fighting with one another again. The author has a unique way of writing, which was a little refreshing for me. I found it fun and very easy to read. The constant need to refer to poop was a little much, but I get it. If you are a parent of a hyper kid like me than you will love the book. I think most parents would enjoy this book. However, if you are someone who is easily offended, than you might want to skip this one. There is a lot of vulgar references and cursing in the story. It fits just fine, but some people might not like it. I would recommend this book in a heartbeat to a dozen other people that I know. I think that many people would relate to it.

[starshadowblog · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Karen is a hilarious mother sharing her stories of raising her children, being a wife and running a household. With in your face comedy of life. This book is sure to please those who have those moements from I just want to pee alone to.... I need a vacation from my life.These stories are sure to make you laugh, and I mean laugh till you cry or pee your pants depending on the type of laugher you are. I am rereading this book outloud to my husband as both being parents we get a kick out of the stories and moments in this book.You will not be disappointed.