Insurrection: Tiger Legion

By Dan Santos

Jude chases the kidnappers, lands his team on an enemy controlled airfield and sneaks into the San Diego naval base where the Chinese keep the kidnapped interim President.

In a daring raid he and Kate free the President and go on to Europe where reliable intelligence puts the terrorist head of Cell 786.

American Rebel forces mass on the West Coast and attack the occupiers.

Will America be finally safe? At what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Santos
• Release date: Apr 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780989678254

Dan Santos

Dan Santos began writing novels after a successful career as a US diplomat in Europe, Africa and Latin America. Before that, he served our country as an infantry officer in the US Army.His thrillers have the direct, no-nonsense style of his diplomatic dispatches and his words are neither shy nor politically correct. When things need to be said he writes them "loud and clear."Brother and sister vets love The Insurrection Series, the story of how Americans revolted against a dictator who took over after a cataclysmic terrorist act. Yet, his sentimental novella about a beloved dog, embrace the reader's heart and is on three Amazon best-selling lists. Letters from Blitz was recently translated into Spanish.Dan is working on a spinoff to the Insurrection Series, an organized crime thriller, and - by public request - the story of a boy and his dog.The rough streets of Brooklyn will always stay in Dan's heart, but he now lives with his family in the Maryland countryside, not far from the awesome Potomac River.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Colorado, February 6, 9:30 pm

The heavily armed commandos in the helicopter thought they were all going to die.

Shrieking like a cat being forced to take a bath the Z-8’s rotary wings whirled for the takeoff. As the ramp lifted, the fuselage shook wildly, straining at the joints. Tough looking men and women bristling with guns, knives and goose bumps had that ‘oh, shit’ look on their faces.

The Chinese may have done a great technical job adapting Pratt & Whitney engines on the French licensed helicopter, but the cabin was a shabby affair. Cheap plastic fittings seemed like the stuff the lowest bidder would install and the canvas seats hung precariously from rusty hinges.

Colorado mountain winds of gale strength took no pity on the aircraft. The metal capsule heaved up and down as if shoved in a giant blender.

The faces of the most badass troops the Rebels could muster had turned green. Still, the team’s clown put on a Scottish accent and gave the famous James Bond line that he wanted his Martini shaken, not stirred. It drew loud and raucous laughter and relieved some of the nervous tension.

The first bump dumped four commandos off their seats before they could finish strapping down. It caught Jude, Kate and Teeb clutching ceiling canvas loops white knuckled, hanging on for dear life.

When the bitching and moaning reached a fevered pitch Teeb’s eyes locked on Jude’s with a knowing smile. Mud soldiers were the best at putting together dirty words and drawing mental pictures of protest. A grunt couldn’t just say ‘it’s cold.’ He would proclaim ‘it’s colder than a witch’s tit.’

No one was immune from their biting comments, especially the pilot who had been a Special Air Wing flyboy in the old days. ‘Hey plane driver, did you get your license out of a freaking box of Cracker Jacks?’

As if reacting to the invective the Z-8 suddenly banked left. Those standing swayed to the right, and those who had slid off the side benches rolled on the bulkhead bellowing even more colorful curses. The comedy one-liners belied the mission’s danger.

Only the sobering reminder they were in hot pursuit of the President’s chopper brought them back to reality. The cacophony died down.

Colorado, February 6, 9:31 pm

Most of the combat adrenaline had worn off and every square inch of Jude’s body hurt. He felt the thousand points of pain seconds after he ran into the Rebel aircraft. Just hanging from the strap was a chore.

Minutes before he had lost his grip on the President’s helicopter when the Chinese pilot sensed a tilt that told him an attacker was holding on to his machine. He wobbled the controls violently to shake off the American commando. It was more than Jude’s powerful hands could stand.

When he released the fuselage and felt himself falling he instinctively went into ‘ukemi,’ the Judo technique to break the impact of a fall. Body relaxed and chin tucked into his chest he slapped the ground as his back hit the dirt.

The technique was perfect for landing unharmed on a Judo mat when an opponent threw you. It reduced the possibility of injury from a four-foot fall. It wasn’t quite as helpful for a ten-foot fall from a moving aircraft. That kind of drop can break bones and snap muscles in an ordinary man. But Jude was no ordinary man.

A thick Ghillie suit encased his body. He was in great physical shape, despite pain framing every minute of his life. The former Army Ranger had learned to live with physical pain. Emotional pain was another story. When the White House explosion hurled him into the air, his entire physique hurt for days. A more subtle and destructive pain took over when he saw his wife’s blonde tresses matted with blood protruding from the open body bag.

He had known then that the soreness would go away with the passage of time, but the ache in his soul had been with him the past three years, consuming bits of his essence with each breath.

That same emotional sting had turned him into a formidable killing machine. Jude Winthrop’s over 200 confirmed kills made him the enemy’s worst nightmare. His victims never heard the shot; they never felt the blade. Death came swiftly to Jude’s targets.

Now hanging from a strap in the Z-8’s cabin he willed himself to shake off the pain. Jude forced his thoughts to turn to the Baker kidnapping. He focused on the chase.

A life-long perfectionist, the former Ranger would recap every detail of his failures, not to wallow in self-pity but to learn from them. He replayed the mental images of each event in his mind.

The Chinese Marine threw Baker on his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He ran into the cabin and dropped the limp body on its floor moving to the ramp controls to lift it shut.

Sprinting to the rising aircraft Jude saw him dump the Texan and bang on the rear drop gate’s control knob. The man darted to the cockpit shouting.

Jude jumped up and his hands closed on the landing gear an instant before the pilot shook the chopper to make him fall. That was probably what the frantic Chinese Marine officer was yelling to the pilot. It worked.

When his body smacked the mountain slope he raised the carbine at the aircraft in frustration. It was just a desperate, angry gesture. He knew he would not squeeze the trigger but he had to do something; anything. There were plenty of vital parts he could hit to bring down the Z-8, but he couldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t risk killing the President. He had to let the enemy get away.

Jude stood up and ran back to the Rebel chopper, herding the commandos into the cabin and doing some shouting of his own, ordering the pilot to take off even before his feet cleared the ramp.

Hanging by the strap, he knew the kidnappers’ aircraft had by now gained at least a 30 mile lead. There was no way to catch up to the Chinese Z-8 in another Chinese Z-8.

The Baker chopper could move faster than Jude’s machine because it only had the one pilot and two passengers. The Rebel helicopter carried 23 combat laden commandos besides pilot Mark Cheng, Teeb and Kate. The six minutes it would take the aircraft to arrive at its top speed of 150 knots would go by much too slow, adding to Jude’s sense of defeat.

He let go of the strap and shuffled precariously to the cockpit door.

Colorado, February 6, 9:33 pm

Mark Cheng was wrestling with the control stick. With lighting motions he shoved it forward, backward and sideways. His two handed grip strangled the plastic covered steel tube in a useless attempt to make the Z-8 go faster. He twisted knobs, pushed buttons and pulled levers. In his frantic gyrations he barely noticed Jude coming into the cockpit and flopping down on the copilot’s seat.

This Chinese version of the French Super Frelon helicopter was noisy, flimsy and inelegant; but it was all they had.

Can’t this ugly bug go any faster? Jude’s voice pierced into the pilot’s concentration over the din of the three engines. He dropped into the creaky springs of the Number Two seat. Strapping on the restraining harness, he donned a flight helmet so he could use the intercom to talk to Cheng at a normal volume.

Sure, my man, just stick your arms out the window and flap up and down. The former Special Operations pilot answered with practiced sarcasm bordering on insubordination. He’d tried to sound humorous but didn’t wait for the humor to kick in.

For Christ’s sake Jude, I’m doing my freaking best. This piece of shit can only do150 knots. The French didn’t design it to win races. So fuck off and let me drive.

Sorry, Mark. I know you’re doing your best. I’ll shut up now. It was time to calm down. Once locked in a verbal fight Jude seldom gave up so easily but he had a lot on his mind. The response sounded far away, more pensive than contrite, but it did the job.

Mark sighed and his shoulders drooped at the unexpected mildness from the former Ranger. We’re all on edge, Boss. Is everyone OK back there?

We took no casualties. As far as we could tell the Chinese troops on the LZ are all KIA, but we didn’t have time to double check. Teeb’s on the horn asking Aurora to get someone there to clean up the scene. The tone was low, serious and above all perfunctory. A sigh pushed out the words.

Jude switched back to ‘detail-rehashing’ mode as if he were about to write an ‘after action report.’ His brain was automatically putting together short, descriptive sentences that would give his superiors the essential facts to make decisions down the road; except it didn’t work that way anymore. This was an insurrection against an American dictator, not a foreign war waged by the Army. And he was the boss right now. The decisions would be his.

He could have ignored Mark’s inane chatter. But key words registered and brought Jude back to earth. I tell you what, that red headed menace of ours did her best to run up the numbers. She’s something else, ain’t she? From here it seemed as if she were capping every downed Chinaman she found in her way.

Jude looked at Mark, surprisingly shaken at the irreverence. His eyes closed half way into slits and his next words came out clipped and much too exact to sound friendly. They were also tinged with sadness.

She saw them executing her troops one by one and couldn’t do shit about it, Mark. Geneva Convention rules go to hell after something like that happens.

Jude’s face flushed hot and his heart ached as his explanation conjured up the image of his first commando team; the one the Militia slaughtered at the Eisenhower Farm. It seemed like centuries ago. He knew Kate was going through the same hell right now.

Mark shut up when he sensed the mood change. The pilot heard the pain and felt the anger. His silent gaze tried to penetrate the darkness outside the Plexiglas from the red lit semidarkness of the cockpit. He looked at the commando leader out of the corner of his eye and changed the subject.

Boss, I’m not getting a freaking blip on this display. I was almost sure the radar was OK, but it could be all the shaking busted it.

Faced with a tangible task calling him back to action Jude snapped out of his fog of anger and pain. Could it be the mountains, or do you think they’re jamming us?

Mountains, maybe. I see nothing on this dashboard they could use to jam radars; and I assume the other chopper is the same model.

Yeah, it was a Z-8 too but they can add stuff to a command helicopter; and that’s where their commander was riding.

I’ll still put my money on the mountains, Dude.

Mark’s attempt to return to lighthearted talk faded. The conversation gap made Jude fall back into a dark funk. Where the Plexiglas reflected his face, he saw the faces of his boys and girls; the ones he lost at Gettysburg. He remembered each of their names, their faces, their smiles.

His demeanor darkened when the Militiamen flashed through his recollection; the spectral images of his friends’ killers followed closely by the faces of those he had killed on the Pennsylvania farm. He believed a soldier never forgets the faces of the men he kills. They come back and float in the mind’s miasma, like the black spots you see after a burst of light blinds you momentarily.

The face of the Chinese Marine who was about to shoot Kate came into view. It intruded on the scenario his mind switched to. The details were way fresher, so the features were sharper. Jude’s left arm wrapped around the man’s forehead. He heard the sound of the stiletto’s point crunching through the soft spot below the medulla. The dead eyes locked on his. They were dark, lifeless and upside-down. The fresh corpse fell slid to the ground through Jude’s arms.

Kate exploded into their world. The cockpit’s ruby night illumination made her fiery hair even redder. She emitted crimson heat in the gloom. The lilt in her voice was bright though.

Aurora’s clean up team is loading up. Teeb’s giving them the LZ’s coordinates and telling them how many body bags to bring. Turning to Mark she added Anything yet?

That was a bad idea.

Would you cut me some slack, Kate? Mark’s exasperated tone took the redhead by surprise. The Rebel pilot thumbed at Jude. This guy already pushed all my buttons. He thought it would get me to make this metal crate go faster. Now, you’re busting my balls asking for progress reports. For your information, this dashboard is in freaking military Chinese. Grandpa taught me to speak and read classical Mandarin, but some of this stuff is Greek to me.

Mark paused, exhausted from his extemporaneous rant and embarrassed but not deflated. He spoke more calmly.

I told Jude that I hadn’t seen a freaking blip on the radar screen and asked him if they could jam us. There’s your freaking report. No freaking time to do anything else. Why don’t you pass the word back to the cabin so the skinny Texan Dude doesn’t run in here asking the same freaking questions?

Teeb’s helmeted head suddenly popped in, right behind a seemingly chastised Kate.

Hey, flyboy, you get a pass this time ‘cause your daddy was a Devil Dog, but let me remind you of the three secrets for success. First, don’t mess with Texas. Second, don’t fuck with Gunnies. And third, good plane drivers keep track of how many flight helmets with intercom they have. I happen to be wearing one that let me listen on y’all’s conversation and am getting a hankering to hit you over the head with it.

The Gunny had a way with words. He made them all laugh, and the tension went away.

Chapter 2

Colorado, February 6, 9:35 pm

OK, quiet down guys. I need to talk to Bryce. Jude twirled the radio frequency knob on the dash and pushed the helmet’s transmit lever.

Mile-High actual this is Casper Ghost actual, over.

The static filled response filled their flight helmets Casper Ghost this is Mile-High. Wait one. That told him the RTO had answered and would run to give the handset to the general.

Painful seconds ticked by. All three of them had tuned into Jude’s conversation with the head of the Rebel forces. Gene Bryce’s words made the earphones membranes vibrate. Casper Ghost actual, this is Mile-High actual, over to you, son.

Mile-High we’re in hot pursuit of our friend’s chopper. I wanted to give you a SitRep and ask you to contact the folks out West. It’s looking like we may need to operate in their Area of Operations. Over.

Wait one Gosh darned minute son. First of all, there are all kinds of issues we have to consider before any of us goes into that AO and I don’t think you’re privy to many of them. We need to get our heads together and think this thing through. We can’t have you do a cavalry charge like in the movies. Ya hear? Over?

I hear you five by five, Mile-High. There just isn’t any time for finessing this chase if we want to see our friend alive again. So, humor me and let Tiger Legion know we’re on our way and may need to tap on their resources soon. Over.

Son, you don’t seem to understand…

No, Mile-High, it’s you who doesn’t understand. I understand very well what my mission is and I will do my job with or without your help. I’ll even get it done without Tiger Legion, if need be. You know what, Mile-High? Jude looked around the cockpit rolling his eyes. I’m getting a lot of static on this damned Chinese radio. We must be getting out of range. So, I’m going to have to sign off now. I know you won’t let us down. This is Casper Ghost. Out.

Arizona, February 6, 9:35 pm

Joe Baker’s bullet wounds throbbed.

The Chinese developed the 5.8 mm cartridge to outperform NATO’s 5.56 mm round. They thought the new caliber would allow the soldier to carry more accurate and longer reach ammunition. The places where the Chinese bullets entered Baker’s body burned like hell; they felt loose and wet.

His shoulder felt heavy and his leg felt numb. When he managed to open his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the Badger aerial tanker through a porthole. It was reeling in its fuel nozzle after refueling the chopper in midair. Baker realized the disconnecting jolt shook him awake.

Groggily looking up he understood why his shoulder felt heavy. There was a hand at the end of an arm pressing on it. The Texan’s eyes followed the hand up the arm to an Asian face. Xu! The arm belonged to Xu! The Chinaman had a strange smile on his face, almost a smirk.

Welcome back to the land of the living, Dashi. Naval Commander Xu Zhuang’s sarcasm poured thickly. His face was a study in contempt. If I remember my first aid training, I’m supposed to apply pressure on the bleeding wound until I staunch the flow. In a normal situation this is a procedure I’d reserve for friends and teammates. Of course, you know that I’d rather let you bleed to death but, sad to say, my superiors would probably disapprove. So, I think I’ll just keep pressing on this neat little bullet hole. And Xu gave the wound an extra poke. Baker groaned through clenched teeth.

Xu looked at his enemy and prolonged the agony with another taunt. A soldier’s job is to kill the enemy not keep him alive. It’s a sad day when politics interfere with warfare! He let the thought trail as his eyes focused theatrically on the cabin’s ceiling.

From his time as US Ambassador to Beijing, Baker understood what Xu was saying in Mandarin all too well but could not find the energy to respond. His keen political instincts revealed the bind the Chinaman was in. The former Texas Governor and now Interim Rebel President thought this would have been a culturally appropriate moment to come up with some clever rejoinder. But blood loss tends to hinder wit. Instead, he let himself fall back into the comfortable darkness of unconsciousness.

Xu saw the old man shut his eyes and plunge into oblivion. He kept the pressure on the wound for another ten minutes and then checked to see if that had stopped the bleeding. It seemed like an appropriate effort to save the Měiguórén’s life. Surely his superiors could not fault him if the man died despite his best efforts to keep him alive.

Oh, who was he kidding? Fleet leadership would not hesitate to hang him out to dry. He’ll give it another ten minutes and apply it back on if the damn bullet hole was still bleeding. But he had to let headquarters know what was going on.

Xu shouted above the helicopter’s deafening din. Pilot, throw me a headset. I need to talk to Point Loma.

Colorado, February 6, 9:36 pm

A sepulchral silence enveloped the cockpit where Mark Cheng, Teeb Alvarez and Kate Hartmann were trying unsuccessfully to make themselves invisible. Their eyes avoided Jude studiously. They had just gotten a scary glimpse of what made Jude tick; that explosive instability that kept the higher ups from messing with him.

Once the former Ranger bit into something he would not let go. The moment he set out to do something nothing could stop him. He got it done even if he had to disrespect the beloved father-figure of the Rebel head man.

Jude scared the hell out of Provos and Militia alike. The enemy found out the hard way. The Rebels dropped their jaws in awe. Jude Winthrop went where he thought he should go with the finesse of a herd of elephants. He’d win or die trying.

His troops sensed it. He was their protector, father and hero. That’s why they would run into hell for him. They knew he’d be right up front.

Teeb thought the man had a pair the size of regulation bowling balls. He had just told off Big Boss General Gene Bryce, the honest-to-goodness overall commander of all the blessed Rebel Forces.

The former Army Ranger read the cockpit silence accurately and nonplused.

So be it, he thought. He didn’t have time to argue about leadership traits. There was plenty of other stuff he needed to worry about. The inner circle in the cockpit had gotten to know him well, which was essential to a leader who abhorred miscommunication.

Teeb, Kate and Mark heard his next words clearly. They came out with the detachment of the chess player who is thinking eight moves ahead but needs to fill the silence Mark, stay on this vector.

Jude twisted the radio frequency knob again, this time clockwise until he got the set of numbers he was looking for.

Colorado, February 6, 9:38 pm

Blue Viper, this is Casper Ghost. Over.

A static filled, fainter response came through the flight helmets’ headsets. The responding voice was groggy but filled with urgency "Casper Ghost, this is Yoshi, it’s four o’clock in the morning here and I’ve been awake all night, where the