Till I return.
Marcus always carried at least two envelops with him in the event that he needed to write something to his parents or Linus while in the field. He pulled one out, penned his return address at Plymouth on the corner of it, and copied the address Lonnie had included in her letter. He called out to one of the ground crew of the C-130 who was passing by on his way back to the hangers.
“Hey, mate, can I ask you a favor?” Marcus said.
“Sure, Yank, what do you need?”
“Can you mail this for me? It’s a really important personal letter.”
“Sure. How fast you want it there? Post or FedEx?”
“Post is fine,” he said, and handed the RAF technician a five-pound note. “I have no idea how much the postage will be — it’s going to Alaska. But this should cover it, and get you a pint as well.”
“Alaska?” exclaimed the RAF man. “Whoa. I’ll be sure to get it started as soon as the post office opens.”
And that’s exactly what the RAF technician did. By 08:00, the letter was in the outgoing mail bin at the base post office, and by five that evening was being loaded on an airplane that began its journey to America’s farthest western frontier.
As the letter made its way across the world, the Royal Marines of 2nd Troop, Mike Company, 43 Commando did likewise, albeit in a different direction. When the letter passed out of Heathrow Airport, Marcus’s C-130 crossed the bulge of northwestern Africa and banked left on a bearing along the coastlines of Senegal, Gambia, Guinea Bissau, and finally into Guinea itself. The craft made a long, wide arc to the east as the sun fell in a glowing red ball behind them. The aircraft descended gradually until at 19:00, as the last of the equatorial sun descended beneath the horizon, they were flying at less than one thousand feet just north of the border of Sierra Leone.
Twenty minutes later, the aircraft banked hard to the south and dropped even lower, skimming just above the treetops as it followed the hilly contour of the jungle beneath. A green flash came on, flashing a constant rhythm at each end of the cargo bay, where the men sat with their equipment.
The jumpmaster stood up near the tail of the plane and flashed two fingers to everyone. His shout was barely audible over the rumbling drone of the engines. “Two minutes!”
The men checked their packs, straps, and weapons as the landing gear rotated down from the belly of the craft with a loud, vibrating whir. Forty-five seconds before touchdown, the rear cargo ramp of the C-130 lowered to the open air. The jungle rushed beyond the edge of the wide, flat ramp.
The Marines stood and grasped a metal handrail above their heads. The plane suddenly decelerated and dropped the last fifty feet to the ground like a gut-busting roller coaster.
Ten seconds later, the wheels touched the ground. Flaps and brakes rapidly slowed the plane to twenty miles per hour. The men fought the inertia that drove their bodies toward the front of the aircraft. The jumpmaster thrust his hand toward the gaping rear exit. A line of Marines ran out the back and leaped from the sides of the ramp into the dark African night. They rolled in controlled tumbles as their feet touched the fast-moving earth beneath them.
The last man, Colours Sergeant Smoot, came out of his roll and gave a thumbs-up to the jumpmaster, who watched him through night vision goggles from the ramp of the moving aircraft. The jumpmaster shoved the gear container, with their radios and extra equipment, down the length of the ramp, then raised the ramp back up to seal the rear of the plane.
The C-130’s engines roared as it rapidly accelerated. There was a tremendous explosion. A huge cloud of dust shot to a towering hundred feet into the dark night sky. An orange glow burst within the dust and the C-130 rocketed skyward in an almost vertical climb carried on six columns of bright yellow flame until it reached two thousand feet. The bright flame disappeared as the jet fuel in the JATO tanks burned off, leaving the Marines in utter darkness. The aircraft leveled off, and within less than one minute, the jungle was again shrouded in total silence.
The whole landing had lasted two minutes and four seconds.
Chapter 16
Lonnie Wyatt had driven about five miles up the Richardson Highway when her emotions overflowed the boundaries of self-control and rained down like a torrent on her. She pulled off the side of the road at a small turnout by Rectangle Lake. The lake, a popular swimming hole for local kids, was so named because it was roughly rectangular in shape. It had been dug by backhoe in the sixties as a floatplane landing strip for the homesteader who then owned it and the two hundred acres around it. In the blazing heat of the twenty-four-hour summer sun, when the short sunny season brought ninety-degree days, a two-acre beach that was later added was covered with blankets and picnic baskets.
Tonight, the lake was frozen solid to a depth of at least four feet. Virgin snow lay smooth and white across its vast flat surface, edged by tall, dark spruce trees spires pointed skyward. Intermittent sparkles of light flickered brilliantly, like tiny diamonds, as the curved motion of the glowing moon that swam across the sky sent a flash across the flat surface of a single snowflake that briefly reflected back a lunar twinkle.
Lonnie stared out at the expanse of snow. She had turned off the engine of the patrol car. The quiet of the wilderness wrapped her like a blanket. She rolled her windows down to let fresh air into the vehicle.
The cold air was crisp and invigorating as it entered her lungs. She took one deep breath, then, as she exhaled, broke down in heaving sobs. Tears welled in thick pools in her eyes. They quickly flowed over and poured in streams down her flushed cheeks.
“Yes, Marcus, you never let me down.” She wept the words. “Not once, but twice, I turned you away, then I left you for dead. I’m so sorry. Please don’t throw me away. Please, Marcus, give me another chance.”
Lonnie Wyatt cried with all her might. She wanted to curl up in a ball and vanish from the pain she now had to confront all over again.
A woman’s voice suddenly made her jump. “7-23, Dispatch.”
Trooper Wyatt instantly composed herself, cleared her throat, and picked the radio handset. “Dispatch, 7-23 copy”
“7-23, 7–4 requests immediate return to base. What is your ETA?”
“Dispatch, I am en route. My ETA is 35 minutes at base.”
“Copy 7-23, your ETA is 35 minutes at base. Dispatch out 1953.”
“7-23 out.”
Lonnie wiped the tears from her face, checked herself in the mirror, started the cruiser, and took off toward Fairbanks.
Thirty-five minutes later, Trooper Wyatt was in Commander Stark’s office. All signs of her emotional breakdown had faded. Her appearance was again crisp and ready. Stark wore the camouflage BDU uniform of the State SERT team — Alaska’s equivalent of a SWAT team made up of troopers, local police officers, and specially trained medical personnel. He was behind his desk when she entered, adjusting the sidearm that hung in a tactical holster on his right thigh.
“Wyatt,” said the commander. He looked up from what he was doing, “We have a break in the terrorist case. There were a couple of teenagers in the vacant lot where Nikola and Adem dropped the Blazer. They saw them go to a house about half a block away and talk to a man there, a Korean guy named Kim. The two suspects pulled out of Kim’s garage in a red Dodge Dakota and left the neighborhood. We checked into Mr. Kim and found that he only bought the house about eight months ago, with cash. He moved up here on a business visa in March, doing an import/export thing with local craftwork.”