A Ranger's Debt © by Robert M. Blacketer 1997
All Rights Reserved
WebPage by Jilli / Kubali
RESCUE MISSION
By: Robert M. Blacketer aka ^Writer
"Raining again," he muttered disgustedly as he quickly threw clothes into his duffel, packing hastily, for his flight left in two hours. Seemed like it always rained this time of year at camp Le June. After a moment's hesitation, he added his service .45 to the duffel. He'd worry alter about smuggling it aboard the plane later. Standing before the mirror, he saw a battered visage, short cropped gray hair, and a steely blue gaze that made even the toughest men step aside. Straightening the tie slightly on his class A's, he picked up the duffel and trudged through the light rain to the CO's office, as B Company of the Rangers fell in for morning inspection.
As he walked into the office he was hailed with a chorus of "Morning Gunny" from the remington raiders working there. This morning he barely grunted in response as he strode to Captain Springer's office, where he wrapped ceremonially on the door three times and at the bellowed "Enter" marched in and stood at rigid attention before the CO's desk, his gaze focused on the wall precisely six inches above the Captains head.
"Stand easy Gunny," Captain Springer said. "Why the sudden formality Chuck?"
Assuming parade rest he replied, "I came to request emergency leave sir."
"Just like that! No explanation?" Springer was irritated now. "Damn it Gunny, I said at ease and that's what I meant. we've been through too much together for you to pull this crap on me. Now grab a cup of coffee and sit down, and that is an order!" he snapped.
"Aye, Aye, sir," Master Gunnery Sergeant Charles L. Thomas said stiffly, before filling a mug with strong black coffee and perching on the edge of a chair, staring off into the distance.
"Okay chuck, this is Don you're talking to. Let's have it!" Captain Springer said compassionately. "Tell me why you are in such a hurry before I have to notice you've already packed and may be going AWOL."
Captain Springer was shocked to see the glint of tears in his old friend's eyes, as he looked up. "It's Kathy," the Gunny said. "She's disappeared. Ernie thinks she has gone to the city. She always did want to be an actress. Ernie called me last night."
At least part of the mystery cleared for Springer. Ernie Newman, Charlie Thomas and he had been enlisted men together during the Vietnam conflict. Ernie had been wounded, ultimately loosing his legs, while dragging in and saving the life of one Lance-corporal Thomas. Thomas had felt a debt to Newman, and a close friendship had developed. When Ernie married Thomas was best man, and when a child was born, became the doting uncle. Having no family of his own, Thomas had lavished all his love and affection on the little girl. When he managed to be stationed close he spent nearly every weekend at Ernie's. These last years, separated by duty assignments, they had grown somewhat apart, keeping in touch by writing sporadically.
"When does your plane leave," Springer asked, casting a casual eye at the duffel.
Thomas grinned wryly, "In about an hour and a half."
"We'd better hurry then," Springer grunted as he pulled a stack of forms to him, and quickly initialed the appropriate spaces of the blank emergency leave form. "Need a ride?"
"I was kind of hoping you would offer," Thomas said feelingly.
"Well what are you waiting for Marine," snapped Springer. "You've been on leave for the last two minutes!"
Getting past airport security had been a lot easier than he had thought. The heavy buckle of his dress uniform had camouflaged the weapon effectively. Besides, the rent a cop had been suitably impressed with all the stripes and hash marks on his sleeves, not to mention the fruit salad so liberally sprinkled on his left breast. Once on board he had gone to the head, and secreted it back in the duffel again. You carry anything you wanted off the plane as far as security was concerned.
The flight was long, bumpy, and uneventful. He managed to catch a little fitful sleep long the way. Seemed like he had finally just drifted off soundly, when the wheels touched down at City Airport.
His first stop was the police station, where he received all the cooperation he expected, that is to say none. They were too busy to worry themselves over one runaway girl. Barely restraining himself from teaching the surly desk sergeant some manners, he stalked out, shaking the dust off his feet.
Finding a cheap hotel was no problem and soon, dressed in civvies, he set out on his grim search of the lower districts. A private detective had traced her this far, before Ernie had run out of money. Tirelessly he walked the streets, looking intently into young old face after young old face, ever searching for Kathy.
For two weeks he haunted the streets and adult bookstores, questioning those who would talk, and few refused to answer the big bruiser with the ice blue eyes. A few thought they had seen a girl matching Kathy's description but none knew where she might be.
All the time his phone conversation with Ernie kept ringing in his ears, haunting him. "Bring back my little girl, Chuck. I gave my legs to bring you back, now you gotta be my legs and bring her back."
Turning into yet another sleazy little store, he had a stoke of luck. The owner had been showing a customer a set of Photos which he quickly put out of sight, but not quickly enough. Quick as thought Guny Thomas closed steel hard fingers around a soft wrist and effortlessly pulled the hand back; turning it over to dump the pictures on the counter. He casually, almost as an afterthought, slammed his elbow into the proprietors nose when he reached for a hidden gun. The photos were of young girls engaged in various sex acts, and one of them was unmistakably Kathy.
Grabbing the man by the collar, Thomas dragged him over the counter with one massive hand, and dumped him on the floor. The other customer having long since fled the scene, Thomas hung out the closed sign and locked the door.
"Now," he said in a voice that would have chilled the most combat hardened Marine, "you're going to tell me where you got those pictures."
Two hours later, Thomas once again stepped out onto the street. The interrogation had been more difficult than he had hoped, but the man had in the end been very cooperative indeed. One thing Guny Thomas had learned from the Vietcong was how to make a prisoner talk.
According to his informant, Kathy was staying at a crack house, about three blocs away. He claimed she was so strungout on crack that she would do anybody or anything to get more. He should have let it go at that, but he had to laugh in Thomas' face about it, taunting him about how good she was. That had been the last straw. He wouldn't hurt any more little girls.
Entering the crack house wasn't all that hard. Guny Thomas simply used a modified vertical envelopment and came in through the roof, taking out the sentries as he went, leaving them bound and gagged, where they might be found, eventually. The stench of the place offended his nostrils, as he descended from floor to floor like the shadow of a shadow.
He was about to try a door on the third floor when he thought he heard a familiar voice from behind it, raised in protest. A sharp smack cut the protest off in mid-sentence.
Throwing caution to the winds he smashed the door from its hinges, and strode into the room, .45 in hand. Swinging at a movement he instinctively fired at the gunman swinging a Uzi into action, and just as quickly brought the pistol back to cover the other occupants, a cameraman, and some assorted 'actors'.
Kathy lay sprawled across the bed, a red handprint on her face, wearing only a sheer white gown.
"Get up Kathy," he snapped in his parade ground voice.
Staggering to her feet she stared at him blearily unbelieving, "Uncle Chuck? What are you doing here?"
"I've come to get you baby," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"Why to take you home!"
"Ain't got no home," and she began to cry.
"Get out of here old man, before you get hurt," one of the men protested, putting his hand possesively on Kathy.
All Guny Thomas' anger and frustration erupted in uncontrollable rage. Bones crunched audibly as the massive scarred fist impacted with the mans face, knocking him back away from Kathy and flinging him to the floor where he lay motionless. Hearing the wail of sirens in the distance he scooped up a blanket he wrapped around Karen. Tossing her lightly over his shoulder he turned to the other occupants of the room.
"If I were you boys," he drawled slowly, "I'd haul ass out of here before the boys in blue arrive. Anybody follows me though, will wish he hadn't." Backing out the door, he raced up the stairs to the roof, and made his way to an adjacent building, and back to the street.
Strangely enough no one seemed to think it at all out of the ordinary to see a man carry a young girl over his shoulder, or perhaps it was the steely glint of the .45 in his belt, or the cold look in his eyes that turned their comments away.
Taking Kathy to his hotel room, he dumped her in the shower and turned on the cold water. She soon revived and started screaming bloody murder. "Get yourself cleaned up," he snapped, as he left her alone in there.
It was time to call Ernie now, but what was he going to say? Sure a rehab center would dry her out; but what then? Somehow he felt the trouble was only beginning. Kathy wasn't ten anymore.