Eagle's Claw

Eagle’s Claw

Copyright Christopher Slater

“I, Gordon Cunningham, do solemnly swear to faithfully execute the off of President of the United States and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.” Gordon Cunningham removed his hand from the Bible and shook hands with the Chief Justice that had just made his life-long dream come true. Turning to the crowd gathered for the inauguration, Cunningham took a moment to relish the applause. It was not the loudest ovation he had ever heard, but the thrill of success seemed to amplify the sound.

The race had been a hard one. What presidential election wasn’t? The liberals and conservatives both planned on extreme campaigns. Neither side planned on budging the slightest bit. That’s when the country turned its eyes to Gordon Cunningham. While all of the other candidates were yelling, screaming, and pointing fingers, Cunningham simply spoke to the camera as if he were explaining the problems to a friend. This, and his middle-of-the-road approach, quickly won him the Republican nomination.

The next few months’ campaigning almost made him lose his level-headed nature. But now, looking out at the crowd that was here to see him become their leader, he felt it was all worth it.

President Cunningham allowed his mind to wander as he delivered his speech. He didn’t need to concentrate on what he was saying. He had been planning this speech for the last forty-eight years. He looked over at the dignitaries on stage. General Lucas Stackhouse glanced his way and gave him a thumb-up. “That’ll be a great video byte for the news,” thought Cunningham. Everyone knew that the new President intended to appoint Stackhouse as the Chairman to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Cunningham scanned his audience. The sheer variety of people here was astounding. The idea that the Republicans were an upper-class white-only party went right out the window with Cunningham’s nomination. The different races, religions, and culture represented in the audience were not there as window dressing. They were honest supporters of the young politician.

Looking through the audience brought a smile to Cunningham’s face. One face in the crowd of thousands caught his attentions, and he did a double take. It couldn’t have been the same guy. It took a moment, but Cunningham found him again. The shock almost made him stammer in his speech. The tall, athletic African-American was sitting there attentively, like the rest of the audience. He was not doing anything that would draw the attention of the Secret Service detail. He was doing nothing threatening. That didn’t surprise Cunningham at all. The threat from the man names Scipio Africanus Morgan was not one of assassination. His was a threat of association.

President Cunningham stopped in the hallway for a moment to ponder the fact that this was his new home. He had spent more than enough time in the White House during his political career, but something was different this time. Now it was his.

A polite cough behind him brought Cunningham back to reality. He walked with his companion into the Oval Office and the door was closed. The President noticed that he was in a room filled with complete silence for the first time in what seemed like years. “I never realized how wonderful a little peacefulness can be,” muttered Cunningham.

General Stackhouse grinned at his long-time friend. “Odd. After seeing the look on your face at the inauguration, I would have expected you to have an applause track installed in here.”

Cunningham heaved a heavy sigh. “Lucas, I hate to start off my administration with surprises. What the hell was Morgan doing there?”

General Stackhouse looked at the President as if he had lost his mind. “Sir, he owes you a lot. What’s wrong with him being here for your crowning achievement?”

“What’s wrong with him being there?” Cunningham realized his voice was rising and fought to calm down. “He could get me impeached on my first day in office just by his very presence. All we need is some ambitious reporter to connect me with Scipio Morgan.” He sat down in one of the plush chairs and began drinking a cup of coffee.

Stackhouse sat down across from him. “Gordon, General Morgan is an officer of the U.S. Marine Corps who went to see his Commander-in-Chief’s inauguration. Boy! I can just see the headlines now! ‘Marine Corps Decides to Support America’. Dear Lord, help us all! Who will be the next to make such a bold move? The Air Force?”

Cunningham resisted the urge to throw something at his friend. “At least not all Marines aren’t smart asses, you overgrown G.I. Joe.” He sipped absentmindedly at his coffee for a moment. “I know that I chose to do this for the right reasons. I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the butt.” Stackhouse didn’t reply. He was hoping it wouldn’t bite him either.

Six years earlier

The sun could be a man’s worst enemy. It seemed like nature was out to prove that idea decisively. The temperature had already reached 93 degrees, and it was only 10 a.m. Couple this with 85% humidity, and you had the makings of a real summer scorcher.

The oppressive heat never intruded on the thoughts of Colonel Scipio Morgan. He had spent too much of his life learning to ignore discomfort. He was taught that discomfort was nothing but childish whining from your body. Colonel Morgan lived in a man’s world, and there was no room for childish whining. He shot a stern glare at one of his men that was about to smack a mosquito that was biting his arm. The offending soldier gave a shy smile and continued his slow advance, the mosquito bite still irritating his arm.

Colonel Morgan double-checked his wrist mounted GPS. They were a half-mile from their target. There were sure to be patrols nearby. Even the slight smack necessary to squash a mosquito could have alerted these patrols. Colonel Morgan made a mental note to chew some butt for the intended transgression when this was all over.

The Marine Colonel looked around their present position. They were in a heavily wooded area with thick undergrowth. It was the middle of the summer, so making a noise by stepping on fallen leaves was unlikely. The biggest problem for Morgan and his eight-man assault squad was the limited line of sight afforded by the trees. They would have to be almost on top of an enemy patrol before they could open fire on them. By the same token, an enemy patrol would almost have to trip over him and his men before they even discovered they were there.

The woods remained thick until Morgan’s squad was within 200 yards of their target. That’s the problem with concealing forward airfields, thought Morgan for the fourth time in as may minutes. It may be hard to find the field, but it’s ten times harder for them to see us coming. Up ahead lay his target- a forward airfield that the enemy had been using for hit-and-run tactics for three days. The little A-37 Dragonfly attack planes and the old UH-1 Huey helicopters had been airborne platforms from which the enemy had attacked with impunity. The airfield consisted only of a single, roughly paved runway, a small prefab barracks and HQ, and a radio shed, all surrounded by a flimsy chain link fence. The aircraft sat in the open, along with several old jeeps and fuel trucks.

Morgan would have considered this a cakewalk, but he knew better. Despite the poor facilities, the enemy knew how important this airfield was. The number of security troops there to guard the field actually outnumbered the remaining population of the base. Thirty well-armed and –trained guards were there to make sure that a group like Morgan’s didn’t succeed in their mission.

Morgan wondered if the enemy knew that they would loose their base because the number of guards had increased to thirty-three?

Checking his watch, Colonel Scipio Africanus Morgan, USMC, prepared for battle. Flicking the safety off of his M-4 assault rifle, he selected three round burst. He placed his hand on the transmit button and whispered into his throat mike, “Alpha, execute.”