True Allegiance

The explosion of his suicide vest blasted outward, through the cabin, into the enormous gas tank. Before anyone could react, six thousand gallons of fiery gasoline spewed into the center of the market. Troops rushed to the scene to find hundreds of burning human beings crying out for relief, the charred flesh of children smoking in the streets. The troops sprang into action, trying to administer aid, trying to save lives. They’d been hamstrung by the administration when it came to killing terrorists, but at least they could help victims. Dozens and dozens of troops rushed to the site.

They never saw the second truck, parked near a fruit stand.

Until it exploded.

Men and women screamed as white-hot shrapnel blew through their bodies. Brett could hear it all the way from the embassy. It was a classic technique, and Brett knew he should have seen it coming: use a first bombing as a magnet for help, then hit with a larger second bomb, taking out the relief force. He silently cursed himself.

“All troops back to the embassy, fall back to the embassy,” he shouted at his aide. “They’re coming…”

That’s when Brett saw it.

Approaching slowly but steadily, bouncing along the poorly paved road, a white van. The big black letters “UN” marked its side.

The driver’s mouth moved in a silent whisper. Over and over, over and over.

Allahu akbar.

The explosion rocked the building, blowing Brett off his feet, grabbing his lungs and squeezing the air out of them. He struggled to his knees as streams of Taliban fighters sprinted through the gaping, flaming hole in the fence.

Brett had just enough time to marvel in grim admiration at the planning—the Taliban had obviously infiltrated dozens of fighters into the nearby homes. And it wasn’t just the fighters in the streets: women and children had now occupied the square, and were throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at the embassy, providing civilian cover for the Taliban. If the Americans opened fire, they’d be blamed for a massacre.

When Brett turned back to give his men orders, he saw the ambassador in the corner, cowering under a desk, clutching his briefcase to his chest. He was screaming at Brett in his high-toned, Boston Brahmin accent, “Your job is to keep me safe! So do your goddamn job!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brett said.

The coldness in his tone stunned the ambassador into silence. Then, an odd, keening noise emanated from his mouth. It rose higher and higher, louder and louder.

So Brett punched him in the mouth. Not hard. Just enough to stun him.

“Get your pansy ass onto the roof right now,” he said, slowly, glaring.

Now, Feldkauf nodded. Brett motioned, and the Marines pouring into the compound formed a phalanx around the ambassador, whose eyes had gone blank with fright and shock. The group moved toward the staircase.

The helicopter pad was on the roof. It was already overloaded—every staffer with an ounce of brains had rushed to the roof after the fence came down. Brett flashed back to the old videos of the last helicopter leaving Saigon, with all the wailing civilians attempting to climb onto the landing skids. Feldkauf took one look at the crowded helicopter, filled with civilian staffers.

Then he pointed at one woman. She was crying. “Off!” he cried. “I’m the ambassador.”

She was crying, too. “Mr. Ambassador,” Brett said, “we can get you out another way.”

“Screw that!” Feldkauf was nearing hysterics again. “That’s my helicopter, and I’m getting on it! And I’m in charge!”

The woman got off the helicopter, sobbing.

From the street, the noise rose, then fell silent. Her sobs echoed in the quiet, along with the whop-whop-whop of the chopper blades.

Brett moved to help the woman when the bullet struck her in the throat, tearing it open. She looked up at him, blood gurgling onto the roof. The blood pumped out, slowly. She tried to speak, grabbed Brett’s hand hard. Then her eyes went cold.

Brett hit the deck as bullets began taking down the people on the roof, one by one. “Move toward the center of the roof,” he yelled. “They can only spot you from the street.”

The helicopter rotors went transparent, and the machine began to take off. Brett caught Feldkauf’s eyes. If I see you again, you son of a bitch, Brett thought, I’ll make you pay for that. But Feldkauf didn’t see him. He was too busy smiling, a trickle of blood spilling down his split lower lip.

Brett heard the alarm go off. The compound had been breached.

“Men, gather up!” Brett shouted.