by Myke Cole
“Make them move where?”
“You’ll see.”
Sharp nodded. “All right, sir. When does this pop off?”
“Tomorrow’s their big celebration, right? Their national Army Day or something?”
Sharp thought about it for a moment and nodded again. “All right, they’ll be distracted and busy. We’ll be out on the pitch for our grudge match.
“That’s when we get out of here.”
Bookbinder barely slept that night. He was up at dawn, pacing the pavilion, waiting for his escort to arrive. He watched the tower’s base, willing his eyes to see through it. At some point, Indian officers would round that tower to fetch him away. Would it be Captain Ghaisas, coming to fetch him for another round of cricket? Or would it be Brigadier Hazarika and another day of ensorcelling Ajathashatru’s weaponry? Panic and elation warred in his gut.
At long last, two khaki uniforms appeared around the tower’s base, naga guards in tow. Bookbinder froze, staring hard as the men hove into view. One of them wore epaulets and Bookbinder strained to make them out. At long last he did.
Three gold suns. Ghaisas. Bookbinder swallowed hard and nodded to Sharp. The sergeant nodded back and said nothing.
Ghaisas saluted, grinning. “Today is a very special cricket match, sir.”
Bookbinder cocked an eyebrow. “Why’s that?” But his stomach was doing somersaults. He hadn’t forgotten about the promised grudge match.
“Today is Army Day that I told you about. So we are having our grudge match, and we are not taking it easy on you, Colonel! Very tough cricket match.” He smiled fiercely.
Bookbinder laughed. “Well, in honor of your holiday, I suppose we’ll try to lose with as much grace as possible.”
They headed through the plaza toward the main gate in the ring wall. Bookbinder motioned to Sharp to keep close by. The sergeant matched his pace, his face blank.
The Indian encampment was festive. Pennants flapped from staves shoved into the muddy lanes that intersected between the Indian tents, proudly displaying the regimental arms of the various units making up the Indian presence on the FOB. The red Indian Army flag, white swords crossed below white lions, was everywhere. Soldiers chatted happily around grill fires. He saw more than one dress uniform, starched jackets, red silk turbans, white feathers. They looked ridiculously out of place among the mud and tents.
Ghaisas was true to his word. The Indians did not take it easy this time. They put all the Americans on one team, then proceeded to crush that team, despite Dhatri and Jivan’s valiant efforts to save them. For the first time, the crowd of Indians cheered loudly as the team hosting the Americans was defeated, and Bookbinder smiled along with them, seeing it for what it was, national pride. Only Stanley Britton seemed irritated by losing, throwing himself into the game with a ferocity that did not match his skill. Bookbinder played worse and worse as his impatience grew. His eyes kept returning to the turret on the ring wall closest to the pitch. He played on, waiting. The naga didn’t appear. His heart sank. The Portamancer had been opening gates for resupply on a daily basis since he’d arrived. Maybe the holiday had delayed the daily occurrence?
He turned back to the game just as Jivan scooped up the ball and threw it hard at the stumps, knocking them down and saving their team from a more miserable trouncing than they’d have suffered otherwise. With that last dismissal, the teams came to the center of the pitch, clapping and shaking hands as they switched sides.
Bookbinder heard the rumble of trucks. He turned. The Portamancer had appeared on the balcony, hands spread lightly over the parapet. Bookbinder took an instinctive step toward it, then stopped himself. He wasn’t going to be able to get closer to the point of making a difference. He dabbed at his eye and waved to Ghaisas as he stepped off the pitch, as close to the turret as he dared, sitting this round out. Another Indian soldier raced in to play for him. Bookbinder sized up the side of one of the Indian trucks parked closest to the field, eyeing its large, enclosed cargo bed.
The trucks pulled to a stop, freshly washed, with the Indian Army flag fluttering brightly from their antennae. The Portamancer spread its arms wide and Drew its magic to open the gate. Bookbinder strained toward it, summoning his own current.
The naga had to be Binding the magic to the air just before the Indian convoy at this very moment. But he could feel nothing.
Maybe the distance was too far? Maybe he was having an off day? It didn’t matter. He looked at the truck bed, so close and yet so useless, and swallowed his disappointment.
And then he felt it. A flicker, a tiny tendril of the naga Portamancer’s magic, deep and sonorous, transporting.
Now or never, all in. Bookbinder yanked his own flow, surging it through him with everything he had, sending it to latch on to that tiny flicker of the Portamancer’s current. For a moment it slipped, and he worried that he’d missed the opportunity. The gate slid open before the trucks, huge and shimmering.
And then Bookbinder’s magic caught. He hauled hard on the naga’s flow, feeling the Portamancer spin in the turret, many pairs of eyes searching for the thief siphoning off its magic.
He felt his own body suffuse with the double magical load, puffed up and strained, fit to burst. He turned and bound hard to the truck bed. The metal side vanished. In its place was the shimmering static of a gate. Beyond it, he could see asphalt and rows of trucks. The Home Plane, in India probably, but home nonetheless.
“Sharp! Go!” he shouted, breaking into a run. “Everybody through there right now! Gogogo!”
Sharp and Archer motioned to Stanley and all three broke into a run. Woon hesitated for a brief moment, then followed, all pelting as hard as they could for the shimmering gate that now flickered in the side of the truck. The Indians stood stunned, trying to understand what was happening.
But only for a moment. Shouts erupted from all around them as their hosts moved to intercept.
Bookbinder hoped a moment was enough. Ghaisas threw himself in Sharp’s path, but the sergeant brought his elbow up across the captain’s face without breaking stride, sending him sprawling in the dust.
The Indians lounging in the truck had leapt backward as the truck’s bed became a gate, but they now raced forward in front of it, trying to cut off the Americans’ escape. Woon reached forward without slowing and the ground bucked, sending the men flying, leaving the truck rock steady.
Stanley was the first to jump through, the gate’s light washing over his back as he thudded out onto the asphalt surface on the other side. Sharp and Archer took up positions to either side, crouching, ready to fight. Woon was slower, nicely hurdling an Indian solider who dove at her and crunching down hard on the back of his hand before reaching the gate and passing through it. Bookbinder felt a hand grab his elbow, and spun to see Dhatri’s face frowning up at him, anger and betrayal scrawled across it. He yanked on Bookbinder’s arm, checking his run. His eyes were wide, the expression reading, How could you do this to us?
Bookbinder spun and brought his knee up into the subedar major’s crotch. Shaking his arm free. “I am not going to let my people die,” he snarled, as the man sank to his knees. “Not for anyone!”
And then he turned and raced through the gate, Archer and Sharp turning and following close behind. At long last, shots rang out behind them, rounds churning the ground and thudding into the truck’s frame. Bookbinder skidded to a halt on the asphalt surface of what looked like a military parade ground, ringed with low buildings. He rolled his magic back, the gate sliding shut as his tide dissipated. Only then did he look up and make a quick check of his team. They stood around him, winded and puffing, but unharmed. The sense of the Home Plane washed over him, disappointing in its muted quality. Everything was . . . less here, the glow of the sunlight, the smells of engine oil and human sweat, the sound of Woon gasping for air beside him.
A long line of trucks stood before him, piled high with cargo, Indian soldiers standing in shock to either side. A banner strung ove
r the plaza showed the Indian Army flag, with writing beneath it in Sanskrit, Chinese, and English. india sahir welcomes shanghai cooperative organization partners to army day!
A large stand of bleachers had been set up alongside the plaza, presumably to watch the gate open. It was crowded with Indian officers, but Bookbinder noted a few others in the press; Chinese sorcerers in long, traditional robes, officers from another Asian country in dark, tiger-striped camouflage. He spotted a redheaded man with the Russian flag stitched to his shoulder. All gaped at Bookbinder and his team openmouthed.
For a moment, everyone stood, frozen. Most of the men were in dress uniforms and unarmed, but a few armed soldiers ringed the plaza. They raised their weapons tentatively, then lowered them, unsure of what to do.
Bookbinder sucked in a breath and mustered all the command he could. “We are Americans!” he shouted. “We demand to be taken to the office of our defense attaché or the nearest US embassy immediately!”
He picked out the closest Indian officer, judging by his dark green epaulets. “Do any of you speak English?” Bookbinder shouted again as he approached. “We are Americans, and . . .”
“I speak English,” the officer answered him. “And now you are being detained.”
The paralysis broke, and the Indians surged forward, taking hold of Bookbinder and his team, binding their hands behind them.
Chapter XXIV
Homeward Bound
Hurricane season used to be our big mobilization time, but good Hydromancy and Aeromancy pretty much put paid to that. Add in the legalization of marijuana, and we were nearly a service without a mission. Then the Bosporus Incident blew up, and the navy had a ton of egg on its face. They didn’t have the authority to operate against what turned out to be US citizens. But we do. Globally, there are seven major maritime choke points that threaten US trade on the high seas. Guess who keeps ’em open now? I’ll give you hint. It ain’t the Navy.
—Chief Warrant Officer 4 Janice Heligg, Skipper,
United States Coast Guard Cutter Hammerhead
Detention by the Indians wasn’t all that different from being guests of the Naga Raja. Bookbinder and his team were ushered into one of the low, aluminum-sided buildings that ringed the plaza. The inside was featureless save for a stack of gray folding chairs and a single long folding table. Cinder-block walls had been painted a sick shade of yellow. Bookbinder cracked a smile.
The thought that the military was the military, even here on the other side of the world, amused him.
They were released from their bonds, and two guards were posted in the room’s single entrance, not that they would try to escape anyway. Where would they go? They were in the middle of what Bookbinder guessed was the nerve center of the Indian military’s magic-using arm. Food and water was brought by a couple of troopers, all of whom Bookbinder guessed had been carefully chosen for their inability to speak English.
And then the waiting began.
“They’re going to put us right back through that gate,” Stanley groused.
“I don’t think so,” Bookbinder said. “If they were going to do that, I figure they’d have done it already. Every second they delay, it’s going to be more of a problem.”
He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of Woon, Sharp, and Archer. “I had to do it,” he found himself saying.
“This wasn’t about impatience. Ajathashatru would never have let us go. That shell game would have gone on forever.”
Sharp didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. Woon cracked a smile. “That was balls to the wall, sir. I can’t believe you did that.”
Bookbinder discovered he was smiling in spite of himself.
For all he knew, he’d just created an international incident as well as an interplanar one. He kept telling himself that time was on their side, but that didn’t stop him from expecting the guards to haul them out of this room and toss them back through a gate at any moment. “Honestly? I can’t believe I did it either.”
“You stole the naga Portamancer’s magic, Bound it into that truck,” Woon said.
Bookbinder nodded. “I wish I could control where it went. I guess this is where the naga was opening the gate. Would have been a lot easier if he’d been opening it on Washington.”
After a few hours, an Indian man in a suit entered the room.
He was tall and good-looking, his hair military-short and his face clean-shaven.
He carried a pen, notebook and handheld digital recorder. He smiled at them. “Colonel Bookbinder, I presume,” he said in perfect English. “You gave us all quite a scare.”
Bookbinder was expecting this. He stood. “That’s nice. Neither myself, nor any member of my team has anything to say to you.”
The man frowned, managing to look surprised and wronged at the same time. “There’s no need for that, sir. I’m not here to interrogate you.”
“Are you a duly authorized agent of the United States government?”
Bookbinder asked.
The man smiled and spread his arms.
“Then we’re not talking to you.” He turned and faced his team. “As your commanding officer I am ordering you on pain of an article fifteen at a minimum not to speak to any foreign national. Not a single word until I say otherwise. You will only speak to the US consul or defense attaché. Everyone clear on that?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison, even Stanley.
He turned back to the Indian, who was already speaking.
“Sir, this isn’t necessary. As I said, this isn’t an interrogation. I just have a few basic questions so that I can . . .”
Bookbinder stabbed a finger at his chest. “Not. One. Word. If you’re going to use torture, you better get started. But keep in mind that we’re going to resist with everything we have. US consul or defense attaché.” He took a step closer and did his best impression of Colonel Taylor. “We’re done here.”
The Indian’s face became equally serious and angry. Under the diplomatic smile was the expression of a man clearly not used to being disobeyed. “Very well,” he said, and left.
Bookbinder turned back to his team. They met his eyes with varying degrees of uncertainty, but at least they had the respect not to say anything. Once he’d called the anger, it was difficult to dismiss, and he paced the room for a full hour, before his head had cooled enough for him to realize the butterflies in his stomach were competing with hunger, exhaustion, and an almost overwhelming urge to pee.
Well, Julie, bunny, at least I’m back on the same plane as you. That’s a start, right?
The idea gave him comfort through the hours that followed.
He stared at his wedding band, toying with it as he lost track of how long they waited. Twenty-four hours? Maybe twice that long? He lost count of how many times the guards were rotated.
There were no more visits. No one brought food or water, no one checked on them. They simply sat, slumped in their chairs, not speaking. A part of Bookbinder yelled at him to search the room, to try to find another avenue for escape. But he was an empty cup. He had risen as far as he could to the task at hand.
He had led them this far. It was either enough, or it wasn’t. He was done.
He found himself slumped over one of the folding chairs, his sore ass reporting that he had fallen asleep in it, when the door finally opened again. He squinted, shading his eyes against the bright daylight streaming in from outside, silhouetting another man in a suit.
Bookbinder stirred, working the kinks out of his lower back.
“I thought I told you, we’re not going to . . .”
“Colonel Bookbinder, sir?” the man said. He had sandy blond hair and a slight Midwestern accent. An American flag was pinned neatly to his lapel. “I’m Paul Krieger from the US embassy. I’m here to take custody of you.”
Bookbinder only stared, suddenly noticing that the guards were gone. Woon let out a short bark of a laugh. Sharp and Archer stood and dusted themselves off, all business, Stanley close
behind.
“I don’t believe . . .” Bookbinder finally managed.
Krieger grinned. “You tumbled through that gate in front of visiting dignitaries from half a dozen countries, all of whom have relationships with us. The naga might be nasty in the Source, but the US Navy is nasty right off the coast. It wasn’t exactly a hard sell. There’s a chopper waiting for us outside. Let’s go.”
Bookbinder pressed his face up against the tiny window of the Greyhound airplane as the catapult whipped it forward. The thrust briefly pressed Bookbinder back into his seat, but a moment later he was back at the window, watching the deck of the carrier Gerald R. Ford disappear behind them. He glanced around at the rest of his team. Only Stanley was awake, his eyes locked on the C–2A’s closed rear hatch. Sharp, Archer, and Woon were fast asleep.
Bookbinder couldn’t blame them. He’d barely slept since the same aircraft whisked them off the Indian base to the waiting carrier. Thus far, they’d been more closely guarded by their own countrymen than by the Indians. A doctor silently examined them, asking no questions and telling them nothing. Six MPs and a Suppressor stood by, keeping them confined to the carrier’s bridge until the plane was ready to launch again. The team huddled together, feeling alien back on their Home Plane and closer to one another. Bookbinder thought briefly of asking to contact his family, but decided against it. Sooner or later, they would be questioned, and that would be the time for answers and requests. Yelling at enlisted MPs wouldn’t do him any good.
Besides, he promised himself that no matter how it twisted in his gut, his family would wait. They were safe. His FOB wasn’t.
First things first.
Bookbinder eventually dozed himself, waking only when the Greyhound touched down on a smooth and well-maintained flight line abutted by rows of waving palm trees. The plane finally came to a shuddering stop before a sign depicting a blue shield broken by a waving gold chevron. ubon royal thai air force base welcomes the wolf pack! it read. Thailand, Bookbinder thought. How can someplace so exotic seem so mundane to me now? But after the intensity of every sensation in the Source, he figured the Vegas Strip would be an anticlimax.
