Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  The SMART truck pulled up to the TAV. An airman ran out and attached a wire from the truck to the craft, grounding the TAV by bringing it to the same electric potential as the truck, circumventing any chance of having a spark arc during the maintenance and subsequent refueling.

  Gould pulled his flight briefcase out of the hatch and made his way to the crew van that had pulled up alongside the TAV. Delores caught up with him as he entered the van and signaled with her eyes for him to join her in the back. Gould scooted into the back seat; Delores sat in front of him, turning around to face him as the van started up.

  “Thanks.”

  He shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”

  “They would have taken me off flight status until the emergency was investigated. And with the shortage of maintenance personnel, it might have been months before the incident was cleared up.”

  “You passed the check ride, so you didn’t have anything to worry about. The emergency, if there was one, was entirely a judgment call. Look, Delores, this isn’t UPT. We’re not quite as Mickey-Mouse as ATC out here, but you’ve still got to cover your six. If you screw the pooch up there and don’t execute successfully, you’re gone. Period. No questions asked.

  “But on the other hand, if you jump the gun, like calling an emergency too early and the emergency doesn’t pan out, then that’s just as good as messing up. Colonel Mathin will transfer you out of here so fast your head will spin. He can’t afford to have TAV pilots who are too timid to put their life on the line. But he also can’t afford to have TAV pilots who end up killing themselves. You have to toe a fine line flying these babies. And today it looks like you passed the first test.” Gould sat back in the seat and stared out the van window.

  Delores was quiet for some time before saying, “Uh, thanks.…” Her voice trailed off.

  He just nodded. “Don’t worry. Now that you’ve qualified on the TAV you’ll start pulling alert with the rest of us soon enough. I guarantee you’ll be bored stiff after the first week of waiting around.”

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  “Mr. President, I really think you ought to reconsider. If you go on this trip without stopping in the UK, it would be a slap in the face to their Labor Party. Especially when you consider the campaign support they gave you.” The White House chief of staff, Manuel Baca, stood rigidly in front of President Montoya’s desk.

  Sandoval Montoya—forty-sixth President of the United States of America, youngest son of Ronaldo Montoya, and father of three daughters—sat unyielding and scowled. In the two years of his presidency, Baca, his chief of staff, had buffered him to an unheard-of extent. Slowly but surely President Montoya was beginning to feel his power erode.

  He no longer made decisions; instead, he reacted to recommendations. Recommendations that were brought in by his chief of staff and sanitized into something that Montoya would think was acceptable. And it wasn’t just here, in the Oval Office. It was everything in his life—even Rosanna had the girls present their plans to him like an over studied, overstaffed GAO behemoth. He couldn’t return home to Santa Fe without his itinerary being inspected throughout the bureaucracy.

  Well, it just wasn’t acceptable! He tapped his fingertips together and spoke quietly. Honed to perfection while he was governor of New Mexico, it was the little power game he played that forced people to listen. And once he had them straining to hear what he was saying, he had them.

  “Manuel”—he drew out the vowels—“we have to remember why we’re going; I just don’t have time to stop in the UK.” He counted off points on his fingers. “One, the Brits don’t really care if we show up or not. They’ve got their own supply of oil, so what we do doesn’t matter to them anymore. The Labor Party is such a small minority in Parliament that it wouldn’t make any difference if we gave them Texas; they’d still buy oil on the open market.

  “Two, I’ve gone over two years in a row. I’ve got to appease both Russia and Israel. If I don’t, I’ll lose any influence I have left.

  “Three, Israel’s going to fall, and soon, if we don’t pump that money into their economy. The Arab Liberated Hegemony is poised on their borders with everything but the kitchen sink. All the ALH is looking for is an excuse to attack. And if we treat Israel the same way we did Mexico, we’re going to lose a lot of damned fine people.”

  Baca stared at Montoya, incredulous. “But Mr. President, you yourself know how touchy that would be—remember why you were elected. And keep Mexico out of this. If you try to equate the Israeli situation to what happened to Mexico, it’s over for you.”

  Yes, I remember, thought Montoya. If it wasn’t for the widespread sympathy to “Let Mexicans Rule Mexico,” I wouldn’t be here now.

  After Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Panama had been “liberated,” the American public started to get alarmed only when the rebellion in Mexico had reared its ugly head. But as before, the well-orchestrated propaganda from the revolutionary-left presented the United States the slogan: “Let Mexicans Rule Mexico!”

  Years of bigotry—treating Mexicans as “little brown brothers from the South”—and uncontrolled corporate greed had fueled the sentiment that the United States should leave well enough alone. The epidemic reached proportions unheard of in the past, outsoaring the anti-American sentiments reverberating from the rest of Latin America. And as a result, once the flow of émigrés started flooding the southern U.S., many Americans openly defied the new immigration policy. Quarter was given to any illegal alien, and support for this activity was openly sanctioned.

  The previous administration had felt the heat from the conservative element to “do something and do it now, damn it!” And even the more moderate pro-Western nations lifted their brows in concern. Mexico was violently turning socialistic, and it seemed that nothing could stop it.

  So in anticipation of an aggressive regime inheriting Mexico, the previous President ordered an assault on Mexico City. The purpose: install as titular head a native Mexican friendly to the U.S. (although her Harvard education was widely blown up in the press), and generally give the Mexican constabulary time to secure a stable government.

  The assault failed. Network coverage by U.S. journalists brought the fighting closer than ever before to the American home. Iraq and Afghanistan were no comparison: Live footage of Americans sweeping through Mexico City’s streets, felling nine-year-old snipers, tore at America’s gut. Within three days the resounding cry of “Come home!” permeated the nation. “Let Mexicans Rule Mexico!”

  So strong was the sentiment that outspoken attacks on the President resulted in the outright capitulation of American troops. This was no “peace with honor”; the troops retreated with their tails between their legs. The American military was pared to the bone, and a new national feeling of isolationism became the norm. It had been two years since Montoya rode to power, but he still appealed to everyone who had any sympathy at all for the Mexican’s dilemma.

  Yes, Montoya remembered well. He couldn’t afford to let public appeal falter. Especially since—one month to the day after he took office—he was present in Mexico City when the Socialist People’s Democracy of Mexico declared that the United States of America would no longer be blacklisted; they would be treated as any other country and be given the right to barter for Mexico’s oil on the world market.

  So for the first time in fifteen years the United States would not have to buy Mexican oil on the black market. Once again, gasoline was plentiful. And cheap. President Montoya was tied too closely to Mexico to forget.

  Montoya spoke firmly. “I remember, but Israel may still go the same way as Mexico.” Montoya melted down his Chief-of-staff’s gaze and punched at his intercom. “Judy, continue to make arrangements for the trip to Russia and Israel on Air Force One. We’ll be leaving three months from today. Manuel will be out shortly with the itinerary.”

  He removed his finger from the button and settled back in his chair. He folded his hands and studied Baca. Things have changed the past
few years, thought Montoya. Here is my most influential advisor—my friend—and this wrestling match we play at gets more serious all the time.

  After some moments Montoya finally said, “Let me know what you propose I do about the trip.”

  “Yes, sir.” Baca turned and left the room. As he left Montoya tapped his fingers together, satisfied that this round had come out in his favor.

  Camp Pendleton, California

  Gunnery Sergeant David Balcalski was drunk. So drunk, in fact, that when he left the bar to go to the bathroom, he couldn’t find his zipper. He looked—he searched the entire bathroom, on his knees under each stall, and on top of each toilet—but he … just … couldn’t … find it.

  And of all the times to lose his zipper, this had to be the worst. Swigging pitchers of beer since noon had left him feeling very uncomfortable indeed. He thought he was going to pop.

  So Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski, thirty-one-year gyrene veteran, went in his pants. And it felt so good, he went again.

  Balcalski staggered out of the bathroom and looked blearily around the room. A khaki flash caught his eyes. “Hey, Gunny … over here.” One of Balcalski’s drinking buddies was a blur at the end of the bar, waving Balcalski to join them.

  Balcalski lurched out and made a headstrong effort to go nowhere in particular. He stumbled out into the hot desert, and the fresh air nearly floored him. The sunlight was almost unbearable. Squinting, he started to weave his way back to the Top Three Quarters—normally a five-minute walk from the NCO Club—but taking the path Balcalski was inventing, he would probably get there around sunset. If he was lucky.

  But he didn’t worry. In the three years he’d been at Pendleton, he hadn’t been lost once. At least not for very long. In his thirty-one years of marchin’, gruntin’, spittin’, and polishin’, he’d been at Pendleton about ten years altogether. The place brought back memories to him, but right at this moment he couldn’t exactly remember what those memories were.

  Nor did he care.

  On impulse he took a sudden left and within fifty feet found himself in front of the Top Three Barracks. Originally built as the bachelor officer’s quarters, the Top Three offered a little more luxury in the way of “goodies” than an ordinary barracks would have. And through his drunken haze Balcalski looked forward to one of those goodies: a bath that he could lounge in without having to worry about a roommate with which to share it.

  He staggered up the wooden stairs and found himself looking in the eyes of a second lieutenant. Balcalski jerked to attention and almost fell backward off the stairs. The lieutenant reached out and steadied him. Balcalski grew red in the face. “How do you do, sir? I’m sorry—”

  “So today’s your birthday, Gunny.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, sir. And I’m on leave, sir.…only time I take leave this time of year, sir—”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. General Vandervoos sent me to request that you stop over tomorrow morning and meet your new CO.”

  Balcalski started to sober up. “Colonel Krandel? But sir, he’s not supposed to be here until after the weekend.”

  “That’s right. He wanted to get a jump on things and requested that you meet with him tomorrow morning.” He looked the grizzled sergeant up and down. “I suggest you try and get over whatever it is that you’ve been doing. And, if you don’t mind”—the implication was clear—“do Colonel Krandel the honor of cutting your leave short and showing up tomorrow morning. Don’t bother with the morning run; the reception’s at 0700 in the staff room. Of course, General Vandervoos can’t order you off leave for this, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Like hell I understand, he thought. I’m probably twice as old as this kid, but he understands just as well as I: When the marines say jump, you don’t argue about whether jumping is legal or not, you ask how high.

  The lieutenant smiled, but before he left he nodded toward the growing stain at Balcalski’s crotch. “And don’t forget to change your pants, Sergeant. Wouldn’t want to break out in a rash down there.”

  “Yes, sir. Good evening, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Gunny. It’s only sixteen-thirty.”

  “Yes, sir. Good afternoon, sir.” Balcalski turned as the lieutenant left, fumbled for his keys, and let himself in.

  Struggling out of his pants, he held the trousers up. Crap, he thought. No wonder I couldn’t find the damn zipper—my pants have buttons.

  Do’brai

  Hujr ibn-Adi squatted in the twilight by the outside corner of the temple. He played with two small silver coins, nervously moving them around in his hands. The coins scratched together, grinding dirt into fine sand. Children cried shrilly to one another over the din of merchants closing their hutches. Late night at the market; it brought back a flood of memories.

  It was hot in Do’brai—the humidity never got above five percent, and the dry wind seemed to sap the life out of you. He adjusted his keffiyeh to sop up the sweat that stood at his brow.

  Hujr waited for the late-night bazaar to close before moving past the temple. This place where he used to roam as a child now signaled greater things to him. It was not yet time to reveal himself to those who called him home. He didn’t want to tip his hand and make the fact known too early that he was here. Even though he felt the majority of the Do’brainese were behind him, there were spies in the walls, and those who would turn him in for the money on his head. He spat to the side, thinking of the bounty levied by the imperialistic countries. They would leave him alone if they weren’t prodded by the United States.

  The years in Yemen, training with the Arab Liberated Hegemony, had instilled the lessons well. How many others could boast of infiltrating the Philippine hierarchy? Adept coolness was his trademark in assassination. His three hits and one maiming were textbook examples of terrorism, used and quoted by the Jihad.

  Hujr was caught between worlds. Loathing the Filipino features inherited from his mother, he unhesitatingly used the distinctly un-Arabic features to further the thrust of the ALH. His father, a career diplomat from Do’brai, had met and married his mother while assigned to the Do’brainese embassy in Manila twenty-six years before. Moving his family when he became Do’brai’s ambassador to Egypt, Hujr’s father was caught in the crossfire of the military coup and was found in a deserted prison, hours after the coup had failed. His father’s eye sockets were blackened holes, burned out by torches in interrogation; his fingers, when pried open from his fist, had dug through his hand to the bone during the questioning.

  Hujr still shook with rage at the thought of his father’s torture. Running away from home, he turned to the only organization in the region that promised to help him get the revenge he so desperately wanted on his father’s killers. The Arab Liberated Hegemony transcended all geographical boundaries. Fueled by the radical Jihad sweeping the Middle Eastern countries like a firestorm, the ALH grew more militant and daring in their worldwide expansionism.

  They welcomed Hujr into their ranks. The assassination in the Philippines had been his first assignment for the ALH. And now he was a legend.

  So Hujr was a hero, if not an infamous one, for his role in the key assassinations that led to the downfall of the Philippine Islands. He was well-known now, and he was highly sought after.

  He continued to turn the coins through his fingers, waiting and watching for the bazaar to close. When the time finally came, he swept back his abiyeh and made his way toward the center of the village.

  He knocked at a back door, and as it opened dust swirled at his feet. A hand beckoned him inside as a grunt of recognition came from within. He was offered water and, drinking from the ibriq, thanked the servant with a nod before being escorted to the inner chamber.

  The room was large by any standard. The mortar walls were covered by patterned rugs; the ceiling hung low, and a fan lazily freshened the air around him. The room was dark to his eyes, but he recognized the Sahib ibn-Yazid—the guerilla leader—at once.


  Ghazzali abu-Hamid had not changed in the years since Hujr had first met him. He was still water-fat; too much time living the politician’s life. But when he tore himself away from the United Nations tirades, the incessant meetings with peace negotiators, and the worldwide trips, Ghazzali still commanded the admiration of his men. The force that made the ALH work was embodied in the man. Charisma oozed from him, surrounding and drowning you in its zeal. One couldn’t help but be caught up in the fervor.

  Hujr nodded to his leader and kept silent. The man sitting next to Ghazzali was a stranger. The man sat at Ghazzali’s left—the place of the superior—so the implicit respect flowed from Hujr.

  Ghazzali nodded to Hujr. “Welcome, my friend. You are well?”

  “Well enough to fight, my brother,” recited Hujr, completing the ALH pact.

  “Good.” Ghazzali twisted to a more comfortable position but did not invite Hujr to sit. Hujr stood loosely, relaxing. Ghazzali spoke to Hujr, still ignoring the stranger to his left. “We are pleased with your latest accomplishment. I take it you had no trouble getting back to Do’brai.”

  Hujr shrugged. “No more than usual. I had to hide out and take the long way home, but other than that, I’ve made it unnoticed. It has been over two years since I’ve been here; it is good to be back.”

  Ghazzali nodded. “This is my first visit here, and I, too, feel at home. I take it you’ve managed to get enough rest in the meantime?”

  “If you mean so that I can train for another mission—yes.”

  Ghazzali smiled for the first time. He motioned with his hand for Hujr to come forward. “Excellent. Then may I introduce a friend of mine.…one that both of us are going to work for. This is General Fariq Kamil.”

  Hujr kept the puzzlement from his face, but Ghazzali read the uncertainty in his eyes. Ghazzali said, “You’ve been gone from Do’brai a long time, my brother. General Kamil is better known for his position. He is the new commander of the general staff for Abd al-Rahman ibn-Muhammed ibn al-Ash’ath.”