Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  General Kamil spoke without expression. “I have heard of your talents. I welcome the chance to work with a fellow countryman. President Ash’ath has a proposition that will make you one of the most famous men in the world. Are you interested?”

  Hujr answered without skipping a heartbeat. “Perhaps.”

  Chapter 2

  1230 ZULU: SATURDAY, 2 JUNE

  Find out where the people want to go, then hustle yourself around in front of them.

  James Kilpatrick

  Camp Pendleton, California

  “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski snapped a salute, holding stiff until Lieutenant Colonel Krandel returned the greeting.

  Krandel sharply dropped his hand and faced the battalion. Moments before Krandel had watched from the side as the men formed up; they joked among themselves, cautiously ignoring Krandel’s presence.

  Balcalski showed up on the scene and took control. The grizzled sergeant commanded instant respect from the men. Even though Balcalski was enlisted, the men treated the gunnery sergeant with a touch of awe. They seemed almost too eager to follow his commands. It was as though the sergeant had charmed the men, but it was deeper than that. He said the right things at the right time; he was a natural.

  Krandel brushed the thought aside and concentrated on the men. Krandel was dressed as the rest of Balcalski’s men were: red jogging shorts, white socks pulled high up the legs, black, low-topped sneakers, and a smartly ironed T-shirt emblazoned with UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. The men of the 37th Marine Battalion stood in well-ordered platoons behind the sergeant; behind him was the battalion flag. Four men carried guidons, one for each platoon, adorned with battle streamers that marked the accomplishments and landings on battlefields of past years.

  Krandel felt pleased. The men looked sharp, and except for a little redness around Balcalski’s eyes, the 0530 roll call went without a hitch. Krandel moved close to Balcalski and spoke in a low voice, “Don’t mind my presence, Sergeant. I’ve heard a lot about you and your men. I suppose the officers aren’t running with us this morning?”

  Balcalski looked embarrassed. “Well, sir, it’s Saturday, and Smiler tradition is for the enlisted men to run to each platoon commanders house—wake them up with esprit, sir.”

  “With the final stop at the battalion commander’s house, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, no use breaking with tradition—except let’s add a new one.”

  Balcalski cocked an eye at the new battalion CO. “Sir?”

  “Let’s hit General Vandervoos’ house first. I want to let him know that Colonel Krandel is alive and well.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Balcalski turned to his men. “Battalion—on my command: right, face; double time, harch.”

  The group of two hundred men lurched off under the lead of Krandel and Balcalski.

  Do’brai

  Hujr ibn-Adi felt alive again. Just forty-eight hours earlier he was evading border guards—his own—to make his way back to the city. Do’brai didn’t officially recognize the ALH and had even signed a multinational agreement to “erase” terrorist groups; Hujr was persona non grata in his own homeland.

  But what a country says and what a country does are two entirely different things.

  And now, with a stomach full of kush-kush, Hujr settled back and slowly pulled on a hookah laced with hashish. His country was so civilized—unlike most places where he usually traveled. It was good to get back where he belonged.

  His leisure was timed, for he knew that soon he would discover why he had been summoned. Whatever it was, General Kamil had dangled a hint of it. Hujr took another puff on the pipe and let the sweet-smelling smoke roll out of his mouth and into his nostrils. It was Ghazzali who spoke first.

  “How was your food? Have you supped enough for your next starvation?”

  Hujr laughed, coughing on smoke. He waved his hand in front of his face. “My next starvation? Surely I do not have to starve to be in the service of General Kamil.”

  Kamil growled, clearly not pleased with the direction in which Hujr was taking the conversation. “If our plan is to succeed, then no chances should be taken. If you have to die, then it would be but a small sacrifice for the whole.”

  “For the whole.” Hujr nodded. If there was nothing else he took seriously, he realized that the success of the whole depended upon the expendability of the parts. The members of the ALH could not dwell on their own fate; the Jihad must be advanced. And even though Hujr demanded a price for his actions, he still realized his place.

  Hujr leaned forward and put the pipe stem on a cradle. “So what is it that you require of me?”

  “Your heritage … and your skill. To accomplish perhaps one of the greatest coups in history.”

  “Is that all?” Hujr answered. The hashish made him cocky; Kamil reddened but did not voice disapproval.

  Ghazzali seemed slightly amused. He said, “The information I give you will have to be minimal. If you are discovered, it is best that the entire plan not be revealed.” Ghazzali turned to his left and pulled out a paper.

  “You must make plans to travel to the United States.”

  Hujr’s eyes grew large. “Tonight you will leave Do’brai and travel to Cuba. There you will select the equipment you will need; your equipment will be smuggled to Russia while you fly to Mexico. From Mexico City, it is a simple matter to get across the border to the United States. Once there, you must be extremely careful. Your compatriot, Du’Ali al-Aswad, is waiting for you in Washington, D.C.

  “Later, you will rendezvous with your equipment in Russia. Neither you nor those transporting the equipment will have any knowledge of the exact whereabouts of the other. Until, of course, you arrive in Russia.”

  “Why is the equipment in Russia if I must go to the United States?”

  “That will come later.” He handed over a packet through which Hujr flipped. “We have identified three prospective marks in the United States, one of whose identities you must assume. You will have three weeks once you are in Washington, D.C., to determine which mark will enable you best to accomplish your mission.

  “If you are picked up, you must deny everything. Nothing must cause this plan to fail. Too many people are depending on you. The Jihad will surely suffer if you do not succeed.”

  Hujr absently put his hand into the abiyeh and turned the coins between his fingers. “And my payment?”

  “Ah, yes.” Ghazzali turned and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared from out of the veiled wall. “Zaynab—bring him.” The servant nodded and disappeared. Ghazzali turned back to Hujr. “The usual money, plus an extra to encourage you to make it back to Do’brai.”

  A young boy was shoved into the room. He picked himself up from the ground and stared defiantly at the three. A smile tugged at the corners of Hujr’s lips. “The extra?”

  “Of course. He is quite wild, and I understand, is what you desire.”

  “Where did you get him?”

  “Does it matter? But if you must know, he was picked up in a raid across the border. Spoils of war, and all that.”

  “I must try out the merchandise to see if it’s worth it—”

  “Only if you succeed.”

  Hujr nodded. He placed the coins back in his pouch and relaxed in his chair. “When do I leave?”

  General Kamil shifted his weight and spoke up. “Tonight. We’ll have you out of the country by daybreak.”

  “Good.…there is no time to waste.”

  At the words, Ghazzali clapped his hands. “Remove the boy.”

  As they dragged the young man away he managed to spit; Hujr lurched back and wiped at the spittle that reached him. The general laughed—happy, it seemed for the first time all night. Hujr reached for his pipe and drew on the coarse-smelling hemp. “He will do fine … if he keeps his temperament.”

  Chapter 3

  1430 ZULU: MONDAY, 13 AUGUST


  No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne: no gall, no glory: no cross, no crown.

  William Penn

  Mexico City

  Hujr pulled down his sunglasses and ignored the man coming toward him. Behind him passengers were still exiting the gate; to his front, the long customs line split into two: one for returning nationals and the other for foreigners entering the country. As the man approached, Hujr set down his suitcase and pushed his sunglasses back on his forehead. The man picked up the piece of luggage and did not shake Hujr’s hand.

  “We have you on the next flight to El Paso. From there, you will connect to Washington, D.C., through Reagan National Airport. Du’Ali will pick you up.”

  Hujr pulled down his sunglasses and glared. He spoke in a low tone, barely audible to the man. “Do not mention that name.”

  Silence, then the man lowered his eyes. “I understand.”

  Hujr pushed the glasses back on. “You have the passport?”

  The man withdrew an envelope from his pocket with his free hand. Passersby ignored the two and scurried to the growing line in front of customs. “I have included an identification card and Citibank checks you can cash once you’re in the United States. The signature is matched to your handwriting, and the plane tickets are with the checks. You will not be contacted again until you reach Russia.”

  “When does the plane get to Washington?”

  “Three-thirty in the afternoon.”

  Hujr nodded. “That leaves me plenty of time to start working tonight. Very well.…get us through customs.”

  The man did not answer but instead led the way to the side of the customs counter. Reaching the bored police officer at the front of the line, he flashed a wallet and spoke in Spanish. “I am escorting Mr. Resavoo on to the embassy—I have his diplomatic pouch.”

  The customs officer glanced at the wallet ID. The Do’brainese chargé d’affaires’ picture was intimidating. The official wondered little about political maneuvering but knew very well about the bribes that accompanied expedition of certain individuals through customs. Especially those associated with Do’brainese diplomatic passports. The customs official looked the other way and waved them through.

  Once Hujr and his escort were away from the customs area they changed direction and looped back toward a sign that pointed toward outgoing flights. They arrived at the United Airlines desk; the Do’brai chargé d’affaires obtained Hujr’s boarding pass and delivered it to Hujr, who was standing away from the main crowd. Although the air conditioning was cranked up to high, the room was almost unbearably muggy and hot. Short sleeves and casual clothing marked most of the travelers.

  Hujr wordlessly accepted the boarding pass and didn’t say goodbye when the Do’brainese official left. When the flight was called, Hujr inconspicuously boarded without looking around.

  Camp Pendleton, California

  “Pick up your feet, you lardasses! Do you want to get your pecker shot off? If you keep moving the way you’re going, I’ll have to wrap it up and send it home to your sweetie—then what is she gonna do?” Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski bawled at the men in front of him.

  The 37th Marines jumped out of the mock-up TAV and rolled to the rapidly sliding runway, keeping their rifles close to their bodies. As they hit they popped up and sprinted to the side, off the slidewalk, and sprawled on the ground before advancing.

  The slidewalk rumbled past the opening, causing some of the marines to stumble as they jumped from the hatch. Most of the men made the six-foot jump without any difficulty, but there were a few who’d forgotten their PLFs—or who’d grown sloppy, thinking that the Parachute Landing Fall was only for “Legs.” The PLF was designed specially so the men would land on the fleshy part of their bodies—the calf, thigh, buttocks, and back—so they would absorb the force of the fall and not hurt themselves.

  Balcalski moved closer to the mock plane’s hatch and waved his right arm. “Speed out, men! You’ve got fifteen more seconds to get out of there or you’re dead. Go, go, go!”

  The last few men exited the craft nearly on top of one another. The last marine leapt from the hatch and with a smack dropped his rifle as he hit the man below him. The chattering and yells from the background—words of encouragement shouted by the men—grew deathly silent. The marine rolled off the sidewalk and snatched up his rifle, only to be stopped by Balcalski.

  “Havisad!”

  The marine snapped into a brace. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Balcalski glared for a full ten heartbeats. When Balcalski finally spoke, Havisad had to strain to hear him over the roar of the slidewalk. “Havisad, you’ve been out of Basic for two years. I’ve been out of Basic for thirty-one. The last time I saw a rifle dropped, the man who dropped it bought a Mexican bullet through his right lung. And the last thing I remember him doing was cursing himself, thinking that he could have killed the son of a bitch who shot him—even when he was dying. But he couldn’t. And do you know why?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “Because he dropped his damned rifle, that’s why, Havisad. He couldn’t shoot back because he didn’t have his rifle.”

  One of the marines coughed; Balcalski looked around. In the distance, a jeep was driving up to the mock-up. It looked like the battalion CO. Balcalski waved for the next, squad. “Get your butts up there. On the count of three, take the exit again. This time, I want every other man to roll to the right and cover the man behind him. Now move.”

  As the jeep crawled closer Balcalski saw that his guess was right on mark—Lt. Col. Krandel and Captain Weston, the platoon CO, were both decked out in camouflaged battle gear. An enlisted driver shared the front with Krandel; Weston rode alone in the rear of the jeep.

  Krandel was turning out to be all right. A little gung ho, maybe … but Balcalski had heard rumors that this was the colonel’s first operational assignment. He’d do fine if he wouldn’t try so hard not to screw up.

  Balcalski turned back to Havisad. He’d given the marine plenty of time to think over his mortal sin. “Private, the 37th doesn’t allow mistakes. It’s not only your ass that will get shot if you screw things up—it’s the platoon’s.” Balcalski pointed with his eyes to Havisad’s rifle. “Drop that once more and you’re out of here. If I don’t shoot you with it first. Understand?”

  Havisad stood rigid. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Then get the hell back with your squad; you’re wasting my time.” Balcalski turned and barked, “Morales!” As Balcalski turned away Havisad sprinted off to join his squad.

  A corporal left the group and trotted up. “Yes, Gunny?”

  Balcalski jerked his head at the jeep, which had pulled off the road. “I’ll be taking the colonel and Captain Weston through the mock-up. Run the men through—and make damn sure there aren’t any mistakes this time.”

  “Gotcha, Gunny.” Morales stacked his rifle with Balcalski’s as the squat gunnery sergeant went off to join the officers.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Balcalski held the salute until both Krandel and Weston returned it.

  “Good afternoon, Gunny,” returned Krandel. “How are the men doing?”

  “Fine, sir. Would you care to watch them run through the exercise?”

  Krandel nodded. “Lead the way.” Balcalski positioned himself to the right of and slightly behind the men as they moved toward the mock-up.

  As they walked, the officers were silent. Balcalski noted that Krandel’s boots, although flawlessly shined, still had the look of new leather. His uniform was immaculate, but there was an unbroken-in look about it: neatly pressed, the creases looked as though they could cut paper. Krandel seemed to move naturally, but it still appeared to require some effort.

  Balcalski took note of all the details he spotted but didn’t allow Krandel’s greenhorn tendencies to worry him. He had helped plenty of inexperienced officers through the years; it was part of a good sergeant’s job. But Krandel was different. Not only was Krandel inexperienced in the field, but he was the youngest senior of
ficer that Balcalski had ever helped. He’d just have to be careful that he didn’t step on Krandel’s toes.

  Krandel allowed Weston to lead the way. When they reached the mock-up Weston nodded toward the exit hatch. The hatch was tightly closed, simulating the craft in flight. Weston said to Krandel, “The men are strapped in the TAV in harnesses, not unlike what they would use in a C-17 if they were parachuting in from drop planes. The difference is that the TAVs can swoop into the staging area and land before the bad guys know what’s going on.”

  Krandel grunted. “What do you mean, swoop in?”

  “Well, sir,”—the “sir” from Weston sounded forced; Krandel pretended not to notice—“the TAV is coming from a semi-ballistic orbit, so it slows from about Mach 25 to its landing speed of 130 knots. As the TAV rolls to a stop, the men disembark while the craft is still moving. That way, the men are spread along the target area in whatever pattern we want them. The main reason for using the TAV is for fast response, and I guarantee that my marines will come through on that for you.”

  Krandel walked around the mock-up and peered into the darkened body. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust from the glaring sun. Twenty-four marines, twelve to a side, were strapped in the red webbing attached to the sides of the TAV. They remained motionless, staring straight ahead. Krandel pulled his head out and said, “Well, let’s see them do it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Balcalski leaned inside the craft. “All right, Morales, take the men through the paces.”

  Morales bawled at the men, “Prepare for landing.” In one motion the marines grabbed the siding, bracing themselves for the landing.

  In the background a diesel engine coughed once, then caught as the moving slidewalk started rumbling in front of the hatch. After a few moments, allowing for the slidewalk to get up to speed, Morales shouted above the din of the machinery, “Prepare to disembark: Stand in the door!”