by Doug Beason
“Roger. Back to your post, marine,” said Krandel while taking control of the set. He spoke into the throat mike and after some moments tore off the headphones. He threw them aside and swore.
“What’s up, Colonel?”
“Damned friggin’ bureaucrats sit on their fat asses and pontificate from their ivory tower—”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
Krandel composed himself. “That was General Peters, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The TAV mission to rescue us has been called off. Our orders are to surrender.”
“Surrender?” The depression was alive with talk as the marines sputtered out their disbelief. “But, sir—”
“That’s it, men. We’re to surrender immediately. The Do’brainese forces have promised to transport us back to the airport unharmed and to hand over the people who hijacked Air Force One.”
“Sir, do you really believe that?”
Krandel was quiet for some time.
Morales spoke up. “Sir, did you see what they did to the President’s feet?”
“The hijackers have been apprehended and President Ash’ath has personally guaranteed our safety.”
“Sir, the President said he was tortured here. It wasn’t the hijackers who did it. He was injured here, by the Do’brai militia. You heard him!”
Krandel mulled it over. All the time explosions continued to go off around them. Morales was right. But Krandel had orders, and as a commissioned officer in the United States Marine Corps he was duty-bound to carry out those orders. He had sworn an oath to do it.
But on the other hand, what happened to his men was the on-site commander’s responsibility. His responsibility, not someone thousands of miles away.
Why hadn’t he paid attention to those philosophy courses at Annapolis—the ones where they discussed when an officer had to follow a higher law? They argued at Nuremberg that an officer cannot be within the law by simply “following the orders of his superiors” when those orders were illegal. He had to make the decision. Could he take a chance and trust the judgment of someone thousands of miles away?
He knew the textbook answer: It was an unqualified yes. But if those who gave him the orders to surrender were wrong, his men would die.
And if General Peters was right, and Krandel disobeyed those orders, he’d be court-martialed.
Back at Camp Pendleton General Vandervoos had told him a command would be the best thing ever to happen to him. Krandel wasn’t so sure of that now. It was his ass on the line, and he had his men to think about.
“Morales, get me a white flag. Use a T-shirt, underwear, anything.”
“Sir, we’re not going to surrender, are we?”
“Quiet. You heard me. Now listen up, men.” He drew them near and, over the explosions, explained to them what they were going to do.
And as they got ready he thought that Balcalski would have been proud of him.
Do’brai airport control tower
“Are you sure it’s a white flag?”
“Yes, General. Look for yourself.”
Kamil scanned the area, then put down his binoculars and smiled. “Inform President Ash’ath that his message has gotten through. Unless it’s a trick, the Americans have surrendered. I will accept their surrender myself.”
He handed the field glasses to his aide and smoothed his shirt. “Inform the assault commander that I will be at his position in five minutes. I will personally accept the surrender.” He held up a finger. “But have him station sharpshooters around the depression where the Americans are hiding. If anything appears suspicious, all the Americans are to die. Understand?”
“Perfectly, General.” His staff snapped a stiff salute and held the position until Kamil was out the door of the control tower. His aide followed as he left, scurrying to keep up.
Kamil stepped from the air-conditioned coolness to the morning heat. Although the sun had only been up for an hour, the temperature had begun to soar.
He moved to his staff car and decided at the last moment to let his aide drive. It had been a long day—almost too long—without a rest. He’d be able to pull his thoughts together and prepare the precise words for the Americans during the drive.
Do’brai airport
Hujr brought the rifle up and squinted into the sight. Kamil stepped from the control tower and moved toward the car. This was almost too easy.
Hujr carefully squeezed the trigger, mentally preparing to pump several bullets into the general once the first had found its mark. The bullet would hit as Kamil opened the car door.
“Ifrit!” Kamil whirled away from the door just as Hujr was about to squeeze off the round. Hujr abruptly jerked his finger free of the trigger. He held his breath. He thought the sound of his aborted shot could be heard from kilometers away, but the soldiers coming from the control tower paid him no attention.
Kamil entered the passenger side of the car, moving in a motion that looked as if it was calculated to prevent Hujr from shooting him. Hujr dropped the rifle and swore to himself.
The staff car started off and took a turn down the frontage road, heading for the plane at the end of the runway.
Hujr eyed the plane. It wasn’t over three kilometers away. It would take Hujr time to get there, but if Kamil was going to spend time on the plane, that would be the place to kill him.
Hujr waited until the general’s car turned the corner, then he crept around the side, keeping out of view of the control tower. As he scooted clandestinely from bush to bush he was consoled that no one would be looking for him.
U.S.S.S. Bifrost
Major Wordel spoke up, breaking the silence in the space station. “Colonel Frier, I’ve got a request to relay a message from Ojo-1 to Edwards.”
“Tell him to clear the channel. His mission is over. We need the bandwidth for monitoring the situation at Do’brai.”
“I think you’d better listen to him, Colonel.” Wordel persisted. “He’s taken off from Dulles, piggybacking on a 747 back to Edwards, and he wants us to notify Edwards that his TAV will be available for the Do’brai rescue in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?!” Frier exploded. He propelled himself across the communications chamber to Wordel’s screen. “What the hell is he going to do, rocket back to Edwards?”
“I think that’s his plan, Colonel. He wants us to download his semiballistic burn vectors from the CRAY.”
Frier slapped at the screen. Gould’s face appeared, enveloped in the red-bordered security link.
“Okay, Gould,” said Frier, “what’s the story? Why the hell do you want to rocket back to Edwards? You had better have a good reason.”
Gould answered instantly, as if reciting from a transcript. “Simple, Colonel. I was ordered by the President of the United States to make sure the marines were rescued. The quickest way for me to do that is to get my TAV back to Edwards so they can use it for the rescue. I’ve already got a fuel bladder ready for them, so all they have to do is get a new crew for her.”
“You’d be flying without authorization—”
“It was a direct order, Colonel.”
Frier turned red. “Gould, don’t try me. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but it won’t help. Now don’t piss people off any more than you have by rocketing back. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
Gould chewed on it, then said slowly, “What do you mean, it wouldn’t help if I rocketed back to Edwards?”
“The rescue mission has been called off. The RDF was ordered by General Peters to stand down the operation. All TAVs have landed back at Edwards, and the alert has been downgraded to a level three. The marines at Do’brai have surrendered—or rather, they’re in the process of surrendering—and will be transported back to the U.S. with the President’s hijackers.”
There was a long silence. When Gould came back over the comm link there was an edge to his voice. “Colonel, did I misunderstand you? Our marines are surrendering?”
Frier could only force a nod. He hoped Batman kn
ew what the hell he was doing at the NECC. There were times when you just had to do things that you didn’t agree with. But Frier had it easy; all he had to do was to relay the bad news. Colonel Krandel back at Do’brai had the hard part: surrendering.
Frier said, “Gould, you got the President back alive. That’s more than anyone could ask.”
Gould came back, his voice hard. “I want the burn vectors for Do’brai, Colonel.”
“What? You’re crazy, Gould.”
“Do’brai. I want the vectors downloaded.”
“Let it go, Gould.”
“You heard me. Do it.”
“You’re nuts. You’re out of your mind. Do you know what’s going to happen? You’re going to get to Do’brai and the marines won’t be there; they’ll be on their way back home in an ALH airplane. You’ll not only be arrested for invading a foreign country, but you’ll give Do’brai one of our TAVs—and to top it off, you’ll be court-martialed if you ever get back to the U.S. How does that grab you?”
“Download the burn vectors, Colonel—I’m not going to ask you again.”
“And what the hell are you going to do if I don’t give them to you?”
Gould hesitated. “Do it by the seat of my pants. Worst case my on-board computer and GPS can get me within a few miles of the Do’brai airport; I can get the rest of the way on my own, VFR. But with your help I’ll have a damned better chance of making it. Now, are you going to do it or not, Colonel Frier?”
Frier thought about calling the NECC to get advice from Batman, but decided against it. Instead he said, “Gould, listen to me—”
“Colonel, do you really believe Do’brai intends to release our marines?”
There was a long silence. Frier’s reply sounded feeble. “I don’t know, Gould, but Batman said they promised—”
“Colonel, there’s a right thing to do and there’s a moral thing to do. The moral thing is to rescue those men. And you know as well as I that if we do, we’ll get fried by our own people when this thing is over. So you can be on the right side and cover your butt, or you can help me out. Those men are depending on me, Colonel.
“Now give me those burn vectors, or I’m going without them. I intend to be in Do’brai in forty-five minutes with or without your help. God willing, in three hours I’ll have those marines back home.”
Frier closed his eyes. Getting away, being assigned to the Bifrost, seemed the perfect way for him to abdicate the authority that came with command. He had screwed things up once and ended up killing a student pilot; he had made a bad decision on pulling out of a stall, and someone died for it. It was a command, although small, that went astray.
That’s what was nice about BIGEYE; you only did what you were told, and although you had responsibility, you had no authority. And no chance to be blamed if you screwed things up. He was useful here, but he didn’t make decisions.
He could run, but—although he’d run three hundred miles straight up—he just couldn’t hide.
Frier’s fingers danced on the touch-sensitive screen below Gould’s picture. Icons and rows of figures sprang up at his touch until the screen blinked green.
“Prepare to accept the burn vectors, Major Gould. Please echo-check them ASAP.…and good luck.”
“Roger that, BIGEYE.”
Frier kept quiet through the echo check. Wordel, silent throughout the exchange, floated up next to him and handed him a slip of paper. Frier scanned it, then said to Gould, “Major, I have an urgent note here from Base Ops at Dulles.”
“Better hurry, I’m rocketing in twenty seconds.”
“It says they couldn’t find a DOD Reg 869. You’re to return to Dulles soonest unless you clarify which regulation you quoted about flying with a completely fueled TAV. Signed, Colonel Rathson.”
A laugh came over the screen. “Too late, Colonel. Tell Rathson better luck next time. There ain’t no such animal.”
The link clicked off. Frier stared, then switched to survey his satellite monitors.
Wordel spoke up. “Shall we inform the NECC, Colonel?”
Frier chewed on his lip before answering. “Yeah, might as well give them a heads-up on this. It’s too late for them to screw anything up for Gould now.” As Wordel moved to make the report Frier caught himself thinking that maybe he had finally found a way to make it up to his student’s family.
Do’brai airport tarmac
Hujr slipped behind the bush undetected. He was not more than a hundred meters away from the depression where the Americans were, but he was hidden from both them and the militia. He was halfway between the Americans and the ALH 787 on the runway.
Hujr settled into the sand, pushing away the grains by wiggling until he was comfortable. He brought the rifle around and squinted through the sights. The Americans huddled together, conferring about something. One of them had fashioned a white flag made from a T-shirt and tied it onto a radio antenna.
He relaxed. That ensured Kamil would make an appearance. The General wouldn’t miss this surrender for anything in the world. And when he showed, he wouldn’t escape.
Do’brai airport—ALH 787
“I thought the Americans surrendered.”
“We did too, General. Would you care to look through the binoculars?”
Kamil grunted. His aide brought the field glasses up, and Kamil surveyed the area with a slow sweep. “I do not see anything.”
“They are hidden in a depression, General. From their height above the ground the control tower can see them, and they report the Americans have brought down their white flag.”
“Then what is the holdup?”
“The Americans are grouped together, probably praying to their God. I doubt they trust us.”
Kamil allowed himself a smile. “Ah, but their leaders do. And that’s the difference between us and them. With their high-tech communications they cannot act autonomously. They have to rely on directions from halfway across the world. They would not die for a cause—it would cause too much bad publicity for them back in America.” Kamil handed the binoculars back to his aide. “Inform me as soon as their flag goes back up. If it is not flying in ten minutes, then lob some mortar rounds in their direction to speed them up.”
Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac
The ten men clustered around Krandel, keeping low to the ground. Although no enemy was in sight, he spoke in a whisper. “This is it. Everybody ready?”
The marines remained silent, expressing their affirmation with grim nods. Krandel drew in a breath. He almost felt like taking a vote to see if the men really wanted to go along with this harebrained stunt of his.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t know why, but he just knew that they’d die if they followed orders and surrendered. No matter what the NECC promised.
So this was their only option. After they acted, maybe the NECC would get off their butts and call the rescue back on. And if they didn’t, the marines still had a better chance doing it their way.
Krandel nodded to Morales. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.”
Morales sprang to his feet with the white flag and started waving it slowly back and forth over his head. Krandel spoke quietly in the microphone to BIGEYE, explaining their plan.
Do’brai airport: ALH 787
“General, the flag!”
Kamil bolted upright and snatched the binoculars from his aide. “Have the militia disperse along the runway. I will accept the surrender myself.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide barked the orders, then drew a revolver to join his general.
Kamil unbuckled his gun belt and, throwing it to the ground, shook his head at his aide. “I will go alone.”
“But, General—”
“It is a matter of honor for the Americans. They will be so thoroughly demoralized, this will be the final blow to them: the unarmed commander coming to accept their defeat.”
The aide protested. “General Kamil, I implore you. It could be a trap.”
Kamil raised a brow. “If it is, then our militia will shoot to kill.”
“Allow me to accompany you as a backup. They will at least expect an aide to do your bidding.”
Kamil decided after some thought. “Very well, but keep your weapon hidden. And use it only if we are threatened.”
“Yes, General.”
Leaving the ALH 787, they left the runway and scrambled down a sandy embankment. They passed several of the militia, dug in the sand. Soon they passed the last guard and reached the tarmac. The Americans lay before them.
Do’brai airport tarmac
Movement.
Hujr fingered the trigger and spotted Kamil through the sight. The general bounced in and out of view, walking next to his aide. Hujr could kill the aide and hope that Kamil would be so disoriented that he wouldn’t dive for cover, but the man was too good for that. Hujr would just have to wait for the first opportunity to take him out first.
He allowed the two to continue toward the depression.
Depression near the Do’brai airport tarmac
Krandel stood with his hands above his head as the Do’brai officer approached. Morales had put another shot of morphine into Krandel’s leg, so he was feeling slightly cocky, but at least the pain had gone away.
From the ribbons, medals, and paraphernalia the officer wore, Krandel reckoned the man had not missed Sunday school for twenty straight years. A taller yet obviously subordinate man, probably the officer’s aide, followed to the officer’s left. When they reached Krandel the superior spoke in a guttural language.
Krandel saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel William J. Krandel, United States Marine Corps, 223-15-8269. Do you speak English?”
The officer returned the salute, obviously pleased that the Americans were groveling. “I am General Kamil, commander of the Do’brainese militia forces. We will speak English if we must. There is no one among you who speaks the Do’brainese language?” The man surveyed the marines; Havisad kept silent. Krandel wanted the translator as his trump card in case something went wrong. The general spat rapid-fire sounds, but the strange-sounding words fell upon deaf ears.
Krandel’s men merely shrugged at the questioning.
The general turned to Krandel. “You are the commanding officer of this commando detachment, Colonel?” The word colonel came out as kor-nal.
