Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  Krandel drew himself up. “Yes, sir, I am. I present my unit to you in an official act of surrender under the codes of the Geneva Convention. We are all class-one military members, and we insist upon the recognized sanctions of the International Red Cross, of which both the United States and Do’brai are signatory members.”

  “You are in no position to barter, Colonel. You have launched an unprovoked attack upon Do’brai.”

  “We did not attack. It was a rescue attempt to free our President from a kidnapping.”

  The aide’s eyes grew large. Krandel noticed the expression and, watching the superior officer, knew that President Montoya’s presence here was not known to all.

  “Nonsense. I do not know what you are talking about. And that is not the point of my presence here. I am ready to accept your surrender. Have your men throw down their arms.” Kamil made a slight motion with his hands. Krandel spotted movement from the corner of his eye; he saw Do’brainese militiamen in a crouch moving toward the marines. For the first time, Kamil moved away from his aide.

  “Very well, sir.” Krandel turned to his men. “Gentlemen, as Knute Rockne said, ‘Let’s win this one for the gipper.’ Hike!”

  Krandel tackled General Kamil.

  Instantly, the popping sounds of rifle shots peppered the area.

  Morales brought down the general’s aide, and once on the ground he knocked the man unconscious with a blow to the head.

  Krandel straddled Kamil’s back, holding an arm to the general’s windpipe. “You have five seconds to stop the gunfire. If you don’t, you’re going to die with us.” Krandel yelled for Havisad to wave the white flag. Within seconds the gunfire ceased, and Krandel jerked Kamil to his knees. “All right, let them know we’ve got you. You have four seconds.”

  Krandel let up his grip on Kamil slightly. The general started to shout, but Krandel stopped him. Still on his knees, Krandel directed his question to Havisad. “What did he say?”

  “Something about not listening to him and following his orders, Colonel. His voice wasn’t too clear.”

  “Then tell the general in Do’brainese, Private: no funny stuff, or he dies.”

  The general’s shoulders sagged as Havisad repeated the orders. The general realized that indeed the Americans had the upper hand. “Do … not … press … so … hard.” Krandel let up the pressure slightly. Kamil rotated his neck. “I will do as you say.”

  Krandel and Kamil rose to their feet. Havisad translated as the general shouted instructions in Do’brainese. Havisad remained hidden dug into the dirt, out of sight of any snipers. He held a rifle at Kamil’s midriff.

  When the general was finished, several of the militiamen stood and threw their rifles to the ground. They started backing away with their hands up, and when they were some distance from the depression they turned and ran.

  Krandel watched the retreat, thinking that it had almost been too easy. With his arm still on Kamil’s throat, he turned his attention to the next detail: how to get them out of Do’brai.

  “Havisad, radio BIGEYE and tell them we’re busting out of here. If a TAV is not on its way to fly us out, we’re going to commandeer a crew for that 787 where we rescued the President. And tell them we need control of that damn runway clearer to cover us when we leave.”

  Do’brai airport tarmac

  Hujr shot off three bullets in a row, then drove his head into the sand. He could hear the sounds of shots coming from the ALH 787.

  He stiffened in anticipation of one of the bullets hitting him, but nothing happened. Still the shots continued. The militia could not be that poor as marksmen; they should have hit him when he tried to kill Kamil.

  Hujr jerked his head up, then back down, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on. The shooting was directed at the depression, and nothing was coming his way.

  Shouting—a hoarse, familiar voice—rang over the din: “Cease immediately! As general of the militia and chief of staff of the Do’brai militia forces, I order you to lay down your weapons!”

  Hujr moved his head up from the ground. General Kamil, held from the back by an American, repeated the orders. No wonder Hujr wasn’t peppered with bullets—he had shot at Kamil the same instant that the militia were firing at the Americans. But would Kamil survive the American capture? Probably. Americans were notorious for turning the other cheek once the situation was in their favor. So if Kamil survived, Hujr was still in danger. If not now, then years from now.

  He had to kill Kamil. Depending on where the Americans took the general, Hujr’s best chance was still here, hidden as a sniper.

  U.S.S.S. Bifrost

  “Why do I have to be the clearinghouse for this mess?”

  Wordel allowed a thin smile. “Colonel, it’s not like they’ll kill the messenger for bearing bad news.”

  “I know that. It’s just that I’m always on the receiving end and never the giving.” Frier slapped at the communications screen. He shoved the remains of a sandwich down his throat before Colonel Welch came into view. With the marine rescue vacillating between stop-and-go status, Wordel brought in the food and relieved Frier only when the colonel had to use the rest room.

  On the screen Colonel Welch looked ragged. He, too, only played the part of a messenger, but his superiors—Vice President Woodstone and General Peters—did not temper their emotions toward him.

  Welch rubbed his eyes, trying to get the story correct. “Now let me get this straight: Major Gould has launched his TAV for Do’brai and will arrive within the half hour, and Colonel Krandel has chosen not to surrender and wants a Do’brainese flight crew to fly him out of Do’brai if the TAV doesn’t arrive. Is that right?”

  “He doesn’t trust the Do’brainese, Colonel. Krandel will try to commandeer the ALH 787 that the President was rescued from. In addition, he urgently requests that total control of the runway clearer be given to his men, or else—”

  Welch fumed. “Or else what? Krandel isn’t in a position to barter with the White House, Colonel.”

  Frier bit his lip. “I know that, and you know it, too. Let’s face it: we have one crazy marine down there, determined that he and his men are going to make it out of Do’brai alive. No matter what they have to do.”

  “I see.” Welch ran a hand through his hair. “Stand by, one. Let me see what I can do.” He was back shortly. “You’ve explained to Krandel that he’s violating a direct order?”

  Frier stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Of course he knows he’s violating a direct order.”

  “Great—and it’s too late to stop that renegade TAV pilot; he’s already on his way.” Welch’s shoulders sagged. “Give me another minute to plead their case.”

  The wait was longer this time. When Welch finally appeared he looked more haggard than ever. “Vice President Woodstone has released the runway clearer to Krandel, but only because there’s a chance that something could happen to that TAV on the way down. Once the TAV is on the ground, they’re to get the hell out of there.” He cocked an eye at Frier. “The Vice President is pretty pissed about this whole affair. He really wanted to come out of this smelling like a rose, so don’t do anything to screw things up any more than they are.”

  “I copy that—”

  Frier was interrupted. “And Frier, no more off-the-wall requests. I’ve been bounced off so many bigwigs, I don’t know which way is up.”

  Frier grinned. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. I guess that those marines must not be too crazy though if they’re still alive.”

  “You hit that nail on the head.”

  Frier slapped off the screen and turned to Wordel. “Get Krandel on the comm link and tell him to have fun with his runway clearer. We’ll bounce his aiming coordinates directly back to Do’brai. And tell them the TAV will land in twenty minutes.”

  “Right.” Wordel twisted to another comm screen to relay the good news.

  Frier thought for a moment, then punched up the CRAY’S projection of Gould’s arriva
l in Do’brai. Eighteen more minutes; that was close enough for government work.

  Do’brai airport: ALH 787

  The marines moved about Kamil and his aide in a snaking circle. They slowly made their way down the half mile of runway to the 787. Kamil and his aide were never hidden by one of the marines for more than a heartbeat. If any sniper tried to fell a marine, chances are they would hit and kill the general. Their progress was maddeningly slow, but it ensured the marines’ survival.

  The sun was inching higher in the cloudless sky. Sweat rolled off the men’s bodies, glistening in the growing heat. The marines were silent; their delicate dance around the Do’brainese officers was too involved for conversation. In addition, each man had a responsibility to cover an area. The orders were to shoot first and ask questions later—there could be no mistakes because of hesitation.

  As the 787 grew closer they felt an almost uncontrollable urge to sprint toward the plane. Step, turn, scan the horizon, then duck behind the aide. Repeat the process in the opposite direction, but this time duck behind the general. It was a flawless ballet, played for survival.

  Krandel was so involved in the movement that he nearly stumbled over the plane’s aluminum stairs. “Keep moving and use the general to shield us up the ladder. Morales, take the point and keep facing outward.”

  “Yes, sir.” The men started up the stairs backward with Morales leading, holding the general. Once Morales ducked into the plane he ran to the back, checking the seats and storage cabinets for any unfriendlies. He met Krandel at the hatch as the colonel backed into the plane. “Deserted, sir. No one alive on board.”

  “Good. Have the men position themselves around the escape hatches in case the locals try anything funny. Also, raise BIGEYE and let them know our status. General Kamil and I are going to the flight deck to get a flight crew out here. Havisad, I’ll need you to translate.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Morales spun on his heel and sped out, assigning men to their stations.

  Havisad dragged out the bodies of the crew he had shot a scant few hours before. “It’s clear, Colonel.”

  Krandel prodded Kamil with his weapon. “Move.” Krandel pushed the general and his aide forward to the flight deck.

  General Kamil turned to Krandel once they were inside the cockpit. “You will never leave Do’brai alive.”

  “Shut up.”

  Krandel motioned to Havisad. “Raise the control tower on the radio and get a flight crew out here for this bird.”

  General Kamil persisted. “They will refuse, Colonel. And without a pilot you cannot leave Do’brai. The longer you keep me here, the harder it will be for me to convince President Ash’ath not to press charges against you.”

  “Charges? That’s a joke. If we surrender, what’s to prevent you from killing us?”

  General Kamil’s eyes widened. “Kill you? We guaranteed your Vice President that we would give you safe passage from Do’brai if you surrendered. But instead you deceived us and took me captive. That in itself is an act of war. President Ash’ath is benevolent—but only if you do not try his patience. So come now, Colonel. Release me and I will smooth things over.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Krandel turned his attention to Havisad while keeping an eye on the prisoners. “What’s the story, Private?”

  Havisad put down his headphones. “The general knows what he’s talking about, sir. The control tower refuses to speak with us until the general is released.”

  “Great.” Krandel snorted.

  “Uh, sir?”

  Krandel answered irritably, “What?”

  “Sir, how about threatening them—telling them we’ll shoot the general if they don’t send out a crew?”

  General Kamil broke in before Krandel had a chance to answer. “The colonel knows that I am of use to you only as long as I am alive. Once I die the plane will be stormed, and every one of your commando comrades will be killed.”

  “I said shut up.” Krandel pushed the rifle into the general’s side. Krandel knew that General Kamil was right—Kamil had him over a barrel. He was about to speak when Morales ran onto the flight deck.

  “Sir, BIGEYE reports that a TAV has just established communications with them and is on final approach to Do’brai. The NECC has given us control of the runway clearer to cover us on the way out.”

  Krandel nodded. “Have BIGEYE inform the TAV pilot to land by the 787. We’ll transfer to his craft as soon as he lands. I want you to get a spotter and relay targeting info to BIGEYE for the runway clearer. If anyone gets within a half mile of us, have the runway clearer blow the hell out of them.”

  “Yes, sir!” Morales left, grinning for the first time since they landed.

  Krandel turned to the general. “General, take off your uniform.”

  “I do not understand what you want me to do.”

  Krandel growled, “I said strip, and make it fast.” Krandel’s spirits lifted. For a business that had its ups and downs, the TAV’s arrival was certainly an up.

  Do’brai airport tarmac

  Hujr turned in the sand, following the marines and Kamil as they made their way to the airplane. Every time Kamil came into view an American stepped in front of the general and blocked the shot.

  Hujr’s patience began to wane. The Americans had to miss a step; but as he waited, the escort went perfectly.

  When they entered the aircraft they were well over a hundred meters away. He had to move closer.

  Hujr lay still for several minutes. The militia started to move toward the plane, but they stayed well away from where Hujr lay. The time dragged, and the Americans did not show themselves.

  He inched forward, centimeter by centimeter and kept low to the ground until he was a bare fifty meters from the 787. Debating what to do, Hujr’s thoughts were broken by a distant high-pitched screaming. The sound grew louder, and, almost before he could focus on it, a sleek black plane bolted down the runway, stopping before the 787.

  Hujr had never seen anything like it. It was fragile-looking, yet it seemed big enough to carry several men. Once again, Hujr waited patiently.

  Chapter 11

  0630 ZULU: SUNDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER

  This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is rather the end of the beginning.

  Winston Churchill

  Do’brai airport: Ojo-1

  Gould’s adrenaline level was sky-high when he jumped from the TAV. The 787 lay to his right.

  As he came down over the remains of Delores’ burning TAV he suppressed the emotion he’d felt earlier about her. As much as he wanted, this was no time to grieve. The important thing now was to get his TAV turned around and transfer the fuel from the bladder in the hold to his wing tanks.

  Four marines poured out of the 787 and sprinted to the TAV’s stubby wings.

  Gould directed traffic. “Turn her counter-clockwise. Swing her around so she’s facing the other way.”

  As the marines started moving the tiny suborbital craft Gould jumped back inside and started the electric pumps to transfer the fuel. Satisfied that the fuel was flowing unhindered, he pushed the JATO units to the hatch. He’d get the marines to attach the units to the craft.

  Suddenly gunfire erupted outside, beating a tattoo against the runway.

  Gould pushed away from the JATOs and stuck his head outside the craft; the marines kept turning the TAV, ignoring the bullets. Gould yelled, “You men get down!” Do’brainese militiamen took potshots at the marines. Gould set himself, expecting the TAV to be punctured by a projectile at any moment.

  The marines ignored his cry, determined to get the plane ready for takeoff. Gould was about to bellow another order when a strange sound came from beyond the runway.

  A squat, tanklike object rolled onto the asphalt and swung its turret around with blinding speed. A whooshing sound came from the object. Explosions erupted down the runway.

  Gould’s jaw dropped. “Holy crap.…what the hell is that?” His question remaine
d unanswered as the miniature tank swiveled, picking off snipers, vehicles, and anything Do’brainese that moved. He stood mesmerized by the apparition until a lone figure zigzagged from the 787 to the TAV.

  A marine ran up breathlessly. “Sir, I’m Corporal Morales. Colonel Krandel requests your presence on board the 787 when you’re free.”

  Requests his presence? This was surreal. Where did Krandel think he was—in the O-club bar? “Right.”

  Gould dropped from the TAV and ran bent over. He followed the corporal the fifty yards to the jumbo jet.

  Once on board, he was led to the cockpit. When Krandel turned to him, Gould was astonished at the man’s appearance. He looked as if he’d aged ten years—and it was less than eight hours since Gould had last seen him.

  Gunfire continued outside the plane, but the whooshing sound dominated all the explosions. Gould could make out the tanklike vehicle through the cockpit as it continued to neutralize the Do’brainese forces.

  Krandel drew his lips tight. “Major Gould. I’m surprised to see you, but welcome back. How soon can you get us out of here?”

  Gould turned his attention from the view outside the cockpit. “As soon as I’m fueled. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes more to transfer what I have in the bladder. All that’s left is strapping on the JATOs. If we do that now, we could rocket in twenty minutes.”

  “I don’t know if we can hold them off that long.”

  Gould pointed to the tanklike vehicle. “You guys aren’t doing so bad from here. Is that thing on our side?”

  Krandel looked surprised. “The runway clearer? Sure. You flyboys launched it from Vandenberg, along with the bio-package and sleepy-gas capsule. Washington just turned control over to us. We’ve got it on auto to shoot anything except for what’s in our area. I wish we could have had it earlier. It would have made life much easier for us, but that’s another story.”

  Gould stared out the cockpit window. “What’s it shooting?”