Return to Honor (22 page)

Montoya studied the marine as he came forward. One side of the man’s face was blackened by soot and oil; underneath the grime, tiny blisters could be seen. They were raw and red, almost ready to pop.

Montoya asked the marine, “What happened to you, soldier?”

The man held out the headphones to Montoya. “Nothing
much, sir.”

“Soldier, you look hurt.”

The marine seemed embarrassed. “Just some burns, sir. I was trying to help some of my buddies get away from the fire.”

“Looks like you might have received some third-degree burns. I want you to get help as soon as we land. And if there is anything I can do for you, I’ll do the best I can.”

“Yes, sir. Uh, sir?”

“Eh?”

“Begging the President’s pardon, sir—but there is one thing you can do.”

“Well? What is it, soldier?”

“You could call us marines, sir. We’re not dogfaces—soldiers, that is, sir. We’re United States Marines.” The marine reddened. “Sorry, Mr. President. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but we’re mighty proud of the Corps.”

“My mistake, marine.” Montoya felt lousy. Here these young men risk their lives for him—a few even get killed—and he doesn’t have the decency to call them by their right title.

“’S all right, sir. Here’s the line to the NECC.”

“Thank you, marine.” The President fumbled with the set and secured it to his head, wincing as he inadvertently hit his foot while moving.

Vice President Woodstone was on the line, apologizing. “The rescue was our
only
option.…and we thought it wouldn’t hurt you in the polls. After all, none of your party was harmed, and I don’t think we upset either the ALH or the Do’brai government too much—”

The President cut in. “Do you know we had to leave eleven marines behind? And one air force pilot, as well as two marines, died in the rescue.”

The Vice President sounded puzzled. “Of course, but we’ve been in constant contact with the Do’brainese embassy, and they’ve assured us that once they’ve found them, the marines will be taken care of and unharmed. And more important, they’ve promised not to reveal the rescue operation to the press if we keep this, uh,
contretemps
quiet.

“You see, the Do’brainese swear they had nothing to do with it. It was all an ALH plot to try to discredit them and the United States. I
tried
to hold off as long as possible, but you know how insistent Baca and that military chief of staff can get. Anyway, the Do’brai government wants us to have our marines give up. They
promise
to return them—”

The President coughed. Holding his side, he spoke dryly. “Just like they promised to treat me well, no doubt. I may be a pacifist, Percy, but I’m no fool. Have the air force launch the remaining five TAVs. Get our marines out of there.”

The silence was deafening. The Vice President came back slowly. “I must have misunderstood what you said. We have a bad connection—”

“You heard me.
Bring our boys home!
I want the air force to close up Do’brai as tight as a drum. I don’t care if we have to keep our planes in the air for twenty-four hours straight—our marines are coming home.
Nothing
is to leave Do’brai—by air or ground—unless we’re in control of it. Do you understand?”

After a moment the headphone came back to life. Woodstone answered with an edge to his voice. “Yes,
sir,
Mr. President.…I understand.”

Montoya sounded weary. “Very well, keep me informed.” The President relaxed, tearing off the headphones. His feet hurt like hell, and his thigh ached, but thank God, he was still alive.

He studied the men around him. Across the aisle a young marine slept with his mouth open, confident that the TAV pilot would bring him safely home.

Montoya swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to see that those they had left behind would make it as well.

Do’brai

Hujr tightened his body when he heard the yelling outside the door. He couldn’t hear what was going on, but he could hear Kamil’s voice. The young nymph moved demurely over Hujr’s body, urging him to continue in their lovemaking, but Hujr remained tense, unsure of the turn of events.

The small sanctuary Kamil had offered him was a piece of heaven on earth, and he was grateful for it—but he had also been promised at least a day’s rest before he would be disturbed. Kamil had told him the American President wouldn’t be moved until the following day, and with the assurance that he would be left alone, Hujr felt safe in the general’s hands.

But now the rumblings outside the door put Hujr on edge. The boy started to protest, but Hujr quieted him with a finger to his lips.

The door blew open, and Hujr reacted instantly, rolling to his side and pulling the boy with him. He didn’t feel the first bullet; it ripped into the boy, and he screamed, his legs jerking spasmodically, almost throwing him away from him. The next two bullets found Hujr, one grazing his forehead and the other digging into his shoulder.

The shooting stopped.

Hujr allowed his body to twist and fall from the elevated mat, feigning death. It was difficult to lie still with the pain, but he forced himself to be dormant. If he could keep immobile, he could swing out and jump the assassin when the person moved closer to finish him off.…

The expected shot never came. An empty chamber clicked off. Kamil’s voice cursed at someone in the hall; then all Hujr could hear was the pounding of feet as troops raced past his door. The room was still for several heartbeats. The boy moaned lightly, his arms twitching against the mat.

Hujr was about to move when the door creaked shut. There was movement in the room. Someone had walked in and was inspecting the chamber. Hujr held as still as he could, trying not to breathe lest the person detect that he was alive.

A moment passed. When the boy moaned Hujr heard the guard move to the door, then walk close and chamber his rifle—

Hujr snapped his feet up and knocked the man in the knees. As the man staggered forward, reached up and dug his hands into the man’s throat.

The guard sputtered, then choked as Hujr slowly finished the job.

Hujr pushed the guard away in disgust. His shoulder throbbed from the bullet wound. The boy was still unconscious, bleeding from his own injury. Hujr dressed quickly, and before he left he paused to put a bullet through the man’s head. At least he would be sure the man would never catch up with him, a lesson that the guard should have learned.

He listened at the door and, satisfied that no one was on the other side, cracked it open to survey the hall.

The place was deserted except for a body slumped in the middle of the corridor. From Hujr’s position, the body looked faintly familiar.

Hujr crept out and turned the body over. His pulse yammered at him. It was Du’Ali! Seemingly unrelated events began to click in his mind. His seclusion in total secrecy, even from Kamil’s own troops, now made sense: Kamil wanted no one to know of Do’brai’s involvement in the kidnapping.

Hujr backed into the room and gathered the guard’s weapons: a knife, a pistol, and a high-powered rifle. Wrapping a soiled handkerchief around his upper arm, he was able to halt most of the blood still oozing from his wound.

He’d have to move out, and fast—he didn’t know when to expect the troops back. He was used to moving clandestinely through Do’brai; that presented no problem. But wherever he went, he knew that General Kamil would have a price on his head. He wasn’t sure why, but that didn’t matter.

He was used to being a wanted man, but for someone to double-cross him—that was unforgivable. Therefore, there was only one thing he could do.

He made up his mind to hunt the general down.

U.S.S.S.
Bifrost

“So what if we’ve never done it before? Give the marines direct control of the runway clearer, damn it.” Lieutenant Colonel Frier jutted out his jaw and stared defiantly at the army general filling his monitor. So what the hell were they going to do to him if he talked back to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—take away his birthday? They sure as hell couldn’t court-martial him up here. Not now, anyway.

General Batman Peters’ face remained impassive for only a fraction of a second; the delay was due to Frier’s transmission bouncing off two geosynchronous satellites, to the White House and back to BIGEYE again. But when Peters’ expression did change, the general wore a scowl.

“Listen, George, we can’t afford to relinquish control of the runway clearer—”

“You mean
you
can’t afford to relinquish control, General. You’re the only one in the NECC who realizes how bad things are in Do’brai.”

“All right,” conceded Peters. “
I
can’t allow you to control it.”

“But I wouldn’t control it, I’d only relay Colonel Krandel’s instructions. Krandel is in direct contact with BIGEYE, and he’s the one whose ass is on the line. He doesn’t want to rely on the whim of the NECC to protect his men.”

“I understand that, George.”

“Then do something! Do they want these boys to live or die down there? Ever since Vandenberg launched the runway clearer, the NECC has refused to let it do what it was designed to do. Whose side are they on, anyway?”

“We thought the President was near the runway. You know we couldn’t allow that runway clearer to let loose its salvo.”

Frier sounded weary. “I know that. But now that Krandel’s men are holed up and the President is gone, let
them
direct its firepower. All they have to do is relay their orders up to BIGEYE, and we’ll shoot the coded directions down to the runway clearer. It’s a piece of cake.”

Peters gnawed on his lip. The delay seemed a little longer than usual this time. The general replied, “Giving Krandel control of the runway clearer would ruin the Vice President’s plan to get out of this situation with no injuries.”

“Too late for that, general. Two marines and a TAV pilot have already died, and Krandel estimates a dozen Do’brai militia have bit the big one.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do—but I can’t promise anything.” Frier started to grin as Peters came back: “And you’re lucky you’re not coming down to Earth anytime soon, George, or I’d have you strung up for insubordination.” He paused, then added, “But thank goodness someone besides those marines has balls. I’ll let you know ASAP, if not sooner, on that.”

Camp Pendleton, California

“Men, I’m not going to give you any rah-rah bullshit.” General Vandervoos paused and looked around the room. “I’ll lay it out for you straight: Eleven marines are fighting for their lives in Do’brai. Six hours ago I told you that the President of the United States had been kidnapped. Our men have successfully rescued him, and he’s due to land at Dulles in fifteen minutes. But he wasn’t freed without a price. Two marines—Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski and Corporal Henderson—and an air force pilot died in the rescue. One of the TAVs we sent in was destroyed, and now eleven of our brothers are depending on us to get them back.

“We’re sending in the five remaining TAVs. Three of them will carry fuel to get you back; the other two will transport the remainder of the RDF to Do’brai.” General Vandervoos tried to chomp on his unlit cigar. When the stogie fell apart in his teeth, he threw it wearily to the side.

The man looked beat. Deep, dark circles enveloped his eyes, and his face was gray, but his voice still had an edge to it. “So I’m not giving you a pep talk. If you need one, you shouldn’t be here.

“You men are all professionals—and I don’t mean like some regulation-happy son-of-a-bitch who’d rather see a rule followed than the job get done. I mean professional in the sense that when you know a fellow marine is dying, you’re going to do everything you can to rescue his ass. Even if it means you may die trying. You’ll do it because you’re a marine; because there are things like God and country, duty and honor and freedom, which mean more to you than anything else on earth.…”

Vandervoos stopped, glassy-eyed, and almost choked on his words. He surveyed the group of forty men, but none batted an eye. Only Captain Weston, standing guard over his platoon in the rear of the lecture room, nodded his head.

General Vandervoos ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m getting old, rambling on like that. But damn it, I’d go with you if I could.” He straightened and spoke in a whisper. “Men, your brothers are out there. You’re going because if you were in their place, they’d be coming after you.” There was silence for several moments. He lifted his head. “Captain Weston, do you have anything to say?”

Weston spoke up from the back. “Only some tactical information, sir. BIGEYE has Colonel Krandel’s men holed up in a small depression east of the runway. We’ll be coming in on the TAVs from opposite directions to try to confuse any enemy fire that may be present. The plan is to disembark and cover the three TAVs coming in with the fuel bladders, refuel, and get out of there as fast as we can.”

“Good. Good. Any last questions?” The atmosphere was tense. “I know you men haven’t contacted your families in over six hours now, but we still need the news blackout. Your TAVs load in ten minutes. Good luck, marines.”

Vandervoos strode abruptly from the room. The men jumped, knocking over chairs in their haste to stand at attention as the general exited.

Once the general cleared the door, Weston moved to the front. “You heard him—nobody screws up and nobody dies. Let’s roll.” He threw open the door, and the men filed silently out, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

They knew the general was right. If they were the ones in Do’brai, they would be the ones being rescued. And
nobody
wanted to screw up his own rescue.

Do’brai

General Kamil reached the staff car on the run. He commandeered the vehicle, threw the driver from the seat, and tore off for the airport.

Behind him, the militiamen scrambled aboard an old, brown military bus. Belching smoke, the bus rumbled after their leader.

Kamil drove steadily through the dusty streets, keeping his cool, but pressing the car ever faster. The traffic was sparse at this time of the morning, but he still had to swerve to miss carts and animals as early-morning hawkers gathered to display their wares at market.