Return to Honor (4 page)

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.”

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.