by Cole, Myke
For a moment, everyone stood, frozen. Most of the men were in dress uniforms and unarmed, but a few armed soldiers ringed the plaza. They raised their weapons tentatively, then lowered them, unsure of what to do.
Bookbinder sucked in a breath and mustered all the command he could. ‘We are Americans!’ he shouted. ‘We demand to be taken to the office of our defense attaché or the nearest US embassy immediately!’
He picked out the closest Indian officer, judging by his dark green epaulets. ‘Do any of you speak English?’ Bookbinder shouted again as he approached. ‘We are Americans, and . . .’
‘I speak English,’ the officer answered him. ‘And now you are being detained.’
The paralysis broke, and the Indians surged forward, taking hold of Bookbinder and his team, binding their hands behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Homeward Bound
Hurricane season used to be our big mobilization time, but good Hydromancy and Aeromancy pretty much put paid to that. Add in the legalization of marijuana, and we were nearly a service without a mission. Then the Bosporus Incident blew up, and the navy had a ton of egg on its face. They didn’t have the authority to operate against what turned out to be US citizens. But we do. Globally, there are seven major maritime choke points that threaten US trade on the high seas. Guess who keeps ’em open now? I’ll give you hint. It ain’t the Navy.
– Chief Warrant Officer 4 Janice Heligg, Skipper,
United States Coast Guard Cutter Hammerhead
Detention by the Indians wasn’t all that different from being guests of the Naga Raja. Bookbinder and his team were ushered into one of the low, aluminum-sided buildings that ringed the plaza. The inside was featureless save for a stack of gray folding chairs and a single long folding table. Cinder-block walls had been painted a sick shade of yellow. Bookbinder cracked a smile. The thought that the military was the military, even here on the other side of the world, amused him.
They were released from their bonds, and two guards were posted in the room’s single entrance, not that they would try to escape anyway. Where would they go? They were in the middle of what Bookbinder guessed was the nerve center of the Indian military’s magic-using arm. Food and water was brought by a couple of troopers, all of whom Bookbinder guessed had been carefully chosen for their inability to speak English.
And then the waiting began.
‘They’re going to put us right back through that gate,’ Stanley groused.
‘I don’t think so,’ Bookbinder said. ‘If they were going to do that, I figure they’d have done it already. Every second they delay, it’s going to be more of a problem.’
He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of Woon, Sharp, and Archer. ‘I had to do it,’ he found himself saying. ‘This wasn’t about impatience. Ajathashatru would never have let us go. That shell game would have gone on for ever.’
Sharp didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. Woon cracked a smile. ‘That was balls to the wall, sir. I can’t believe you did that.’
Bookbinder discovered he was smiling in spite of himself. For all he knew, he’d just created an international incident as well as an interplanar one. He kept telling himself that time was on their side, but that didn’t stop him from expecting the guards to haul them out of this room and toss them back through a gate at any moment. ‘Honestly? I can’t believe I did it either.’
‘You stole the naga Portamancer’s magic, Bound it into that truck,’ Woon said.
Bookbinder nodded. ‘I wish I could control where it went. I guess this is where the naga was opening the gate. Would have been a lot easier if he’d been opening it on Washington.’
After a few hours, an Indian man in a suit entered the room. He was tall and good looking, his hair military short and his face clean shaven. He carried a pen, notebook and handheld digital recorder. He smiled at them. ‘Colonel Bookbinder, I presume,’ he said in perfect English. ‘You gave us all quite a scare.’
Bookbinder was expecting this. He stood. ‘That’s nice. Neither myself, nor any member of my team has anything to say to you.’
The man frowned, managing to look surprised and wronged at the same time. ‘There’s no need for that, sir. I’m not here to interrogate you.’
‘Are you a duly authorized agent of the United States government?’ Bookbinder asked.
The man smiled and spread his arms.
‘Then we’re not talking to you.’ He turned and faced his team. ‘As your commanding officer I am ordering you on pain of an article fifteen at a minimum not to speak to any foreign national. Not a single word until I say otherwise. You will only speak to the US consul or defense attaché. Everyone clear on that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied in unison, even Stanley.
He turned back to the Indian, who was already speaking. ‘Sir, this isn’t necessary. As I said, this isn’t an interrogation. I just have a few basic questions so that I can . . .’
Bookbinder stabbed a finger at his chest. ‘Not. One. Word. If you’re going to use torture, you better get started. But keep in mind that we’re going to resist with everything we have. US consul or defense attaché.’ He took a step closer and did his best impression of Colonel Taylor. ‘We’re done here.’
The Indian’s face became equally serious and angry. Under the diplomatic smile was the expression of a man clearly not used to being disobeyed. ‘Very well,’ he said, and left.
Bookbinder turned back to his team. They met his eyes with varying degrees of uncertainty, but at least they had the respect not to say anything. Once he’d called the anger, it was difficult to dismiss, and he paced the room for a full hour, before his head had cooled enough for him to realize the butterflies in his stomach were competing with hunger, exhaustion, and an almost overwhelming urge to pee.
Well, Julie, bunny, at least I’m back on the same plane as you. That’s a start, right?
The idea gave him comfort through the hours that followed. He stared at his wedding band, toying with it as he lost track of how long they waited. Twenty-four hours? Maybe twice that long? He lost count of how many times the guards were rotated. There were no more visits. No one brought food or water, no one checked on them. They simply sat, slumped in their chairs, not speaking. A part of Bookbinder yelled at him to search the room, to try to find another avenue for escape. But he was an empty cup. He had risen as far as he could to the task at hand. He had led them this far. It was either enough, or it wasn’t. He was done.
He found himself slumped over one of the folding chairs, his sore ass reporting that he had fallen asleep in it, when the door finally opened again. He squinted, shading his eyes against the bright daylight streaming in from outside, silhouetting another man in a suit.
Bookbinder stirred, working the kinks out of his lower back. ‘I thought I told you, we’re not going to . . .’
‘Colonel Bookbinder, sir?’ the man said. He had sandy blond hair and a slight Midwestern accent. An American flag was pinned neatly to his lapel. ‘I’m Paul Krieger from the US embassy. I’m here to take custody of you.’
Bookbinder only stared, suddenly noticing that the guards were gone. Woon let out a short bark of a laugh. Sharp and Archer stood and dusted themselves off, all business, Stanley close behind.
‘I don’t believe . . .’ Bookbinder finally managed.
Krieger grinned. ‘You tumbled through that gate in front of visiting dignitaries from half a dozen countries, all of whom have relationships with us. The naga might be nasty in the Source, but the US Navy is nasty right off the coast. It wasn’t exactly a hard sell. There’s a chopper waiting for us outside. Let’s go.’
Bookbinder pressed his face up against the tiny window of the Greyhound airplane as the catapult whipped it forward. The thrust briefly pressed him back into his seat, but a moment later he was back at the window, watching the deck of the carrier Gerald R. Ford disappear behind them. He glanced around at the rest of his team. Only Stanley was awake, his eyes locked o
n the C-2A’s closed rear hatch. Sharp, Archer, and Woon were fast asleep.
Bookbinder couldn’t blame them. He’d barely slept since the same aircraft whisked them off the Indian base to the waiting carrier. Thus far, they’d been more closely guarded by their own countrymen than by the Indians. A doctor silently examined them, asking no questions and telling them nothing. Six MPs and a Suppressor stood by, keeping them confined to the carrier’s bridge until the plane was ready to launch again. The team huddled together, feeling alien back on their Home Plane and closer to one another. Bookbinder thought briefly of asking to contact his family, but decided against it. Sooner or later, they would be questioned, and that would be the time for answers and requests. Yelling at enlisted MPs wouldn’t do him any good. Besides, he promised himself that no matter how it twisted in his gut, his family would wait. They were safe. His FOB wasn’t. First things first.
Bookbinder eventually dozed himself, waking only when the Greyhound touched down on a smooth and well-maintained flight line abutted by rows of waving palm trees. The plane finally came to a shuddering stop before a sign depicting a blue shield broken by a waving gold chevron. UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE WELCOMES THE WOLF PACK! it read. Thailand, Bookbinder thought. How can someplace so exotic seem so mundane to me now? But after the intensity of every sensation in the Source, he figured the Vegas Strip would be an anticlimax.
The Greyhound’s rear hatch descended with a whir, stirring the rest of his team awake as MPs and Suppressors trooped aboard, led by two men in dark suits and sunglasses, totally inappropriate to the near-eighty-degree heat. Bookbinder stood and shook himself as the suits silently motioned him and his team off the aircraft and into a closed white van. They rode in silence for just a few minutes before being dropped off in front of a plain white aluminum building at the line’s edge. It was completely surrounded by troops, and Bookbinder noted at least one armored humvee before he was ushered inside.
He nearly laughed out loud.
Though it was cleaner, and the furniture in better repair, the building’s interior almost exactly matched the Indian structure they’d just left. Same crappy folding chairs and tables. Same featureless walls. Same temporary structure.
A tall army major in his class A uniform met him. His short blond hair was cut exactly to regulation, his blue eyes frosty. His jaw line was as pronounced as his uniform creases. He looked every inch the textbook soldier. THORSSON, his nameplate read. Bookbinder could feel a solid Aeromantic current emanating from him, disciplined, like everything else about the man.
‘Colonel Bookbinder, welcome to Ubon and welcome home.’
Bookbinder nodded. ‘Thanks. Forgive me if I don’t stand on formality just now, I’m about on my last legs.’
Major Thorsson smiled. ‘You and me both, sir. I was on a plane from DC the moment we got word you were on our side of a gate. I was so anxious to get here that I actually dropped myself and flew the rest of the way on my own. C-130s are slow.’
‘You’re an Aeromancer,’ Bookbinder said, though he already knew.
‘They used to call me Harlequin,’ the man said, extending his hand. ‘Now I go by Major Jan Thorsson, Special Advisor to the Reawakening Commission. I’m here to take care of you, and also to find out just what the heck is going on.’
Bookbinder slumped in one of the folding chairs, completely drained. He heard similar sounds around him that told him his team was following suit.
‘You need a doctor?’ Thorsson asked.
Bookbinder waved. ‘We’re fine, just tired.’
‘Okay.’ Thorsson approached Stanley. ‘It’s good to see you alive, sir. I captured your son after he tried to kill you. I’m sorry that he escaped—’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Stanley cut him off. ‘Can you get me to him?’
Thorsson looked at him in silence, shocked by the urgency in his voice. He turned to Bookbinder. ‘Sir, I think it’s best if we speak alone.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Bookbinder said. ‘There’s nothing I know that this man doesn’t. He’s part of my team, and I’m not talking to anyone without him. You want to debrief us, you debrief all of us.’
Thorsson hesitated. ‘This man is not . . .’
‘You’re wasting time, Major,’ Bookbinder said.
Thorsson shook his head. ‘So, give me the bottom line, sir. Why are we in the middle of a political meltdown with India? And what happened to FOB Frontier?’
‘The FOB’s cut off . . .’ Bookbinder began.
‘We know that,’ Thorsson replied. ‘Britton killed our one Portamancer before he flew the coop. We need to know what happened to the FOB.’
Stanley looked at his lap.
‘What the hell do you think happened to it?’ Bookbinder said. ‘It’s cut off, surrounded, running low on supplies. The goblins get bolder every day. I left my XO in charge of the defenses. He told me he could hold for a month, and we’re already way past that. Things are dialed back a bit due to the winter, but he assured me that the fighting will pick up with the spring thaw. The Sahir liaison informed us they have a FOB appended to this kingdom of snake creatures called . . .’
‘Naga,’ Thorsson finished for him. ‘I’m aware of FOB Sarpakavu, sir.’
‘Did you know they had a Portamancer?’ Bookbinder asked. ‘Did you contact the Indians and have them send a team out to get us? Why the hell did I have to come to you?’
Thorsson was silent for a moment before gesturing to five even stacks of paper on the folding table behind him, one for each of them. ‘Sir, you will of course understand the necessity for complete individual debriefs of you and each member of your team. I’m afraid my security people are insisting on polygraph tests, and there will be these additional nondisclosure req—’
‘Nondisclosure! What the hell is wrong with you?’ Bookbinder exploded, leaping to his feet. ‘There are people dying in a FOB that’s cut off from home. We should be mobilizing a team to get them out, and instead we’re spinning our wheels worrying about bad press. There has to be a way to work this out. You need to call the Indian ambassador. If they’ve got a Portamancer, then we’ve . . .’
‘You’ve dealt with the naga before, sir. Getting them to assist is . . . something of a challenge. They have a differing perspective on the value of human life than we do.’
Bookbinder thought of the wasted idle hours in the opulent stone pavilion and nodded.
‘There has to be a way,’ he said. ‘Some other military with gate capabilities? Another Selfer? Even if the naga are tough, there’s got to be a way to work it out? There’s got to be, damn it.’
The door opened and a group of men in suits entered carrying briefcases. ‘We’ve got the debriefing rooms, prepped, Major,’ one of them said, not bothering to remove his sunglasses.
Bookbinder turned to protest but Sharp stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘Archer and I’ll go, sir. We’ve got nothing to hide. We came with you to accomplish a mission, and it’s been done. You’re in command, sir, you decide what’s the best course from here on out.’
Woon stood. ‘I’ll go, too, sir. If that’s all right with you.’
Bookbinder gaped at them. ‘Are you sure?’
Sharp met Woon and Archer’s eyes before turning back to him. ‘We’re sure, sir.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Stanley said through gritted teeth as Woon, Archer, and Sharp left with their debriefers. ‘And I’m not telling you shit until you tell me what’s going on with my wife and son.’
Stanley’s debriefer started forward, reaching into his jacket. Thorsson stopped him with a wave. ‘Give us a few more minutes, please,’ he said. The debriefers paused, looking askance, before leaving.
‘This is bullshit,’ Stanley said. ‘You’ve got a base full of your own about to get fried, and you’re so full of shit that you squeak going into a turn when I ask you about my son. He’s my family. My blood. Now you have got to tell me the truth. I’ve got a wife, too, damn it.’
‘De
sda,’ Thorsson said. ‘She’s fine.’
‘Jesus!’ Stanley said. ‘What about Oscar? My clearance was still active when I retired. I have a goddamn need to know!’
‘We’re doing what we can,’ Thorsson said, looking at his feet, his face flushed.
‘Something tells me that’s not entirely true,’ Bookbinder said evenly. ‘There’s a division’s worth of people on that FOB, major.’
‘This comes from the president, sir.’
Bookbinder amazed himself with what he said next. ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass. Do you know how many people are in a division?’
Thorsson was silent for a long time.
‘The naga,’ Bookbinder finally said. ‘We’ve got to get back in touch with them. Get me that consul who got us off the . . .’
‘Sir, please.’ Thorsson looked at Stanley. ‘If I have to, I can have you forcibly removed.’
Stanley opened his mouth, the words ‘do it’ forming on his lips. Bookbinder waved him back. ‘Just step outside, sir,’ he said. ‘Give me a minute with the major here.’
Stanley swore and left. Bookbinder spun on Thorsson. ‘Now, just what the hell is—’
‘The naga aren’t the only ones with a Portamancer,’ Thorsson cut him off.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Oscar Britton,’ Thorsson said. ‘We’ve got him.’
‘Take me to him,’ Bookbinder said. ‘Right now.’
Thorsson shook his head. ‘He’ll never help us.’
Bookbinder paused, his mind trembling with exhaustion, with panic, with missing his family. All he wanted to do was throw up his hands, sleep, eat, let someone else deal with this.
But instead he stood and stabbed his finger at Thorsson’s chest.
‘He has to,’ Bookbinder said. ‘He fucking has to.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Talking Points