PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  He brought his thoughts back to the immediate problem—survival. “Hayes, ammo check.”

  The black sergeant brought his head up. “I’ve got seven magazines for the M-16, four for my M-9, a couple grenades, and your data tapes.”

  “Stillwell?”

  Brian checked his pouches. “I got ten magazines for the M-16, four for the Beretta, and six grenades,” replied Brian, choosing to refer to the M-9 by its more popular civilian name.

  Harper had maybe fifty shotgun shells left and plenty of magazines for the Browning and Glock. He had four grenades pinned to his Alice vest. The problem would be food and water—they had only what was left in their backpacks. The majority was sitting in the HMMWVs, and the chances of that remaining secret were nonexistent.

  “As I see it, we’ve got to take out those soldiers before they can reinforce their forces.”

  Hayes nodded.

  Stillwell stared at the dirt between his boots. He was tired and now Harper was talking about attacking a company of Iraqi soldiers.

  Harper charged his throat mike. “Anderson, I would guess you’re in the middle of this mess.”

  Anderson responded with a singleclick .

  “Burns and Kincaid are dead?”

  Click.

  Harper sighed. He would deal with those problems later. He still had four men left and he needed to bring them out alive. “Anderson, have they found the Claymores?”

  Click click.

  Hayes looked up from his own thoughts and said, “I know how Kincaid set them up, and I’m pretty sure I know where he has the clacker.”

  Harper nodded. He drew in the dirt with his fingers. “Do you think you can get back to the detonators?”

  Hayes smiled.

  “We’re Force Recon, sir. We own the night. I’ll need somebody help me pull the ragheads in.”

  “Bait.”

  Hayes nodded. They both looked over at Stillwell.

  Brian met their gaze. “Bait?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Hayes. “You run real fast, dodge a lot of bullets and hit the ground when I tell you to.”

  “And?”

  “And I push the detonator and kill as many of the bad guys as possible.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Then, Lieutenant, we’ll probably all be dead by morning,” replied Harper matter-of-factly. “We need to keep them off balance until nightfall, and try to slip away. Of course, we can’t just leave Anderson there in the middle of these folks, so we’re going to have to bloody them some more in order to get our man out.”

  Stillwell nodded. “And you sir, what will you be doing in the meantime?”

  “Keeping them busy on this end,” Harper replied.

  Stillwell rubbed his hands together. “Which one of you has orders to ensure I don’t fall into Iraqi hands?”

  Harper felt his heart turn to ice. There was something else going on here. Something he had not figured out yet. Stillwell was a game player and a weapons expert. He ran simulations with the help of high-powered PCs to determine the lethality of certain weapon systems. He probably also gamed those weapon systems to determine the best scenarios to employ those same weapons.

  “Those are my orders, Lieutenant,” said Hayes. He spat in the dirt. “All members of the Force Recon fire team were given those orders. If it looked like this might go down badly, our orders were to make sure you did not fall into Iraqi hands. They were spelled out to us before we arrived at Andrews.”

  Stillwell nodded as if he understood. “So you want me to act like bait and run straight towards a bank of Claymores. I’m supposed to put my trust in a man who has standing order to kill me if things fall apart, or I can hang with a madman who shoots people’s kneecaps out.” His mouth was too dry to spit and his hand trembled until he held it tight with his other hand. It was not much of a choice.

  Harper watched Hayes and the easy manner he held the M-16. He was far enough away to bring it to cover both of them, and since his admission of his orders, his eyes never left Harper. The trigger finger on his right hand lay across the receiver just above the trigger guard. It was in the guard position and with minimal effort it could be on the trigger.

  Harper shifted his weight and watched Hayes shift his hands closer to a ready position. Something was really going wrong with this mission. “Sergeant, considering our position and the fine unit cohesiveness we have achieved, who issued you these orders?” he asked sarcastically. This did not have the feel of a Louis Edwards’ fiasco.

  Hayes continued to watch Harper’s hands. He knew Harper was too professional to speak with his eyes, but the hands would give away whatever he intended to do. “Our orders were signed by the SECDEF.”

  “His personal signature?” asked Stillwell.

  “The SECDEF knows personally of this mission?” queried Harper. Edwards ran his missions out of Langley, not the Pentagon. The Director of Central Intelligencemight know about their mission. The Pentagon was not supposed to be in the loop. That meant Edwards was not in the loop. If the Op were run with different players, then Carnady might be out of the loop as well. How could the SECDEF justify such an order with the Uniform Code of Military Justice? Maybe, they just didn’t care.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stillwell worked enough spit back into his mouth to croak out, “The National Security Advisor knows about this mission. They had a letter signed by the Secretary of the Army reinstating me to active duty.”

  Harper sighed and leaned forward rubbing his face with his hands. He shook his head and laughed slightly. Through the spaces between his fingers, he watched Hayes first tense then relax. Harper’s left boot came up and smashed hard into the sergeant’s gun hand pinning the rifle, his arms, and his body against the sand. With his free hand, he pulled the Glock and pointed it straight at Hayes’s head.

  “Don’t!” Hayes snapped.

  Darby Hayes started to pull his hand, only to find Harper pressing the whole of his two-hundred-five-pound frame into the Marine. “Don’t make me do this, Sergeant!”

  There was no dramatic cocking of a hammer with the Glock. It is a double-action-only design where the only visible safety was one on the trigger and this made it an incredibly easy gun to shoot. Harper took up the slack and said quietly, “You’re four-and-a-half pounds from a really bad headache. But let me explain something, Sergeant.”

  Hayes glared at him. “It’s against the law to shoot your sergeant, sir.”

  Harper nodded. “Well, Sergeant, I don’t know who came up with the bright idea to send Lieutenant Stillwell on this mission. He’s not a shooter. He’s not a combatant. He did pretty well in the firefight, and he followed orders even when he didn’t like them. But nobody sends a shooter on my team for someone else on my team—nobody!

  “There’s something really wrong with this mission. Let me explain to you thenew rules of engagement. You copy on this, Anderson?”

  Click.

  “If one of you Force Recon boys decide to take out Lieutenant Stillwell, you’d better make sure you take me out first. You better think about the ethics and honor that you were both taught. We don’tfrag our own people.

  “I need both of you working together to make it home. I intend to bring the rest of us out of this hole, and I intend to finish this mission. I don’t understand the orders you were given, and I certainly don’t agree with them. But make no mistake, this is my command, and we are deep in Indian country with a whole lot of bad guys half a klick away.

  “I don’t have time to baby sit either one of you. So on your word of honor, I want you to disregard the standing order about Lieutenant Stillwell, because it is morally and ethically wrong.”

  Hayes looked from the Glock’s black frame to the nearly half-inch muzzle staring at him, rock steady. He looked to Harper, then Stillwell. “You have my word.”

  Immediately, Harper lowered the weapon and pulled back from Hayes.

  “You’re going to accept his word. Just like that. You�
��“

  Harper looked at Hayes. Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Lieutenant, Sergeant Hayes is a United States Marine. Not just any Marine—he is a member of Force Recon. He is the best of the best. In the Corps, they still teach right from wrong and black from white. Sergeant Hayes took an oath to defend the Constitution from all enemies, both foreign and domestic. His ultimate boss is not me, or the Commandant of the Corps, or even the President. His ultimate boss is the people. If what we do here does not further the security of America, then what we are doing is wrong. When Sergeant Hayes gives me his word, it is his word of honor as a United States Marine and as soldier and a warrior. I accept his word, because I do not believe he will tarnish his honor or his word once given.”

  Hayes rubbed his bruised hand. “Thank you, sir, for trusting me. I’m not sure I would have made the same decision in your place.”

  Harper nodded and said, “Anderson, what about you?”

  Click.

  “Okay gentlemen, we have a plan and a mission.” He breathed a deep sigh. “As soon as we get Anderson out, I’ll call for the cavalry.”

  Stillwell gulped and asked quietly, “Would you have shot Hayes?”

  Harper leaned back against the dirt. “One of Jeff Cooper’s rules: never point a weapon at something you’re not willing to destroy.”

  Stillwell nodded, more horrified than when he left the Data Center.

  It took everyone a few moments to recognize what they were hearing. The vagaries of combat took a twisting path towards the intrigues called betrayal and treason. The hot, dry desert sun did nothing to warm the chill running through Harper’s bones. His worst fears were revealing themselves, and the horrible sensation of having been here before raised its ugly head.

  He turned towards the Data Center and the sound of the voice addressing them. “Major James Harper,” came the flat British accented English with a bouncing echo from a loud hailer. Harper turned towards Hayes and thought about the orders sending Stillwell with them. He considered all the orders and wondered briefly how many sides there were in this desert.

  “Major James Harper—yes, I believe you can hear me now. Major, I see that you have lost two men so far today. A Captain Kincaid and Captain Burns I believe. Both were veterans of your country’s war of aggression in 1991.” There was a pause, and then the sound of a sidearm popping in the distance. “But what’s a few more bullets for vermin like Kincaid and Burns.”

  Harper dropped to a knee and signaled Hayes to move out.

  Stillwell grabbed his arm and whispered harshly, “How does he know your name?”

  Harper shook his head. He was about to reply when the voice continued. “Of course, you have three others left—four men against my fifty or so survivors. These are elite Republican Guard troops. They will find you and kill you. Maybe before the sun sets or soon after.” He chuckled quietly. “You must be wondering how I know your name. But then, I know all of your names. Captain Anderson is an accomplished sniper. He’s around here somewhere, but it would be foolish for him to make any more shots. The counter-sniper actions of my men would doom him.”

  Harper whispered, “Anderson, does he have fifty men?”

  Click click.

  “Okay, this joker’s not as strong as he thinks,” he said to Hayes. “Lieutenant, this guy is playing with our minds. He’s gaming us. We’ve got to take them out.”

  Stillwell nodded. “I know about games.”

  “Then I’m gonna need your help Lieutenant. I’m gonna need an edge over this guy. But to do that we’ve got to kill some people first.”

  “The Claymores?”

  Harper nodded.

  “Major?” asked Hayes.

  Harper turned his attention back to Hayes.

  “And then there’s the ever resourceful Sergeant Hayes—truly a remarkable asset,” continued the voice on the louder hailer. “Did you know, Major Harper, that Sergeant Hayes was part of an elite team in 1995? He helped spirit a woman and her children out from under our very noses in 1995 to join her traitorous husband. They did it right out of the heart of Baghdad.

  “In fact, your CIA almost missed the opportunity. They didn’t believe the husband was one of our atomic scientists. He was training people to build the bomb once you Americans tired of flying over our country and threatening our livelihood with your sanctions. Sergeant Hayes killed two men on that mission. Now he has returned; we will try him for murder, espionage, and maybe a few other things. Your marvelous free press will report every tidbit we give them. After all, they did such a wonderful job on the baby formula factory during the war.”

  Harper sat down for a second. How much did they know?

  “Major?” repeated Hayes.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, they must have our Q files. I don’t know how they got them, but they must have them.”

  Harper nodded. The Q file was classified ULTRA SECRET. It was a special personnel record complete with mission and fitness reports for anyone in Spec War Operations who had participated in a black operation. The Q files were closely guarded files maintained in a vault at Langley or the Pentagon depending on where people were assigned.

  “Hayes, take Stillwell and go.”

  “One other thing, Major.”

  “Yes.”

  “Those other orders we were given.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve got to be as bogus as the rest of this mission.”

  “Agreed.”

  Harper flipped the Mossberg upside-down and started feeding three-inch magnum rifled slugs into the magazine. He gathered the canvas bag with the data tapes and said, “Good luck.”

  “You also have Lieutenant Brian Stillwell,” continued the voice, “kind of a surprise to have a civilian along with a soldier’s uniform on. You know they had to pull the Secretary of the Army out of bed to sign your activation papers.” There was the crinkling of paper. “I have a copy of your orders here. An amazing document, Lieutenant, it activates you for a mission that no longer exists. I believe you people call this a black op. Well, it certainly got a whole lot blacker.

  “Now, Brian, I may call you Brian?” teased the voice. Hayes and Stillwell were already moving in a large circle towards the Claymores. Harper moved in the opposite direction. He slung the Mossberg over his back and pulled the Browning from his back holster. He reached another hand into one of his leg pockets and produced a silencer.

  Harper had refitted the Browning with a non-standard barrel threaded on the end. He kept a muzzle brake screwed on the end of the barrel to protect the threads, since the threaded barrel extended beyond the end of the slide when the gun was in battery. Technically, the silencer was a violation of Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms regulations. He did not have a proper Class 3 license for the silencer, but ten years in a Federal prison was far down the list of problems right now.

  The silencer was gift from a retired Special Air Service trooper several years ago. It was the sort of thing soldiers trade with one another after the action is over. A silenced weapon could come in very handy.

  “I see you’re not talking yet,” continued the voice. “Yes, well our plans for you are quite different. You know those alimony payments you make every month and the lousy visitation rights you never seem to get? Those are outdated. We want your brain. You know all about unconventional weapon systems. I propose to offer you your life, either with a certain level of luxury, or as aguest in one our lower dungeons.

  “It is your choice, but I should point out you are the only one we will let live.”

  Harper stopped again and took the canvas bag. He shoved it into a hole and moved a rock over the top of the bag. He wondered vaguely whether he could find the spot again. He took a grenade and yanked the pull ring. Holding the spoon tight to the side, he placed the grenade under the rock so the pressure held it in place—a small surprise for some overachiever in Saddam’s Army. He started moving again, checking his watch. Too many hours of daylight remained. T
hey were fighting elite troops without the cover of darkness.

  “Which brings me to you, Major Harper. Oh, you have been a problem for many years. Do you know, Major, that we have videotape records of your attack on this facility from 1992? I compared your service photo to the ones we have on tape—a very good likeness, although the tapes are a bit grainy.

  “I really would like to take you alive. However, in reviewing your wartime service record, your peacetime missions into Iran, Iraq, Libya, the old Soviet Empire, and the Eastern Block, I think such a sentiment is fruitless. However, I do intend to retrieve your body and photograph it. I think your wife Lynn would be interested in seeing the blasted remains.” He chuckled again.

  “I will even send parts of you to your daughters Grace, and Catherine, for their birthdays. You know they’ll never be safe. Someday, a car will park in your neighborhood. Maybe I’ll wait until they have their own families, or maybe I’ll do it a few days from now. In either case, you won’t be there to save them, will you?

  “This car will be packed with Semtex. There is so much of it floating around these days. Everyone seems to have the formula for producing it—the North Koreans, the Red Chinese, and the Russians to name a few. Not only will I destroy your house, but I will destroy the nice little suburban community you live in.

  “There will be plenty of body parts flying about, and there is nothing you can do about it. You’ll be dead. All those tricky little things you’ve pulled off before—useless. Your exceptional IQ—worthless; your formidable skills in the martial arts—powerless; there will be no one to protect them—no one to come in at the last moment and save them. How about that, Major?”

  Harper slid down another wadi and willed himself to quit grinding his teeth. Whoever was responsible for this would pay. His tormentor had just given him the motivation he needed not to fail. The tension running across the back of his neck was incredible, and the anger boiling inside his belly screamed for release.