Return to Honor Read Online Free PDF Page A

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