Return to Honor Read Online Free PDF

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 afterthe 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