Part 29 (1/2)

But something was wrong.

Again, he carefully searched the camp. The guards, the trucks, the hostages... The hostages.

No one was being a.s.saulted, no one being brutalized. They were laughing with the Afghans! Coffee and food were being doled out. There was a general sense of relaxation and ease.

Then one of the crates was pried open, and Jerry finally understood. Slowly he worked his way closer to the camp to confirm the awful truth.

The crates were stenciled in German, not English; and what was coming out of them was far from humanitarian aid. Rather, it was Heckler & Koch a.s.sault weapons in their original factory wrappers. Each arm-length weapon coming complete with its triple-forked banana clips.

And the relief workers wore the pale blue uniforms of the Grens-Schutz Gruppe III. West German GSG-3 counterinsurgents, not U.N. workers.

Jerry cried.

Because these people-their wives, children, animals, homes, their very existence and any traces of it-were to be wiped out simply because they had changed allegiance from one Western power to another. And Herb Stone-as well as the people behind him-were going to send that message to the other groups.

”We buy you, you'd better stay bought.”

”Car Wreck, Car Wreck, Car Wreck, this is ground.”

”Car Wreck.”

”Car Wreck, this is ground, all units at jump-off. Go/no go?”

”Ground from Car Wreck.” Jerry took a deep breath. ”Abort, abort, abort.” ”Say again Car Wreck.”

”Abort! Abort! Abort,” he almost shouted into his radio as the tears of this final betrayal filled his eyes.

Disaffection from service to country almost never comes about apocalyptically. There are almost never crashes of thunder, streaks of lightning, or great sudden realizations.

Instead, it's a gentle, a quiet thing. A moment-if a moment could be identified-when you realize that you're being used not to protect G.o.d and country, not for lofty ideals or flags waving in the wind; but to get someone a corner office, enhance an invisible's career, defend an essentially meaningless whim, or merely the transitory personal agenda of middle management.

These are the things that lead to apostates and burnouts, suicides and men shooting from towers.

But at this moment (being asked to destroy innocent allies in the name of proprietary office politics)-torn between the pull of his twin addictions (nepenthe and blind patriotism)-Jerry Goldman simply and completely chose to blink from all existence.

Hoping G.o.d and the devil wouldn't notice.

Xenos pulled himself back from his dark center.

”I finally realized,” he said to the rapt youth, ”that the only thing these men wanted was power. For themselves, for their power structure, for the h.e.l.l of it. Right and wrong were mere abstracts to them. Tools.” He paused. ”Like I was.”

He exhaled deeply. ”Anyway, I quit because-whether he wants to admit it or not-your grandfather taught me to hold myself to a higher standard. To demand truths, real truths of the world, and to defend them whenever and wherever I found them.”

”Trouble was ... I couldn't find them. So, after a while, I stopped looking.”

He shrugged, like a helpless child. ”How could I go home to a man like your grandfather after that?”

Bradley shook his head. ”You just could've. I know him.”

Xenos sadly shook his head. ”Sixteen,” he said with a sad laugh. ”Talk to me when you're forty.”

Bradley stared at his uncle, then suddenly stood up and walked to the door.

”There is some soul of goodness in things evil,” would men observingly distill it out, he recited carefully, thoughtfully. ”For who could bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that merit of the unworthy takes...”

Xenos looked up abruptly.

”... but that the dread of something after death,” he said as if going into or coming out of a trance, ”the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.” He hesitated. ”Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.”

He looked stunned. ”Where did you learn that?”

Bradley shrugged as he went through the door. ”Something Poppy taught me.” And he was gone.

Slowly, as if drugged and fighting through it, Xenos turned the pages in the old book, not checking numbers, knowing by the feel where it was.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires;

But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.

And beneath it, in a tiny, childish scrawl, the words: It is my sacred trust as a Knight Eminent to never

give up my honour! This I swear upon my very soul.

Jerry Goldman

10 years old

And he stared at those words for the bulk of the next hour.

”Six, in position.”