Code of Honor

By Onnie Granados

"Costa Gavras is a beautiful country, once you get past the land mines and 60mm mortars in the jungle waiting behind the white sand beaches. Lush vegetation, clear skies with clean air, warm weather all year round, weak economy -- it would be a primo tourist resort for an enterprising businessman. If I'd been there as a tourist instead of a soldier, I might even have liked the place. But I wasn't, and I didn't. If you know what I mean..."

Or so says William "Billy" Markham, U.S. Army Special Forces, on a mission to recover the classified contents of a spy plane. He knows if he's caught, it means more than just his death -- it means the death of countless innocent people in a place far from his home. Falling in with a group of brave but struggling freedom fighters, Billy realizes that there's more at stake than be bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Onnie Granados
• Release date: Feb 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301279876

Book preview

Code of Honor

by Onnie Granados

Copyright 2013 Onnie Granados

Smashwords Edition

OCTOBER, 1990

I looked up. In the distance, on the ridge where the jungle gave way to jagged rock, I could see two crosses silhouetted against the cloudy skyline, just below the setting sun. They were more like Xs, actually, each about eight feet across, and my throat tightened when I saw them. Crucifixion crosses. I knew what they were, what I'd find on them. I put my head down, continuing on my slow crawl to the ridge.

It had rained a few hours earlier, and the sound of water dripping from and among the thick leaves came from all around me. The earth beneath me was saturated with countless weeks of rain, and the mud it created clung tenaciously to my boots. With each motion forward I could feel my uniform sticking to my body, sweat, rain, and mud making a slurry that seeped in under my collar and cuffs. I tried to wipe some of it from my face, but only succeeded in getting it in my eyes.

At least the fucking rain's stopped, I thought, trying to keep the barrel of my M-16 clean. I kept going.

The bugs weren't biting as much anymore, and I hadn't seen any sign of CGA troops for several hours. It seemed to be a little cooler, too. At least I wasn't sweating so much anymore. Not from the heat, anyway.

There were two other men in my squad, but I'd been out of contact them since the day before. If I never saw either of them again I wouldn't be surprised.

My radio wasn't working. It'd been damaged when a Costa Gavran guerrilla I'd happened upon had tried to put a knife in my stomach. He hadn't succeeded.

There'd been no time for me to explain that I was on his side. He wouldn't have listened anyway. I couldn't blame him; if the situation had been reversed, I'd have done the same thing he did. Lady luck just happened to be with me this one time.

The crosses were close enough now that with my binocs I could see each had a man tied to it. They were both wearing uniforms, U.S. Army. Almost like mine.

I could make out the first man quite clearly. The camouflage pattern on his jacket was streaked with red where blood had flowed. The blood came from bullet wounds in his chest, and from the raggedness above his shoulders where his head should have been.

I couldn't see much beyond that. I didn't need to. I’d seen it all before.

The other man was the same. There wasn't much point in staring at them any longer. I put my binocs back in their case and began to move forward again.

The sun was only a half-circle above the horizon by the time I got to the bottom of the ridge. The dead men were above me, their crosses held upright by heavy boulders rolled against the dark wood. The ridge was otherwise desolate. Even though there was little doubt that the two bodies were those of the Mohawk's crew, I had to know for sure. That's why I was there.

In a couple of minutes I was at the edge of the jungle, in sight of a narrow trail that wound up along the treacherous rock surface of the ridge. It was such a clear path up it bothered me. If I were to try and get to the top, there would be was nothing for me to take cover behind should there be a CGA sniper waiting in the last trees before the clearing. I knew enough about these bastards to expect that.

I was debating what to do when I heard a pair of high, thin whistles from somewhere in the trees behind me.

I rolled to the ground quickly, my M-16 switched from single shot to full-automatic before I even hit the mud. The whistle I'd heard was a signal from one CGA soldier to another, a signal to let his comrades know he'd spotted the enemy. Me.

There was no movement in the trees around me, only a silence more complete than any I'd heard in a long time. Then there was the sound of someone trying not to laugh. I swung the barrel of my rifle a few degrees clockwise.

Hey, asshole, a voice hissed from the general direction of my aim, watch where you're pointing that thing. The voice took on a pseudo-Mexican accent. "'Buenos dias, Señor Cleaver.'"

The adrenaline pump in my bloodstream slowed down a few beats. It was either Coffey or Stretch out there, giving the code words we'd worked out as our own little ID.

Was that your whistle? I whispered as loudly as I could, my fingers still clamped tightly around the stock of the rifle.

There was another quick burst of hushed laughter. Yeah. I couldn't tell who it was out there. Might have been you -- but might have been worse. Only you'd hit the dirt that fast. There was a moment of silence. You mind pointing that thing a little to the left? You're aimed right between my legs. On full-auto, if I know you.

It was Coffey. I lowered the barrel of my M-16, and was almost on my feet again when he came out from where he was hiding.

He was covered in mud and sweat. His beret was gone. His hair was matted across his forehead, and there was a gash in his leg that he'd bandaged with a strip of uniform material. Not a U.S. uniform, though.

When we'd split up the day before he'd had an M-16, same as Stretch and me. But as he got a little