Presidential Risk

By Michael Bronte

When dead presidents in a supernatural world play the board game of world conquest, their moves are played out in the real, human world of Earth. Leaders are born and dictators rise to power as presidents past plot their moves. Who will win? Will it be Abe or Fearless Frankie, both of whom took us through our greatest conflicts but who never directly led men into battle, or will it be one of our former generals like Georgie Boy, Ulysses, or Kid Zach who stared death in the face countless times and managed to evade it on the battlefield?
Many presidents play, but whatever the case, experienced in battle or not, one of them makes a move, and an invasion takes place on Earth. Follow the life of Pauli Campo as you see him navigate through a career that begins with his days in the 82nd Airborne, fighting armies of maniacal terrorists who are hell-bent on conquering country after country, eventually threatening every other power on the planet, including the United States. Why, and how, is this happening? It’s the unGame, you see.
In the supernatural world, it’s all about wits, strategy, and the will to win, but don’t let the juvenile behavior and presidential egos distract you from the fact that there is a purpose to the unGame. On Earth, it’s about leadership, and the action takes you through an adventure story featuring a psychopathic dictator, and the boy who will grow up to stop him from taking over the world. It might seem impossible, but history is being determined before it actually happens.
In the end, it’s little Pauli Campo who emerges from his meager existence to lead his country in the fight to avert a world war that could lead to the deaths of hundreds of millions of people. This is the unGame, and the struggle for world domination continues with each roll of the dice in Presidential Risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311897480

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

Presidential Risk

by

Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

1. The unGame

To a man—or an unman, as it were—they were impervious. Heat, as hot as that from any sun, or cold, as cold as that from beyond the farthest reaches of the furthermost heavens, didn’t affect them. The feeling of such would be a human thing, a sense they had possessed once, but for which there was no need now. To even say heavens is inaccurate, for where they were, is (or was) beyond all comprehension of space, beyond any concept of infinity that most mere mortals assume is the measure of the universe. They were at a point in creation where they became indistinguishable from the creator, or creators, where time was an abstract concept because, like the weather, or lack of it, there was no time. What was, is what will be, and what is, has been before. They took human form because it was what they had been once, and they were used to it.

One by one, they passed through an invisible door, an undoor through which they, or their chosen brethren, could pass, but through which the unchosen could never go, or come, in any form. It was a figment common only to their select little group, as was the table. It was the untable. It was large enough for all who wanted to play, and it was J. Edgar’s duty to guard the undoor. He was in lime chiffon for this particular unGame, and they called him Klinger.

Ready Teddy walked in brusquely, as always, and he waited impatiently, as always, for Georgie Boy to take his customary position at the unhead of the untable, for it was round. Several unplayers followed in various states of uninterest.

Old Hickory Jackson decided to play, his form a swashbuckling copy of the one he occupied on Earth. He clanged and clanked to his position, adorned with various needless hunks of glittering hardware. Fearless Frankie and Woody came in together like a set of bespectacled salt-and-pepper shakers. They were followed closely by Chrome Dome, who was in animated conversation with The Ladies’ Man, and Lame Brain Johnson. (The Ladies’ Man always said that’s what L.B.J. really stood for.)

Aah, with, aah, all due respect, General, he was not the greatest king of all time. The, aah, greatest king of all time would be an American. Chrome Dome was a tad confused. Elvis, said The Ladies’ Man, answering Chrome Dome’s unasked question.

Ah, said Chrome Dome.

Behind them, the shifty-eyed Tricky Dickie tried to eavesdrop. T.J. was alongside, handing him something that looked like an Italian sausage.

Here, this will help.

Tricky looked at it with some amusement. What’s this?

I call it the audio magnet. I just invented it. T.J. could make an explosive out of a tampon and some raspberry Jell-O, if he had to. Put it to your ear, and you can hear every sound in the megaverse. Try it.

Tricky did, and his shadowy uneyes lit up like cat’s eyes caught in the headlights just before impact. I’ll betcha Klinger would have liked one of these back in ‘62.

Ulysses came past, a cloud of stinky smoke billowing from his stogie. He had his unarm around Ron-Ron in fatherly fashion. Poor Ron-Ron. He could never remember the rules. Abe-The-Hat was right behind. Abe was good at the unGame, maybe the best, probably because he didn’t talk much and didn’t get all distracted like some of the other unplayers. A few of the non-regulars decided to join the festivities this particular unday. Billy Mac came, and so did Garfield the Cat, along with Mister Peanut, and a few others. Calvin Cool was the last one in.

Georgie Boy asked, Is this everyone?

I think the Adams boys will be in later, Woody replied.

They’re always late. You’d figure one of them could be on time. What the hell are they doing this time?

Knowingly, The Ladies’ Man said, Aah, I think they, aah, might be out plowin’ the, aah, south faahty with Marilyn.

I didn’t know she liked farming, Mister Peanut commented, his massive choppers reflecting the light of a hundred suns.

Shielding himself, Georgie Boy said, Turn your head, would ya? That shine is hurting my eyes.

At least I don’t have to worry about termites. That was pretty bold for Mister Peanut.

Chrome Dome distributed the boxes, and, as usual, everyone had to wait while Woody made sure he had just the right number and proper assortment of pieces.

Let’s get this show on the road, Ready Teddy bellowed impatiently. Who brought the dice? Finding them, he rolled first and calculated his total: eighteen. Damn! he yelled. It would be nowhere near enough to place the first army.

Mister Peanut was to Ready Teddy’s immediate left, an arrangement that proved to be instantly annoying. He grabbed the dice and blew on them, creating a solar wind that caused a comet to veer off course. C’mon baby. Amy needs a new pai’ah of shoes. He fired the cubes across the untable, the rumble analogous to an erupting volcano: twenty-three. Hot diggity dog, said Mister Peanut. His smile lit up the lower quadrant of the Impandic Galaxy.

Let me show you how to do it, the True Man said, but his roll totaled only fourteen.

So much for the man from the Show Me State, The Ladies’ Man cackled. Let’s give it the old Haa’va’d roll. Suddenly, he felt a tug on his coat.

Can I roll Jackie? Huh? Can I? Can I, please? C’mon Jackie, lemme roll. Please!

Sorry, Bobbie. You didn’t quite make it to the Oval Office, remembaa’?

But I woulda’ made it. C’mon Jackie. Can I roll? Pleeeease?

The Ladies’ Man rolled, and the dice rumbled like a cosmic rockslide: twenty-two.

Bobbie stamped his unfoot and knocked an entire constellation out of shape. You’re a big meanee! he yelled, his lower lip crossing over his upper.

Chrome Dome was next. Get lost, kid. He snapped up the dice and hurled them clean to the other side of the untable—a distance wider than some of the solar systems hanging around them like so many Christmas ornaments. Old Hickory Jackson stopped two of them from flying off, the dice sounding like a solar snap as they clinked against his saber and settled like square asteroids. I’ve got a new strategy I’d like to try if I get the first army, Chrome Dome declared, looking like a big turtle as he craned his unneck so he could count the dots: twenty-five.

Ulysses spewed a huge cloud from his stogie. It immediately balled into a new planet in the Growegian Universe, where the gravitational condensation was extraordinarily strong. Nice roll, Ike. He pulled a flask from his jacket. Anybody want a snort? There were no takers. This time the rotgut of choice was a special blend of Zenian tea that hadn’t aged long enough and kicked like a Mantaran mule. Ulysses tied with Mister Peanut.

They went in turn, all who were going to play on this particular unday, all of them hopeful they would be the first to claim a territory. Georgie Boy rolled a twenty-six. I’ll take it, he said, yanking the proverbial chain and rematerializing in the seat next to Ron-Ron. Gonna be tough to beat, eh, Ron?... Ron? Yo, Ron!

Ron-Ron’s unhead was nodding to and fro.

Jesus, Ready Teddy griped.

An unvoice boomed. Yes, may I help you?

Pulling a huge walking stick from under the untable, Ready Teddy said, Sorry, Number Two. I’ll take care of this myself. He took a bead and swooped the stick through a bank of nitrogen vapor clouds, crashing it onto the untable. The resulting cosmic boom radiated into several extraterrestrial regions. Ron-Ron didn’t even move.

Next to last was The Kid. The Kid was Kid Zach—Taylor, that is. Someone had tried to nickname him Opie once, but that name bit the dust real quick when The Kid got kinda ticked at it. It wasn’t a good idea to get The Kid ticked. While the history books said Ulysses was the relentless one in battle, he couldn’t hold a candle next to The Kid. The Kid had been a soldier for forty years, more than any other unplayer, including Chrome Dome. If there was a war on, The Kid had been there. The only good Injun, is a dead Injun, he’d once said, then, he peeled back another scalp as if he’d been peeling a banana. Even Ulysses shivered at that.

The Kid gathered the dice, shaking them as if he were trying to loosen the dots. Standing, he held his unhands above the untable and parted them slightly, letting the dice fall one by one, the destiny of current mankind on Earth hinging on the value of each upturned cube: six, six, five, four… plop… clunk… six. Yes! he said, giddy with the thought of being the first to claim a territory. It was good to be first.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the undoor, and Klinger called for help. Lame Brain Johnson, Polk Salad, Fearless Frankie, The Ladies’ Man, Woody, Calvin Cool, Billy Mac, Ruddy Haymaker, Old Hickory, The True Man, Chrome Dome, Mister Peanut, all of them scurried over. Even clumsy old Fix Or Repair Daily got up without tripping over himself, but the commotion was a lot more wind and fury than anything else. What the hell is going on? Georgie Boy called from the untable.

It’s just Ross, a presidential unvoice called back.

Again? That boy’s never gonna give up.

You want me to break his knuckles? Kid Zach asked.

That’s all right, T.J. said. I’ll take care of it.

T.J. made his way through the throng, which, having discovered it was just old Jug Ears, was making its way back to the untable. Nice dress, The Ladies’ Man commented as he glided passed Klinger. Chiffon?

Made it myself, Klinger said appreciatively as his uneyes followed The Ladies’ Man’s tight little unbutt.

T.J. looked through the undoor and shook his unhead ruefully, observing a comet’s tail glowing brightly in the darkness of the Norsb Galaxy some light years away. Riding the comet, Ross was circling a gravitational sun, getting dangerously close as he circled, and circled, and circled. What a lunatic, thought T.J. Ross was going to slingshot the comet, and himself, toward the undoor. Indeed, just before being sucked into the billion-degree mass of burning gases, Ross deflected the comet off an incoming planet stream, and careened toward the undoor at the speed of negative light. EEEEE-Hhaaaaaaa!

Everybody duck!

The unplayers held on for dear life as the comet roared by, creating a wake of galactic nebulae and smoldering asteroids that blasted into the undoor like cosmic cannon fire.

Finally waking up, What was that? Ron-Ron asked.

That crazy fool! Ready Teddy roared. Angrily, and not so softly, he walked through the undoor and took a stance, tapping his huge walking stick against his unfeet. He took a couple of practice swings and waited—in what amounted to two Earth years—for Ross to come around again. Here he comes, Ready Teddy mumbled. At just the right moment, he swooped the stick through the swirling clouds of celestial particles, and knocked the comet clean out from under Ross’s ass. Home run.

Furiously, Ross marched across two zodiacal parallels and faced down Ready Teddy, unnose to unchest, seething. You could have knocked my nuts off!

You don’t have any nuts.

Are you going to let me in, or what?

What’s the password?

What password?

You have to know the password. Do you think you can just waltz in here without knowing the password? We all know the password, don’t we, boys?

Yeah, sure, right, absolutely, positively, harrumph, harrumph, harrumph, gots to know the password.

See, said Ready Teddy.

If I get the password, can I play?

If you get the password, you can get in. We’ll talk about playing later. Ready Teddy folded his unarms.

How do I find out what the password is?

That’s your problem.

Fatso.

Pipsqueak.

Fart bag.

Blowhard.

Really? Klinger asked from the other side of the undoor.

I’ll be back, Ross snarled, and he stormed off.

I’m sure you will, Ready Teddy called after him. With that, he carried his big stick back to the untable, and asked softly, Where were we?

Abe was last to roll. As usual, Abe hadn’t said a word all unday. Slowly, he scooped the dice with one bony unhand and removed his black stovepipe with the other. One by one, he dropped the dice into the hat and rumbled them around, his black, beady uneyes glowing darkly from beneath bushy uneyebrows. The dots were a blur as the dice thumped the side of the hat for what seemed an eternity, until finally, at just the right moment, Abe tipped the stovepipe and hurled the dice. The cubes scattered like cockroaches, each one turning up six.

Every damned time, The True Man noted. How do you do it, Abe?

Abe didn’t answer, and he took a single infantry piece and placed it right in the middle of the Congo. With the first army now placed, the rest of the unplayers quickly deployed their armies.

Ulysses’ stare burned into Lame Brain Johnson. You’re next, Lame Brain.

I . . . wish . . you guys . . . wouldn’t . . call me that, said Lame Brain. I . . really . . . . don’t like . . it . . very . . . . much.

Could you talk any slower?

I . . . don’t . . think . . . so.

PLAY! Ulysses hollered. Lame Brain put an army down on Siam.

The guy just can’t get away from there, said Polk Salad, who was next. Polk Salad looked at Ulysses’ concentration of armies in Alaska and thought it to be a unique strategy. If Ulysses could protect his back door—and there was only one way in across Kamchatka—he could mount a rather formidable attack almost immediately. Ulysses’ armies looked like a rattlesnake getting ready to strike. Polk Salad decided not to confront the snake, and quickly put an army on the Ukraine. You’re next Ron-Ron. What’erya gonna do?

Well, said Ron-Ron. Where’s Granada?

There’s no Granada territory on the board, Ready Teddy said impatiently.

Well, said Ron-Ron. I beg to differ, Mister Teddy. I attacked Granada once.

That was while you were the Earth surrogate, T.J. explained. Don’t you remember?

Well, said Ron-Ron. I think I do. Where’s Granada?

There’s no Granada territory on the board! Ready Teddy repeated. We’re not going to forget everything again, are we? His whole being effervescing, Teddy tried hard to control himself. Where are you going to place your army, Ron-Ron? Do you like the purple territories? Or maybe you like the pretty red ones.

Well, said Ron-Ron. I do like the red ones, but that’s because I like Argentina. They have cowboys in Argentina, like when I was in the Oval Office. Cowboys. I like cowboys. Do you like cowboys, Jackie?

Uncharacteristically, Ready Teddy signaled, unpalms down, to just go along. Perceptively, The Ladies’ Man nodded. Yes, Ron-Ron. I like cowboys. You like cowboys too, don’t you? Remember the Twenty Mule Team, Ron-Ron?

Well, said Ron-Ron. I think I do. We had a Twenty Mule Team while I was in the Oval Office.

No, Ron-Ron. That was before you were in the Oval Office. That was while you were still on TV.

I was on TV?

Yes, Ron-Ron. You were on TV, and you were in the movies too. Remember?

Well, said Ron-Ron. I think I do. When is it my turn to put down an army?

The Ladies’ Man hung his unhead in frustration. It’s your turn now, Ron-Ron.

It is?

Yes.

Oh goody. Where’s Granada?

So as not to frighten him, The Ladies’ Man slowly took Ron-Ron’s unarm, and guided it toward Argentina. Here you go, Ron-Ron, nice and easy. Put your army down here. I know you like the pretty red territories.

Oow!

Startled, The Ladies’ Man jumped back. What’s the matter?

I have this shooting pain whenever I move like that, Ron-Ron replied. Right here, under my armpit. Wanna see?

That’s okay. Here, I’ll put the army down for you.

Thanks, Jackie. You’re okay. Will you put it on Granada for me? Please, Jackie?

Sure, Ron-Ron. Sit back now, okay? The Ladies’ Man put the piece on Argentina and surveyed the unboard, mulling his own strategy.

When it was his turn, Abe built up his armies in North Africa. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake he made last time and attack too early. This time, he would play to win.

2. Below The Tropic of Cancer

There’s a spot about a hundred miles north of Lake Chad, in the heart of central Africa near where the borders of Chad, Niger, and Nigeria come together, where the animals gather to drink at a series of ponds that are the size of football fields in the dry season, larger when the rains come. The ponds are fed by any number of underground flows, and as such there is no river or other natural barrier to block free movement of the animals between Chad and Niger. They don’t know there’s a border there, for it’s but a fenceless line in the hot dirt. Were it marked somehow, it would be made invisible by churning winds that travel hundreds of turbulent miles over the desert of West Africa, sucking arid particles by the ton high into the atmosphere and forming great, moving clouds of grit.

There are hunters at the edges of these ponds. Some have tapered mouths; others lie hidden in the brownness, their tails dancing reflexively as if hypnotized by a snake charmer. The motion is just enough to keep the flies from biting, and the buzzing is incessant.

The hunters are patient. Sooner or later, all the other animals will come to drink, for it’s a long way to other water over the brittle grass of the brown plain, which is virtually desert at this time of the year. Sometimes, the hunting is easy, especially when the herders arrive from the mud villages. There are always one or two head that straggle from the herd, and the herders have only two eyes, and one gun—sometimes. And when there are no domestic cattle, there are their wild counterparts. The hunters will settle for either.

With the water low, the drinkers churn noisily through the shallows, gravitating to the dangerous middle of the ponds. The tart odor of wildness carries on the dry breeze, signaling the hunters as if it were an alarm. The drinkers concentrate, their nostrils flared to snare the slightest odor drifting on the hot breeze. The only breaks in their closeness are the big, rounded rocks breaking the surface of the water. Abruptly, one of the rocks moves, rearing up in a spray of muddy droplets to reveal monstrously huge teeth and a throat that looks large enough to swallow one of the drinkers whole. The drinkers jump at the yawning hippo, resettling skittishly as soon as they realize the rock doesn’t eat meat.

The ponds themselves are ringed with green. One can’t help but notice the abundance of flying and darting creatures, whose numbers dwindle once the brownness begins. The surface of the water is a blur as mosquitoes the size of small hummingbirds hover in frenzied activity, searching for a tender nose. One of them finds its mark.

Already in a state of heightened alertness, the animal jumps when its nose is pricked, causing its immediate neighbor to jump as well. Instinctively, a chain reaction begins, and the few dozen members of the wild herd soon thunder off into the dry, branchy lowlands. Normally, the thundering continues until the members of the herd are satisfied they are no longer being pursued. This time, however, the small, wild herd runs squarely into a much larger herd of domestic cattle being guided by three villagers. They, having just become wranglers as opposed to cotton harvesters, aren’t at all capable of preventing their animals from joining in with their wild counterparts. The several-hundred head comprise several-thousand hooves that pound on the dry savanna, sending a great cloud of dust into an atmosphere, which, at that very moment, is hosting two huge air masses that are churning violently against each other. The result is a vertical tower of heat that extends several miles toward Mars. The dust is carried hundreds of feet into the air until it spills off, forming a thick, billowing cloud that is several miles wide.

The two pilots, who were flying low to avoid radar, couldn’t have been more surprised when they ran into what they thought was a sandstorm. Logic and experience told them it couldn’t be, for they weren’t flying over desert, but over scrub plain. Nevertheless, there it was: a gritty, choking cloud, peppering their twin-engine Citation, causing them to panic in much the same way the animals below them had panicked. The Citation coughed and sputtered as its turbines sucked more and more grit into their bellies. Soon they failed to breathe, and the Citation went into a flat spin stall. The panic inside the plane was short-lived, and the wreckage was virtually unrecognizable.

As the land north of Lake Chad extended for hundreds of miles without so much as a pimple on the Earth, and, seeing as it was such easy flying, the mission control people for President Olu Tohouri quickly concluded that the Citation had been shot down. By whom, they did not know, but they would surely find out. Everyone knew what Tohouri would do if he detected incompetence, and this was going to be someone else’s fault.

Tohouri was in the middle of feeding a shrimp puff—one of his favorite Western treats—to a comely young lass who’d been hired for the occasion, and who was undeniably very good at her trade despite being only seventeen. Unlike most members of the Massi tribe, the girl was light-skinned, probably a result of some French blood in her ancestry. He liked them light, and he liked them shapely, and she looked good on his arm. He thought he looked good too, when, truth-be-told, his crusty skin beaded with sweat despite the air conditioner that hummed in the window of his Royal Palace, the palace which had been willed to him after he’d had the former owner decapitated in a bloody coup the year before. Sitting on a Victorian sofa, he brushed the girl’s heavy braids aside, and she giggled when he indiscreetly fingered a nipple through her native attire. He didn’t look up when a tall Sudanese Colonel named Rabih came up and stood nearby.

I’m busy, Tohouri said, smiling yellow when the young lass whispered something about his genitals into his ear.

I am sorry, Your Excellence, said Rabih, using the monarchist term even though Tohouri’s ascension to power was hardly hereditary. I have urgent news.

Annoyed, Tohouri finally looked up, and, from the look on Rabih’s face, decided his sexual exercise could wait. I’ll be up shortly, he said, waving off his guest to an upstairs bedroom. Adjusting the .45 on his hip and satisfied that he looked sufficiently presidential, What is it? he asked.

Your Excellence…. Rabih began again.

Call me Mister President, Tohouri snapped.

A thousand pardons, Mister President. Normally, Rabih would have made a face at such a vain request, but not this time. The Citation has been shot down. Rabih’s eyes dropped, relieved to see that Tohouri made no move toward the .45.

How? Tohouri asked calmly, despite the rage evident on his face.

It just disappeared from the sky. One minute we were talking to the pilot, the next minute it was gone.

Where? Tohouri demanded.

It was crossing the border, north of the lake.

Tohouri smiled chillingly, maintaining appearances as he sipped his Dom Perignon. Are we sure it was shot down?

We see no other explanation. Rabih waited nervously.

Tohouri’s demeanor turned abruptly to that of a man draped in psychosis. The bastards! he exclaimed. Who betrayed us?

Grateful to shed the blame to unknown others who’d be dead soon, Rabih said, We will find out, Mister President.

See that you do, Tohouri commanded, and send up the Tomcats. I want immediate retaliation to those responsible.

Rabih hesitated, debating whether or not to question the order. Both of them? he asked apprehensively. The F-14s had cost fifty million apiece, but that’s what smuggled war planes cost. If they lost one, or both, of them…. Well, a quick suicide bullet to the head would be his best alternative. He needed to be clear on this.

Both of them! Tohouri ordered. Tell them to shoot first and ask questions later.

That was clear enough. I’ll give the orders. Do you want me to call the Libyans?

Why not, Tohouri called as he moved to the stairs to see his young whore. They always have a taste for blood.

3. Sky Soldier

A courier marched into the sprawling headquarters of the 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The duty officer looked up, not taking note of anything in particular as he was thinking about the little sweetheart he’d met at the country music bar four days earlier. The hard-faced courier unlocked his sealed briefcase, and handed over a message that instantly made the duty officer forget about his little sweetheart. The message read: This is an execute order, by direction and authority of the Secretary of Defense.

This ain’t no joke, is it? the duty officer asked. The courier didn’t answer. N-hour—notification hour—had come. It’s show time, the duty officer mumbled as he ran to the downstairs portion of the building that housed the emergency operations center. He picked up the red line phone, and within seconds phones were ringing all over the encrypted circuit. Within minutes, soldiers were being recalled to Fort Bragg from wherever they happened to be at that very moment. Many cursed inwardly, thinking it was just another drill—the Army was good at pissing you off that way—but regardless of that, any soldier who happened to be in the Division Ready Brigade—the DRB—during the six-week tour where they were on constant alert, put down his beer, packed up his gym clothes, left before the end of the movie, or did whatever he had to do in order to get back to Fort Bragg an hour ago. The clock was already ticking toward N+18 when the first C-5s would take off from Pope Air Force Base just down the road. Pauli was in the library six miles away when his pager went off. He was back at Fort Bragg in eighteen minutes.

Pauli was on autopilot as soon as he hit the gates. He discovered immediately that he was part of Ready Force One, the first battalion to enter the sequence for N+18. Despite the mundane nature of his activities in the ensuing minutes, he felt himself being fueled by a generous dose of adrenalin.

Any idea where we’re headed? a fellow soldier named Zimmerman asked as they were changing into their cammies.

The cloth was thick, and the gear was heavy. The sweat was pouring down Pauli’s back. Beats me, he said, also wondering as to his fate.

By N+2, he and the rest of the Ready Force One lead battalion were in the assembly area, isolated from the rest of the men of the Second Brigade. In the hours between N+2 and N+10, Ready Force One inspected its equipment and moved it to the Green Ramp at Pope. At N+12, when Pauli was issued a five-quart bladder in addition to the usual one-quart container, plus sunscreen and lip balm, he knew he was headed to someplace hot. At N+16, when he was outfitted with protective equipment and syringes filled with atropine, an antidote for nerve agents, he knew he was headed to someplace crazy. At N+22, four hours behind schedule, with the equipment-carrying C-5 Galaxies long gone, he boarded a MAC transport for the bumpy seventeen-hour flight to their destination, and he was already exhausted. Sleep on a transport plane, in anticipation of who-knew-what, didn’t happen easily. It had been all hurry-up-and-wait, and the adrenalin rush of the first few hours dissipated like fizz from a warm soda.

When Ready Force One stepped off the transport onto the scorching concrete in the middle of the Saudi Arabian desert, the smell of exhaust was everywhere. Part of the incredible show of hardware, a C-5 Galaxy with the words Military Airlift Command on its belly was regurgitating its cargo. The first to be puked out were crates of 105-mm howitzers, and deadly, rapid-fire Vulcan air defense cannons. Sheridan light tanks came next, six of them, each sporting 152-mm guns. Stout HMMVV Humvees came next, equipped with TOW antitank missile launchers. The final items to emerge were two troop-carrying Black Hawk helicopters, and two tank-killing Apache helicopters. All this came out of one C-5, and there were four more strung along the seemingly infinite concrete, with more on the way. Pauli heard an officer note to a thoroughly impressed young Saudi officer, When the old U.S. of A. sends the 82nd Airborne, people know you’re not fucking around.

Some of the soldiers cracked jokes, or tried to. Others fingered first their guns, then themselves: This is my weapon, this is my gun. This is for killing, this is for fun. Others tried to sleep. Pauli couldn’t. He tried to analyze the situation: someplace hot, someplace crazy, someplace where chemical weapons were a distinct possibility. Instantly, he regretted that Angel Menjivar had talked him into becoming a sky soldier. It happened during his eighth week of boot camp at Fort Jackson.

It was Wednesday morning of that eighth week and Drill Instructor Angel Menjivar reviewed the day’s lesson in his head as the bleary-eyed recruits stumbled from their barracks.

Fall in, he called. He surveyed the men—well, they weren’t quite men yet—as they assembled. He needed to pick a victim. It was a unique choice of words, but that’s exactly what it was. Many of them needed his guidance badly, as the society wasn’t churning out intellectuals these days, but that’s why they’d joined. They wanted a chance to become something more than futureless members of a supposedly classless society, and that’s why the lessons were important.

The enemy, whoever, or whatever, it was, would kill you. Everyone knew that. But, sometimes death didn’t come quickly. Sometimes, soldiers were captured, and a good soldier had to be able to withstand the torture on his body by not letting the enemy torture his head. Today’s lesson: humiliation. One had to be able to withstand humiliation in order to survive, a fact that Angel had also found to be true outside the Army.

Carefully, he scrutinized the sleepy faces as he mentally rehearsed his plan: unfair treatment, degradation and humiliation, bust the son of a bitch. Then he’d give the moral of the lesson, and reconcile with the victim—privately, of course. He never apologized publicly. That would tarnish his solid reputation of being a very huge prick. He had to pick the right victim, one toward whom he could be a real hard-ass and make the rest see what humiliation was all about. All of them would have the experience at one time or another. This was simply going to be a first time for one of them—someone’s lucky day.

There was Miller. No, thought Angel. It would be difficult for the men to feel sorry for him. Besides, Miller was at least six-three and he didn’t want to look up at someone he was trying to humiliate. That would be too humiliating. His eyes moved down the line to Petrovic. No. Petrovic was a wimp. The other guys would laugh at him. Penroy—too stupid to understand he was being humiliated. Bivens—he probably liked being humiliated. Everyone thought he’d wear panties if he had a choice, but it was don’t ask, don’t tell these days. Rosen—no. No Jews. Campo—wait. Campo would be good. The kid was smart, and he was smaller than the other guys, but there was something about him, a certain toughness. He might react, and he, Angel, would have to crush him like a bug. The guys would feel sorry for him. They would feel the humiliation themselves. Campo it was.

Angel moved slowly down the line, the meanest, ugliest scowl he could conjure plastered to his face. When he was within a couple of feet, Angel looked straight into Campo’s face. The kid’s eyes were focused straight ahead.

Is something funny soldier? Angel moved in, the brim of his bonnet pecking Campo on the forehead.

No, sir.

No, sir, what?

No, sir, sir! Pauli called out, a little more oomph in his reply. A couple of chuckles floated out from among the assembled.

Are you trying to be funny, soldier?

Sir, no sir! Pauli replied. The eyes, which were focused straight ahead, made an ever so slight dart in Angel’s direction.

Then what’s with the grin, Private?

Sir, I’m not grinning, sir.

You’re not grinning?

Sir, no sir.

Then I must be seeing things, because I see this stupid, shit-eating grin plastered all over your stupid face. It’s not a grin, Private?

No, sir.

Well, then I must be the one who’s stupid. Do you think I’m stupid, Private?

No, sir!

Good, ’cause I’m not. Am I, Private?

No, sir. I believe I just answered you, sir.

You believe you just answered me? Tell me, Private, why do you feel you have the need to tell me you just answered me? Angel saw the look of confusion. It barely crinkled the young man’s forehead.

I was just clarifying, sir. The eyes were straight ahead, the entire body stiff as a plank.

Clarifying? What words do you think I did not understand sufficiently that you feel the need to clarify? Angel’s voice boomed in the post dawn coolness, as much the cause of the goose bumps on the soldiers’ skins as the frigid morning air.

None, sir!

None? You feel that I didn’t understand any of your words, soldier?

No, sir. That’s not what I meant, sir.

Then what exactly did you mean, Private? I need clarification, evidently, don’t I?

Yes, sir!

Well, then, I must be stupid after all. Do you always go around calling your superior officers stupid, Private?

No, sir!

So, I guess it’s just my lucky day. You must think I’m very special. Angel looked up and scanned the faces of the men: frozen solid. Private! Angel screamed, nose-to-nose, I think you should drop down and give me thirty!

Angel watched as the kid dropped, only the heels of his hands and his toes touching the gravel. Thirty-one seconds later, Pauli popped back up, puffing lightly. Again, Angel went nose-to-nose. Out of shape, Private?

I don’t think so, sir. Pauli’s jaw was working beneath the skin.

Well, Private, we’re going to give you a chance to prove it. ’Tennn… hut! The men snapped to attention. Right face, hhharrch! They all turned to the right and broke into a rhythmic march. To the fore, Private! Angel walked alongside the men. Men, Private Campo will lead this morning’s march. All forward, double time, hhharrch! The pace quickened, and Pauli pulled out and double-timed it to the front. The formation closed up seamlessly, forming a solid block of bodies as Angel looked at his watch. It was five after the hour.

At fifteen after the hour, he felt that little tickle he always felt when his pores filled with sweat. He turned and examined his men, noticing a distinct pink hue forming on most of the foreheads. Campo was cruising along in double time, streams of vapor shooting from his nostrils. The feeling crept over him that he’d picked the wrong guy. This was going to be painful.

You call this double time? he roared. My fucking grandmother’s faster than this on her worst day. Move your fucking dog ass, Private! Angel glanced at his watch again. It was twenty-three after the hour, and they’d been on double time for eighteen minutes. About three miles, he figured. Time to turn up the heat. To the sand soldier! and the platoon veered off the asphalt onto the fine snow-white sand that was everywhere around Fort Jackson. The soldiers’ strides became leaden as their feet sank; gasps were becoming increasingly distinct.

Private!

Yes, sir!

What is the object of basic training? Angel glanced across his shoulder. Perfect, he thought. The kid thinks it’s a stupid question, which it was, but that was part of the lesson. Angel yelled louder. I say again, what is the object of basic training, Private?

To turn men into soldiers, sir! The words came hard between puffs.

The object of basic training, Private, is to prepare pussies like you for combat. Soldiers are killing machines, Private. Kill or be killed, that’s what war is all about. Do you understand that simple concept, Private?

The sand was sucking Pauli’s boots right off his feet. Yes, sir! he bellowed as enthusiastically as he could, given the banality of the comment. Twenty-five minutes.

There are two kinds of soldiers, Private. What are they? Pumping steadily, Pauli maintained the pace. His t-shirt was glued to his back. I asked you a question, Private!

I don’t know… sir!

Well, I’m going to tell you, Private. Twenty-eight minutes. There’s the infantry, and those who support the infantry. What kind of soldier are you, Private?

Heaving mightily, I… I am an infantry soldier, sir!

Angel laughed heartily—as heartily as he could, given the burn in his chest. You are not an infantryman. Infantrymen are disciplined, Private, and you are not disciplined. Infantrymen are tough, Private, and you are not tough. You are a pussy. Do you know what a pussy is, Private? Angel glanced over his shoulder expecting to see a couple of smiles, but there were no smiles, just pained, florid faces, with grimaces. Thirty minutes.

Pauli didn’t answer right away. Thirty-one minutes.

Angel screamed at the top of his lungs. Answer me, soldier! Or you and your pussy friends will be out here all fucking day! Now, what is a pussy?

A weakling, sir! A pussy is a weakling, one who cannot, or will not, fight!

That wasn’t bad, thought Angel as the sweat rolled off his face, but that didn’t matter, did it? Whatever the kid said, it wasn’t going to be right. Well, I must not be as stupid as you think, Angel called. You see, Private, a pussy is nothing but another name for the female genitalia. Just another name for a slimy gash like the one you came from. Arrival: Humiliation City, thirty-two minutes. The kid surprised him by stopping dead in the sand, making the soldiers mash up against each other like the Three Stooges. "What are you