Garden of No Escape

By Charles Bailey

It's 2082. The Christian Alliance and Islamic Caliphate wage a war of extinction amid the worldwide Great Economic Collapse.

Garden Of No Escape is a fast-paced, insightful journey into the madness of war and the tragedy of love lost and miraculously found again. The novel dissects the evil of a president gone rogue and the bravery of rebels determined to resurrect moral government. It shines a light on faith in God and ultimate responsibility for free will.

After ten years of battling fedayeen warriors in Algeria, Sergeant Alejandro O'Malley is sent home. While in Washington, D.C., he gets caught up in a socialist-conservative power struggle marked by sabotage, murderous mind probes and firing squad executions broadcast on late-night punishment channels.

Unchecked Islamic terrorist bombings in Washington kill tens of thousands. Both the terrorists and the Pentagon plan massive final strikes aimed at winning the decades-long war. O'Malley dreams of escaping the madness by heading west to New Mexico with the woman he loves. But the more he struggles to realize his dream, the further away it seems.

Is escape ever possible?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692864333

Book preview

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CHAPTER TWO

‘Merde, Merde, Merde’

Feeling the weight of O’Malley’s watchful eye, French Lieutenant Pierre Bonchance carefully, silently parts low branches of scrub brush atop a sandy hillock he is lying on beside the sergeant. Bonchance peeks through for a second and releases the branches very slowly, with great care. He and O’Malley slide noiselessly back down the hillock.

They crawl silently twenty yards back toward the rest of the platoon before Bonchance risks a whispered question. Sergeant, how did you know exactly here they would be waiting?

I’d like to say it’s instinct, sir, O’Malley replies softly. He rolls onto his back and hands the Frenchman a pair of small, super-zoom binoculars. But look back there, ‘bout ten o’clock high over the brush. Bonchance rolls onto his back and using the binoculars focuses on a small tan bird, a North African desert sparrow, flitting, circling, landing out of sight, and repeating the maneuver several times.

That little bird was the clue, O’Malley whispers as the pair resume crawling. "It doesn’t belong here. It’s finding food in a place where there should be no food. Probably followed the fedayeen up from Ghardaia city. Birds like that are not a perfect giveaway, but, sir, anything out of place is always worth checking – very carefully."

When I am finally posted with French soldiers my expertise will astound, the lieutenant whispers.

Your troops will already know, but it’s good to show them right off that you do, too. Real good for moral.

Lieutenant Bonchance has been with O’Malley’s platoon just four days. He was ferried out from Fort Ticonderoga on a re-supply chopper. Bonchance is new to combat and must learn all he can from Amero veterans. If he survives the year-long apprenticeship, he’ll wind up somewhere along the French sector of the fortified perimeter, probably in Morocco. O’Malley hasn’t told him that most new USARR lieutenants don’t last three months in the field.

Case in point. Four days earlier, under cover of night, an estimated eight hundred fedayeen attacked the perimeter fifteen miles west of Ticonderoga. The attack began when two widely-separated platoon lieutenants, their platoon sergeants and one platoon radioman were killed instantly by snipers no doubt using night vision scopes.

Simultaneous fedayeen rocket salvos blasted a wide path through multiple lines of coiled razor wire, overlapping minefields and robotic gatling guns that demarcate the perimeter. The howling, bloodthirsty horde poured through to slaughter many shocked, leaderless soldiers.

Another platoon radioman was also shot by a sniper but survived long enough to call for help. In minutes, a swarm of grinder gunships arrived to attack and finally drive off the fedayeen. USARR losses were heavy. Furious, General Hertzog ordered immediate retaliation.

Sergeant, we go after them and now the enemy is waiting for us, no? How do they understand we are exactly coming this way, and – yes – and exactly where they should hide for their ambushing?

Sir, those are damn good questions, O’Malley whispers as they both rise to a crouch and hustle the rest of the way back to the platoon. First, they knew we would counterattack. Second, they fight on home ground and knew which way we’d most likely travel on foot. And, third, they have spies everywhere. We, on the other hand, are the best at bringing overwhelming force to bear quickly, which you shall see very soon.

Back with the patrol, O’Malley briefs the officer in charge, First Lieutenant Alfred Cox. He is a five-year veteran, a clear exception to the survival rule for lieutenants and due for promotion to captain.

Cox and O’Malley confer over maps, then the lieutenant orders the patrol back 150 yards. Everyone gets there quick and quiet and hugs the ground. Cox radios for artillery support and a moment later there is distant booming of 165-millimeter howitzers. In less than twenty seconds the hillock is obliterated by horrendous blasts.

Cox double-quick orders artillery to advance the shelling thirty yards, and from there walk it back-and-forth another two hundred yards, firing for maximum effect the entire distance.

When the mighty barrage ceases, the platoon moves ahead swiftly. In a depression thirty yards beyond what once was the hillock, they find blood, bone, viscera and shattered equipment spread out over a wide area. Lieutenant Bonchance steps aside and heaves up his last meal.

Lieutenant Cox peers through binoculars at the helter-skelter trail of shell holes and blasted bodies to the south. It is clear that enemy fighters who managed to flee after the first, short salvo were wiped out by the long crescendo. He estimates at least two hundred fedayeen dead.

The lieutenant shouts to everyone. Good day’s work! Very professional! Every soldier shouts back in unison, Ooo-Rah! Ooo-Rah! Ooo-Rah!

Cox looks at the late afternoon sun and grimaces. He radios in a helicopter evacuation request but is told all troop carriers are busy retrieving soldiers from other areas. Cox tells O’Malley to get everyone ready for a dreaded overnighter. Fedayeen warriors crawl around like snakes at night. It is then they are most dangerous.

Troopers all know the drill for an overnighter, but for the benefit of Bonchance the sergeant orders soldiers back to their first position – a wide flat area with a clear field of fire in every direction. He tells them to place anti-personnel mines facing outward in a circle forty yards wide, then dig foxholes a little over belly-button deep in an evenly spaced circle thirty yards wide. He tells the mortar crew to set up in the center, and the heavy-caliber machinegun crew to set up for quick rotation from one fortified point to another. He orders everyone to throw up an eighteen-inch high circular berm around each foxhole. Each berm, he says, should be embedded with all the rocks they can find.

Troopers all know the drill. They hustle back 150 yards brandishing their entrenching tools. A buck sergeant shouts out names of volunteers to hide in camouflaged early warning outposts to the north, south, east and west – each outpost positioned twenty-five yards beyond the outermost circle of anti-personnel mines.

After action like today we usually get the hell out quick by helicopter, O’Malley tells the French lieutenant. "It’s too late for that now, so we dig in and hope any fedayeen force of size is too far away to get here before dawn. If a couple-a-hundred fedayeen do get here quick, we’ll be in deep, deep shit."

Merde, merde, merde, the Frenchman says grimly. "Too much merde for us, no?"

Yeah, O’Malley replies, motioning for Bonchance to follow him and Lieutenant Cox on an inspection of the entrenchments.

Sir, O’Malley asks, "after once around and a check on the outposts, will you help me, the radioman and Lieutenant Cox dig our four foxholes in the center by the mortar crew? We’ve got to get this done in a hurry.

"Oui, very democratic, Bonchance says. I am always willing to get more dirty to stay alive."

It is a long night. Nerves balance on a razor’s edge. No one sleeps. Everyone stares for hours through fold-down night-vision goggles attached to their helmets.

Bonchance peers into the green-glow desert presented by goggles snugged tightly to his face. He thinks about Lieutenant Cox and the platoon sergeant. They never relax. They keep the platoon poised for action with unrelenting attention and willpower.

Sergeant O’Malley constantly confers with squad leaders, alerting them to any change in circumstances. Bonchance realizes this close touch is essential to the strength and morale of the platoon. Even more so, Bonchance concludes, is the sight of Lieutenant Cox making confident adjustments here and there with private words or signals to the platoon sergeant.

The Frenchman sees everyone work together like the innards of a timepiece – each depending on the other for precise action. Each knowing their lives and the success of their mission depend on it. The lieutenant and platoon sergeant are a tag team that uses every available resource to find and out-maneuver the fedayeen, while they make certain line soldiers are set, even eager, to strike hard – and equally ready to repel attack.

Bonchance thinks about all this with considerable envy. He doubts he will ever play the part of an officer with as much confidence as Cox. The Frenchman grew up desperately poor along the back streets of Marseille. He was a bookish loner, terrified by gangs until he screwed up the courage to knock down a tormentor and beat his head in with a brick. After that, Bonchance walked unmolested. He trusted no one until he met his wife.

The night is eerily quiet. O’Malley’s mind keeps circling back to the Arab woman. The more he thinks, the more he respects her grit and love for the boy he figures is probably her son or brother. She took great risk, he decides, simply to keep the kid from becoming another fedayeen dead-man-walking. Would my mother have done that for me?

Fortunately, the early warning outposts do not hear or see intruders approaching. An hour before dawn, Lieutenant Cox whispers a radio request for helicopter evacuation at first light. He gets an affirmative and tension runs extra high.

"If fedayeen moved up close during the night but still haven’t pinpointed us, the sound and sight of the big choppers heading our way will draw them like flies to shit," O’Malley tells Bonchance in a low voice.

Merde, the Frenchman whispers. I was just thinking of a glass of wine back at the fort.

As light dawns, the heavy whump-whump of big, twin-rotor troop carriers is heard, first faintly, then closer and louder. Lieutenant Cox calls in the outpost volunteers. Speeding back, the soldiers quickly disarm and gather up anti-personnel mines.

The two troop carriers are sighted racing in low and fast from the north. Cox orders a yellow smoke grenade popped just outside the circle to help pilots gauge ground-level wind speed and direction. Again for the benefit of Bonchance, O’Malley tells everyone to put on their sand goggles and cover their nose and mouth with a breathing mask.

Cox jumps out of his foxhole and yells to be heard over the sound of the big choppers. "Fifteen seconds and I want everyone up and running fast! No slackers! Evac choppers don’t stay down more’n a minute. Okay – Okay – Okay – Up and run! Run! Run!

Everyone sprints into a huge cloud of sand and dust kicked up by chopper rotors. The troop carriers levitate precariously several feet over the ground, their lowered rear ramps barely scraping sand. Coughing and hacking even with the masks, half the soldiers follow the lieutenant up one chopper ramp. The rest follow O’Malley up the other. The choppers claw for quick altitude the instant ramp winches start whining.

O’Malley and Bonchance look out a window hatch. Less than a mile away a wide swath of pickup trucks is racing north with black flags flying. Most are loaded down with fedayeen warriors. Others have heavy-caliber machineguns, big recoilless rifles or mortar crews in their cargo beds.

As the troop carriers swing around to head north, the pickups stop – and suddenly scatter in all directions. Other soldiers at other window hatches whoop with joy, knowing they narrowly escaped being massacred. Bonchance joins them, his grin as wide as humanly possible.

O’Malley is in the cockpit talking to the chopper pilot who nods vigorously and picks up a radio mike. O’Malley moves back to Bonchance.

"Pilot’s reporting the fedayeen trucks, the sergeant says. Always best to catch ‘em out in the open with no civilians around when you call in the grinders."

Minutes later the mighty roar of six grinder helicopter gunships racing south at 200-miles-per-hour is heard inside the big troop carriers. Ooo-Rah! Ooo-Rah! Ooo-Rah! everyone but Bonchance shouts when the roar is most deafening.

A grinder, O’Malley explains, is a very fast and slender gunship that looks like a wasp. It’s a one-man chopper armed with a gatling gun and air-to-ground missiles mounted right under the pilot’s butt. Grinders are real scary and damn deadly. Pilots wear bug-eyed goggles and love to make low-level, 150-mile-an-hour strafing runs! They’re frakkin’ crazy!

At last I understand, Bonchance says, Many weeping families in Ghardaia city tonight, no?

Let ‘em weep, O’Malley spits out bitterly. Plenty on our side weep at night, too.

* * * *

Back at Fort Ticonderoga, after a chance to clean up and eat a hot meal, O’Malley checks on the Arab woman and boy. They’ve been in the hospital for more than a week.

Colonel Michael Parker, the attending physician and hospital chief of surgery, tells O’Malley the boy has regained consciousness, shouts a lot of angry Arabic at everyone and will be turned over to the imam in another day or so. The doc says the woman occasionally mumbles weakly in a language he can’t quite fathom. Her recovery, he says, is still questionable, strictly wait-and-see.

O’Malley leaves the hospital and spots Lieutenant Bonchance meandering away from the foreign officers’ barracks.

Lieutenant, O’Malley calls out. Wait. Let’s walk together.

Sergeant, I did not see you there. Of course, join me.

Catchin’ the cool night air? O’Malley asks as he draws alongside the Frenchman.

"Oui, Bonchance replies. I suppose it is half a degree less hot."

Lieutenant, I’d like to explain some things. You’ve only been with us a few days. Up to now I haven’t had the opportunity.

I am eager to hear, sergeant. Maybe it will help me stop thinking about Rachel.

Your wife?

"Oui, she is the beautiful but unfortunate woman who married me and lost me in the same month. I worry I may never see her again. Each day here I grow more certain I will not."

Hmmm. Well, what I need to tell you will better your odds for going home. What I have to say pertains to Amero combat platoons. But I’m sure it’s pretty much true for the French.

I will listen intensively.

The two men sit on a bench in front of the hospital building. O’Malley explains that within every platoon is a core of soldiers who are the fighting soul of the unit. They are savage in a fight and very protective of each other, he says. "Usually, they are most loyal to the platoon sergeant, who should, in turn, demonstrate complete loyalty to the platoon lieutenant.

Members of this core group, O’Malley explains, "train new recruits replacing wounded or dead veterans. It’s a job they relish and resent. They look for anyone promising and discard the rest, knowing they won’t be dependable in a fight. Their evaluations go to the platoon sergeant.

After that, O’Malley says, the sergeant checks things out. If he comes to the same negative conclusion about any recruit, that soldier is shunned. He’s an untrainable frakkup too dangerous to be around. Through cowardice or incompetence, he’ll get veterans killed.

Sergeant, are you saying I am hopeless?

No, not at all. What I am saying is you must learn about the unofficial, inner-workings of a combat platoon. You’ll be leading one next year.

I must first survive this training time.

"You will.

"Sir, when you take command, do it with the platoon sergeant standing by your side. Tell your men you will work closely with the sergeant and that you value greatly his experience and advice. If the platoon sergeant is any damn good at all he will welcome you openly and be sincere about it. He’ll make it clear you’re in charge and he’s happy you’re taking the reins of leadership. If he doesn’t do this, you raise enough hell to get him replaced – damn quick. Your platoon sergeant cannot compete with you for leadership. He must be someone you can trust.

"After taking charge, your main task is to find out as much as you can, as fast you can, about each soldier in the platoon’s core group. Especially the squad leaders. Learn their strengths and weaknesses. Their quirks. What makes them proud. Let them know in subtle ways that they have your respect. The platoon sergeant should be glad to tell you about each soldier’s particular skill set – and his weaknesses. But you must verify everything the sergeant says for yourself. That’s critical.

"Another thing. When you lose a core group soldier in battle the survivors grieve real hard. It’s natural, but it’s very dangerous. Minds wander, get unfocused. Despair erases attention and judgment. Often, a small fedayeen force or maybe just a single sniper will attack and try to kill a soldier or two. Then fade away. An hour or so later, the fedayeen will attack with full force, hoping your troopers are still sniffling and easier to overcome. You must keep your soldiers focused. You must always be thinking beyond the terrible moments. You must lead them – or push them if you must – to get through the bad times. You must anticipate the enemy. The war never ends. You have a lonely, shitty job."

Bonchance clears his throat. O’Malley goes on.

"Now, let me tell you about a damn good platoon sergeant, Mio Ishikawa, and a piss-poor lieutenant, Ellen Turner. Ishikawa was the best. She was our platoon sergeant for almost five years. Core group soldiers were proud to call themselves Ishikawa’s Samurai."

What happened to Sergeant Ishikawa?

"She lost her right hand. During an overnighter, she defied Lieutenant Turner and snuck out to find a wounded samurai who fell behind – Angie McCarthy, a buck sergeant who was an excellent squad leader. Ishikawa found Angie, but on their way back they got into a knife fight with a fedayeen who cut Ishikawa’s hand before she killed him. She and Angie barely made it back in time for helicopter evac.

"Within days, Ishikawa’s hand became so terribly infected it had to be amputated. She was sent home. Sergeant McCarthy lasted two more years. She threw herself over a fedayeen hand grenade to save her squad."

And the lady lieutenant?

"Turner was with us just five months, and a mystery the entire time. She had no respect for her soldiers. She was terribly jealous of Ishikawa, who wanted the lieutenant’s help but never got it. I became platoon sergeant after Ishikawa and I could never figure out Turner. Why she refused to listen, let alone learn from us, or take any advice or heed any warnings. She cost the platoon a lot of unnecessary deaths.

"How many samurai are left?

Just two – me and Corporal Rodgers. In Ishikawa’s heyday there were twenty-nine.

That is tragic. What does the core group call itself now?

"O’Malley’s Conquistadors."

You must be proud, sergeant.

"I am. It breaks my heart every time one of them gets hurt bad or killed. I know Lieutenant Cox feels it, too. Sometimes, I think it would be better if we all die at once, like Tejanos at the Alamo."

What happened to Lieutenant Turner?

"A samurai shot her after she ignored all warning and forced us to walk right into an obvious fedayeen ambush. Seventeen excellent soldiers died for nothing more than her stupid pride."

So, she was killed for revenge?

Yes. But that’s not the only reason, O’Malley says. Never forget that every good combat soldier feels he has the God-given right to kill a coward or incompetent who proves he’s more dangerous than the enemy. It’s self-defense, pure and simple.

Bonchance is shocked.

O’Malley recalls that immediately after the ambush battle, while everyone else stood around dumb-struck by the sight of so many slain comrades, it was Rodgers who had the presence of mind and guts to snatch up a dead fedayeen’s rifle and shoot Lieutenant Turner.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Forgive All The Killin’ I’ve Done’

After another week in the field Sergeant O’Malley returns to the hospital. The hour is late, the patient load is light, and the doctor on floor duty ushers O’Malley into Colonel Parker’s private office.

Aaahh, sergeant, I’ve been expecting you, the colonel says as he puts down a sheaf of papers and a pair of reading glasses.

Sir, I don’t want to interrupt —

Interrupt? Good God, sergeant, please do interrupt. If I have to review another requisition order tonight my eyes will fall out. Besides, I have good news I know you’ll want to hear.

The colonel stands up from his desk, stretches his back, and motions toward a small conference room table with two chairs.

Sergeant, I think the good news merits finally opening that bottle of tequila you gave me – what, four years ago now, isn’t it?

Almost five years, sir. It was a gift from the platoon. We were very grateful you saved Sergeant Ishikawa. She was a superb soldier. We all owed her our lives countless times over. I hated taking her place as platoon sergeant.

Well, she’s home in Kentucky. And it’s not the end of the world to lose a hand. Just makes one more careful with the one he, or, rather, she has left, or was it right? Damn. It all runs together after a while. The important thing is she’s home and happy. In her last Christmas card she thanked everyone again for collecting the money she needed to buy a top-quality ‘lectro hand.

The colonel sets two glasses on the table. He pours three-fingers of tequila for O’Malley and himself and sits down. They each take a sip – O’Malley trying hard not to gulp, and Colonel Parker trying not to spew it out.

My god, this tequila’s strong isn’t it?

Yessir, O’Malley says, grinning. Hundred proof. Warms you right up.

O’Malley nurses his tequila while Parker sips. The colonel notices, pours half of his drink into the sergeant’s glass, then stoppers the bottle and puts it away.

"Hmmmm. Well, before I get any warmer, let me congratulate you for saving that woman’s life. She escaped cascading organ failure and other fatal ugliness only because of the quick cooling down you orchestrated.

And, fortunately, she seems to be alright up here, Parker adds, tapping a forefinger against the side of his head. What she needs to do now is stay fully hydrated, rest, try to relax and gain back twenty pounds.

That is good news. Thank God and thank you, colonel. It really is something to celebrate.

Here’s a surprise, Parker continues. "She’s Italian. Her name is Emilina Lombardi. She speaks Arabic fluently, but hates doing it. She kept asking about Carlo, her son. I’d guess he’s nine or ten. Since no one in the hospital speaks Italian or Arabic, I called for Captain Dubner. He’s a psyops officer who does – speak Arabic, I mean. Anyway, he came over and told her the boy is in the care of the local imam. That made her furious. And, of course, she demanded Carlo’s return.

"Well, Dubner came back later saying the boy refused to leave the village mosque. Claims his name is Muhammed and that his mother forced him to leave Ghardaia city. The imam flew into another of his rages and threw Dubner out, yelling that no devout Muslim boy should ever be in the clutches of a shamed woman.

"When Ms. Lombardi heard that she wailed for hours. Kept trying to get out of bed. I finally had to inject her with a sedative. And there you have it sergeant. Some very good, some not so good. But, thanks to you, she and the boy survived.

And sergeant, Ms. Lombardi is quite beautiful. I know that’s not a very professional thing for me to say. But I’m feeling this drink, and, anyway, I thought you’d like to know.

I already knew.

What? How? She was in terrible condition the last time you saw her.

I’ll try to explain. But I warn you, sir, when I drink tequila I get – what is it – loquacious?

Go ahead, sergeant. I’m all ears.

O’Malley salutes with his glass and downs a modest swallow.

"To begin, sir, I’ve gotta start with the men and women in my platoon. I know this sounds strange, but the more fights we survive the more beautiful we get, to each other, and the more we need – no, dammit – the more we love each other. Simple as that."

"And I know we all see it – the beauty – because from time to time each of us looks around to admire certain comrades for what they’ve done. Or because something makes us think about those who got bad wounded or died doing something real soldierly – very noble, I mean.

"Sometimes we catch each other looking and share a little smile, soldier-to-soldier. That’s why we never, ever forget about each other in a fight. Doc, we’re just in our twenties, but all of us are old mother hens keeping track of our chicks – our beautiful children, you know, no matter how ugly, dirty or bloody they get.

Begging the colonel’s pardon. Maybe I’m gettin’ too long-winded —

Please go on, Parker says, taking a couple of sips and lifting his glass in salute. Your take on things is very interesting.

"Well, concerning that brave little woman. To get here she trudged at least fifty miles over the worst ground in the desert, apparently dragging her brainwashed son the whole way. Why? Arab or not, she was trying to save him from fedayeen recruiters. Can you imagine the pressure she was under to just step aside and give him up? But she refused. And – to me, to the platoon – that made her beautiful, forever, no matter what.

"Sir, I was using a tower telescope and I saw her fire a flare gun over and over and over – and collapse. She accepted her own death and her last acts were to fire that flare gun and fling as much as she could of the chador she was wearing over that boy to better shield him from the sun. She never wavered one bit in trying to keep that kid alive and out of fedayeen hands. Like a brave soldier sacrificing herself to save a comrade.

"And when we hustled her and the boy inside the APCs, and she was lying naked, with nearly every square inch covered in ice, I couldn’t take my eyes off her face, so damn red, so covered with scabs and terrible, terrible anguish.

"Colonel, this is not just tequila talk. Looking down at her face I hurt really bad because I knew when she collapsed she thought she had failed. And I wanted so much – I ached – to tell her she had won. She saved that boy and she was so incredibly beautiful for doing it.

Tell you a secret, doc. I’m an orphan taken in by nuns in New Mexico who raised me alongside at least a hundred other desert urchins. They had me ‘til I was eighteen, drafted and kidnapped by the goddamn government. I don’t know a thing about my mother, and I’d give anything to know I had a mother as brave as that boy’s – the ungrateful little shit.

The doctor and sergeant fall silent, contemplating Ms. Lombardi’s situation. Presently, another swallow of tequila reignites O’Malley’s discourse.

"They must’ve walked at night so she could use stars to guide herself north. Spent who knows how many days under whatever shade she could improvise – until the last day when she knew they had to make it here or die. When we got to them, they had no water – none. Her lips were cracked almost clean through.

"When we searched her, a glass jar full of pissed off scorpions rolled out of her chador. Damn near gave me a heart attack. Were those scorpions meant to be weapons? Or a way to kill herself and the boy before she’d let the fedayeen take him? I don’t know. May never know because that’s not the kind of thing I’d ever ask her about."

Me neither, Parker says, taking his last sip.

"Anyway, sir, after all that, strangers take her son away while she’s helpless and give him to a goddamn imam. She’s got to be mad as hell and terribly frightened of losing him forever."

O’Malley takes a quick final gulp, puts down the empty glass and rubs his eyes.

"Sorry, sir, for going on and on. Tequila makes me real talkative. But anyway, like you said, she and her boy are Italian, citizens of an allied nation. That means we must get her son back so they can go home together."

The two soldiers stare at their empty glasses. Hmmmm, Colonel Parker intones. Well, on another subject, I hear you’ve just got a few more months to go on your ten-year service obligation for a front-line soldier.

"Hey! Don’t jinx me! Yessir, I’ve got less than six months to go. But I know