Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [173]
When the terrorism ended, the war would end.
That was what Rodgers had planned. If executing the Kurd could have been the first shot across the prow of terrorism, he would have regained his honor. As it was, having killed the unarmed man who had tortured him was just revenge. There was no honor or bravery in that. As Charlotte Brontë had once written, vengeance was "as aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy; its after-flavour, metallic and corroding."
Rodgers looked down. He didn't wish he could take the bullet back. Killing the Kurdish leader had spared the nation the agonies of the trial, of Op-Ed justice and handwringing. It had also given the Kurds a martyr instead of a loser. But God, how he wished the bullet had taken them both. He had been trained to serve his country and to protect its integrity and its flag at all costs. The pardon was a blot on both. By showing him charity, his nation had lost sight of a more important quality: Justice.
The error was made by well-meaning people. But for the sake of his country's honor, it was an error which had to be undone.
Rodgers stood stiffly, constricted by the bandages around his arms and torso. He steadied himself on the rope which ran shoulder-high along the fuselage.
August looked up. "You okay?"
"Yes." He smiled. "Just going to the bathroom."
He looked down at the uncharacteristically effervescent Colonel August. He was proud of him and glad he'd won the race. Rodgers turned and headed to the back.
The bathroom was a cold room with a hanging lightbulb and a toilet. There was no door, one of those small touches designed to keep the weight of the aircraft down.
On the way back, Rodgers passed aluminum shelves which carried Striker's equipment. He stopped. His own gear was in a duffel bag he'd had in the ROC. There was still one way to regain his honor.
"It's not there," said a voice from behind him.
Rodgers turned. He looked into Colonel August's long, apostolic face.
"The gun you used to execute the terrorist," August went on. "I took it."
Rodgers squared his shoulders. "You had no right to go into another officer's grip, Colonel."
"Actually, sir, I did. As the ranking officer not a party to a confessed crime, it was my duty to confiscate evidence for the court-martial."
"I've been pardoned," Rodgers said.
"I know that now," August replied. "I didn't know it then. Would you like the gun back, sir?"
Their eyes remained locked. "Yes," Rodgers said. "I would."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes, Colonel. It is."
August turned and squatted beside the lowest of the three shelves. He opened the first of the five cases which contained Striker's handguns. He handed the pistol to Rodgers. "There you are, sir."
"Thank you, Colonel."
"You're welcome, sir. Is the general planning to use it.
"That's the general's business, I think."
"It's a debatable point," August said. "You're seriously overwrought. You're also threatening my superior officer, a general of the United States Army. I'm sworn to defend my fellow soldiers."
"And to follow orders," Rodgers said. "Please return to your seat."
"No, sir," August said.
Rodgers stood with the gun at his side. Half a plane away, Private DeVonne and Sergeant Grey had gotten off the bench. They looked like they were ready to rush over.
"Colonel," Rodgers said, "the nation made a grave mistake today. It forgave a man who neither deserved nor wanted forgiveness. In so doing it endangered the security of its people and institutions."
"What you're planning