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hustle yourself around in front of them.
    James Kilpatrick
    Camp Pendleton, California
    “Good morning, Sergeant.”
    “Good morning, sir.” Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski snapped a salute, holding stiff until Lieutenant Colonel Krandel returned the greeting.
    Krandel sharply dropped his hand and faced the battalion. Moments before Krandel had watched from the side as the men formed up; they joked among themselves, cautiously ignoring Krandel’s presence.
    Balcalski showed up on the scene and took control. The grizzled sergeant commanded instant respect from the men. Even though Balcalski was enlisted, the men treated the gunnery sergeant with a touch of awe. They seemed almost too eager to follow his commands. It was as though the sergeant had charmed the men, but it was deeper than that. He said the right things at the right time; he was a natural.
    Krandel brushed the thought aside and concentrated on the men. Krandel was dressed as the rest of Balcalski’s men were: red jogging shorts, white socks pulled high up the legs, black, low-topped sneakers, and a smartly ironed T-shirt emblazoned with UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. The men of the 37th Marine Battalion stood in well-ordered platoons behind the sergeant; behind him was the battalion flag. Four men carried guidons, one for each platoon, adorned with battle streamers that marked the accomplishments and landings on battlefields of past years.
    Krandel felt pleased. The men looked sharp, and except for a little redness around Balcalski’s eyes, the 0530 roll call went without a hitch. Krandel moved close to Balcalski and spoke in a low voice, “Don’t mind my presence, Sergeant. I’ve heard a lot about you and your men. I suppose the officers aren’t running with us this morning?”
    Balcalski looked embarrassed. “Well, sir, it’s Saturday, and Smiler tradition is for the enlisted men to run to each platoon commanders house—wake them up with esprit, sir.”
    “With the final stop at the battalion commander’s house, I take it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Well, no use breaking with tradition—except let’s add a new one.”
    Balcalski cocked an eye at the new battalion CO. “Sir?”
    “Let’s hit General Vandervoos’ house first. I want to let him know that Colonel Krandel is alive and well.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.” Balcalski turned to his men. “Battalion—on my command: right, face; double time, harch. ”
    The group of two hundred men lurched off under the lead of Krandel and Balcalski.
    Do’brai
    Hujr ibn-Adi felt alive again. Just forty-eight hours earlier he was evading border guards—his own—to make his way back to the city. Do’brai didn’t officially recognize the ALH and had even signed a multinational agreement to “erase” terrorist groups; Hujr was persona non grata in his own homeland.
    But what a country says and what a country does are two entirely different things.
    And now, with a stomach full of kush-kush, Hujr settled back and slowly pulled on a hookah laced with hashish. His country was so civilized—unlike most places where he usually traveled. It was good to get back where he belonged.
    His leisure was timed, for he knew that soon he would discover why he had been summoned. Whatever it was, General Kamil had dangled a hint of it. Hujr took another puff on the pipe and let the sweet-smelling smoke roll out of his mouth and into his nostrils. It was Ghazzali who spoke first.
    “How was your food? Have you supped enough for your next starvation?”
    Hujr laughed, coughing on smoke. He waved his hand in front of his face. “My next starvation? Surely I do not have to starve to be in the service of General Kamil.”
    Kamil growled, clearly not pleased with the direction in which Hujr was taking the conversation. “If our plan is to succeed, then no chances should be taken. If you have to die, then it would be but a small sacrifice for the whole.”
    “For the whole.” Hujr nodded. If there was nothing else he took seriously,