salute, saying, 'Sir! We are playing volleyball.'
'Ah, yes,' Brannigan said. 'The BVBL, hey? And there seems to be a league violation of some sort here. At least a somewhat serious disagreement as to whether an infraction has occurred.'
'Yes, sir!' piped up a few voices.
'Well, well,' Brannigan mused. 'Something must be done about this, as in any other sport.' He was thoughtful for a few moments, then made an announcement. 'As of this moment I am appointing Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins as the Commissioner of the Brigand Volleyball League.' He turned to Dawkins. 'I expect you to hold a hearing on this incident, Commissioner, and see that proper justice is dispensed to all concerned. And remember that good sportsmanship must be encouraged. As the old saying goes, 'It isn't whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.'
'Aye, sir!' Dawkins said. He glared at the players. 'Alright! Assemble in the shade at the aft side of the island. Do it now!'
Brannigan walked off as the players headed for the meeting place, with the senior chief following. When they arrived at the spot, each team split off to keep separate from their opponents, and Dawkins gave them yet another scowling glare.
'As officially appointed Commissioner of the Brigand Volleyball League I do hereby call this hearing to order, and that means ever'body shut the fuck up.' He paused to make sure his authority was recognized. 'Alright! This team on my left. You, Miskoski. What started this ruckus?'
'Well, Senior Chief, my good buddy Petty Officer Second Class Bruno Puglisi of the United States Navy was playing volleyball,' Joe announced.
'Was he playing in an officially sanctioned game of the Brigand Volleyball League?' the Senior Chief asked.
'Yes, Senior Chief, and Petty Officer Puglisi was playing a straight-up game when all of a sudden one of them hooligans by the name of Sturgis hauled off and pasted him in his snot locker. For no reason! Then, o' course, Petty Officer Puglisi had to pertect hisself to keep from getting the shit beat out of him.'
'Okay,' the Senior Chief said. 'That's enough. Now I need a spokesguy from the other team. Murchison, you'--he stopped speaking--'on the other hand, nobody can understand what you say. So Assad, you testify.'
'Right, Senior Chief. And I'd like to say straight off that Miskoski is a goddamn rotten liar and I wouldn't trust him any further than that snake that bit the raghead. And I mean that in all respect.'
'So noted,' the Senior Chief said. 'Proceed with your testimony.'
'Well, my teammate and gentleman Petty Officer First Class Montgomery Sturgis, who I would like to remind you outranks his assassin, was attacked and nearly killed during the game by Petty Officer Second Class Bruno 'the Brute' Puglisi right after making a legal, authorized spike of the ball. And I ain't sure, but I thought Puglisi pulled a knife on Monty. Anyhow, he attacked poor Monty out of pure meanness.'
'Okay, that's enough,' the Senior Chief said. He appeared to lapse into deep thought for a few moments, then said, 'I've reached a verdict. Both Puglisi and Sturgis are guilty of poor sportsmanship, cheating, and assault and battery, along with conduct unbecoming a human being. I therefore fine them four cases of beer each. They are to have said brew purchased no later than two bells in the evening watch, and see that it is placed iced-down and cold in the ready room. At that time the beer will be consumed by all members of the SEAL detachment commanded by Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. I have rendered my decision in this matter, and it is final! Dismissed!'
Everyone, with the exception of Puglisi and Sturgis, cheered the outcome of the hearing. The sharing of this costly punishment wiped away the animosity between them.
Things were back to normal.
.
IRANIAN SF CAMP
NORTHWESTERN IRAN
THE camp actually had no name, and was referred to as ordu makhus--the special camp--by both the Iranian government and the Army.
One of the small garrison's denizens, Major Archibald Sikes--aka Sikes Pasha-had recovered completely from his shoulder wound suffered during the fighting on the Afghanistan border. It was still a bit stiff and if he turned over on it in his sleep, it smarted enough to wake him. However, he had full use of the arm, and there didn't appear to be any permanent disability involved. But he wasn't worried about the injury anyway. He had only half a dozen survivors of his Arabs, including Warrant Officer Shafaqat Hashiri, and he was fretful as hell about his situation.
The whole Iranian thing he'd been sucked into was falling apart. In fact, the Iranians were now showing more concern about themselves than any grandiose plans of conquest that encompassed the entire Middle East. There was no more talk about their Persian Empire or the program to develop Shiite insurgencies as part of their armed forces. If Sikes were thrown out on his ass, he would be what is known as persona non grata--unwanted, useless, shunned, and shit-out-of-luck no matter where he went in the world. As a man with no country or passport, he would be vulnerable to arrest by British authorities. And that would mean long years in a military prison.
He needed a drink bad, but here he was, deep in the Islamic world, where consumption of alcohol was considered a sin.
.
1900 HOURS
THE officers in the camp were quartered in tents like everyone else, except they had wooden slat floors so they didn't have to walk on the dirt inside their domiciles, like the lower-ranking men. Their furnishings were slightly better as well, with a cot, chair, small table with a drawer, and a simple frame wardrobe. There was also a net to keep insects out, stretched across the front of the canvas structure. The exception among the officers was Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah, who had a comfortably furnished bunker complete with a carpet.
Sikes shared the accommodations with his former mentor, Khalil Farouk, but the old friendship had faded quite a bit. The Brit no longer trusted his Arab companion, and kept his personal feelings about the current situation to himself.
Sikes sat in his chair, his feet upon the table, smoking a Turkish cigarette from a carton given him by the brigadier, when he noticed some commotion toward the main gate to the garrison. He walked to the tent opening and stepped outside. He could see a car drive up from the camp interior to meet another, larger sedan, which had just arrived. Soldiers scurried around to get out some luggage, while a man wearing safari-type garb made up of a khaki shirt, trousers, and desert boots stepped out of the vehicle. A gray felt Australian hat with the brim turned up on one side topped off his attire.
Sikes grinned to himself at the familiar individual he could recognize even at a distance. It was the arms dealer Harry Turpin, who had a contract with the Iranians to provide them with the latest in modern military weaponry, vehicles, and equipment.
'I wonder what that bluddy old bastard is up to,' Sikes mused.
.
2100 HOURS
SIKES wasn't sleepy, and he lay on top of the covers listening to the deep breathing of his companion, Farouk, across the tent. Boredom pressed down so heavily on Sikes that he didn't care if a vehicle drove up and a couple of Iranian secret police goons got out and dragged him off to be summarily shot. In fact, he would welcome it.
Then a car did come to a stop outside the tent.
Sikes sat straight up, then relaxed at the sight of the man getting out. 'Hello, Harry,'
he said. 'I saw your arrival a coupla hours ago.' He got to his feet and opened the net to let the Cockney enter the tent.
''Ow are you, Archie, me lad?' Turpin said in his East End London accent. He nodded to Farouk, who had awakened. 'And 'ow are you, Farouk, you ol' rascal?'
'I am very well, thank you,' Farouk said. 'It is so nice to be seeing you again.'
'Oh, I'm good news for the two o' you,' Turpin said. 'You can bet your last shilling on that. Or pence or Euro or whatever the bluddy 'ell they're using in Blighty nowadays.'
'Sit down, Harry,' Sikes said. 'Sorry, but we got no proper drinks to offer you.'
'Sobriety is the scourge of Islam,' Turpin said. He winked at Farouk. 'No wonder you blokes are always
