Free The Captains by W. E. B. Griffin Page B

There was terror in the lieutenant’s eyes.
    â€œI don’t see anybody back there,” Parker said.
    The lieutenant looked over his shoulder.
    â€œThe colonel told me to tell you to secure your positions,” Parker said. “Reinforcements are on the way. We’re the first of them.”
    â€œI’m not going back up there.”
    â€œTell your men to climb on my tanks,” Parker said. “You’ll have to show me where to go.”
    The lieutenant looked at him out of wide eyes.
    â€œTell them,” Parker said, again, softly. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
    For a moment, he thought that he had won.
    â€œFuck you,” the lieutenant said, not angrily. A man who had made his decision. He jumped off the tank.
    His men had gathered in a clump around Parker’s tank, watching. Paying no attention to them at all, the lieutenant resumed walking toward the rear. Parker pulled the Colt from its holster, pointed it at the sky, and pulled the trigger.
    The noise was shocking, hurting his ears.
    The lieutenant turned and looked at him.
    â€œGet your men on the tanks,” Parker ordered.
    The lieutenant looked at him for a long moment, and then deliberately turned his back and started walking.
    I’ll fire a shot into the ground beside him, Parker thought; but even as he raised the pistol, he knew that wouldn’t work. The sights lined up on the lieutenant’s back. He pulled the trigger. The old pistol leapt in recoil. The lieutenant fell spread-eagled on the ground, tried to rise, then fell again and didn’t move.
    Parker looked at the men gathered around his tank. His eyes fell on a sergeant.
    â€œHave your men climb on the tanks, Sergeant,” Parker shouted. “You are now under my command.”
    The sergeant didn’t move. Parker tried to put the Colt back in its holster. He missed. He could hear the pistol clattering around in the hull. He hoped it wouldn’t land on its hammer and fire. He put his trembling hands on the handles of the .50 caliber machine gun, and—awkwardly—trained it on the infantrymen on the ground.
    â€œMount your men, Sergeant,” Parker ordered.
    â€œOK,” the sergeant said, softly, and then raised his voice. “On the tanks,” he shouted. “Everybody on the tanks.”
    Parker touched his throat microphone.
    â€œIf anyone jumps off, shoot him,” he ordered. “Move out!”
    A half mile further down the road, he came on the defense positions. There were twenty men manning them. Another sergeant ran out when the tanks approached.
    â€œIs there an officer here?” Parker asked.
    â€œNo, sir, he bugged out,” the sergeant said.
    â€œYou’re in command?”
    â€œI guess so, Lieutenant.”
    â€œPut these men to work,” Parker ordered. “If any of them try to leave without my specific order to move, shoot them.”
    The sergeant, a wiry little black with an acne-scarred face, came to attention and saluted.
    â€œYes, sir,” he said.
    â€œI’ll see you’re decorated for this, Sergeant,” Parker said. Then he touched the throat microphone. “Woodrow, put the tanks in a defensive position.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Sergeant Woodrow’s voice came back.
    â€œLet’s take a run up the road a little and see what we can see,” Parker said to his driver.
    There was no response. Parker looked into the tank interior. The driver was handing the old Colt up to him.
    â€œYou really shoot that bastard, Lieutenant?” the driver asked.
    Parker looked at him a moment before he nodded his head.
    â€œGet back in the saddle,” he ordered. “I want to see what’s up ahead.”
    â€œYes, sir!” the driver said. He dropped back into the hull. In a moment his voice came over the intercom. “OK, Lieutenant.”
    â€œScouts forward,” Parker said, almost to himself.
    â€œRight up the