John couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end of the line, but on this end, the captain was saying a lot of “yes sirs” and “no sirs.” The captain pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle. John tensed.
“Dr. Long,” said Flinch in a formal tone, “there appears to have been a slight misunderstanding. You have my apology. I’ll be removing your restraints.”
At that moment, the van that brought them pulled up. Captain Flinch turned toward the van and shouted, “We’re heading to Central ASAP.” He then looked back to John and said, “Dr. Long, I was following orders. I’m sure you understand. I’ve been instructed to aid you.” He bent down and cut John’s restraints.
“Well then,” said John, “send the limo on its way. I think I’ll walk.”
Captain Flinch, who seemed disappointed in the change in John’s status, said, “That I can’t allow. I’m under orders to deliver you to Central.”
Sergeant Clark, now out of the van, extended his hand to John to help him to his feet.
As the three were walking toward the van, Captain Flinch asked, “By the way, just how did you kill the airwar?”
John, who was seething, hesitated, then spoke, “Well, the airwar had me trapped inside. I tried everything, but nothing worked. Then I thought back to my medical school days.”
Flinch was listening intently as John continued, “I located the airwar ’s rectum, and I shoved my head in it. I held it there until the airwar died of constipation. I’m naming it the ‘Flinch maneuver.’ I hope you enjoy the reverse eponym; I plan to make it famous.” Sergeant Clark smiled and suppressed a laugh. Captain Flinch stalked ahead and sat in silence the remainder of the trip.
It was a two-hour drive and John tried to glean some information from Sergeant Clark. The only answer he could get was, “Sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss anything with you at this time.” The other marines’ response was the same.
Once the van reached Central, it was another thirty minutes before they entered the building. Three checkpoints needed clearance. The first checkpoint presented the most difficulty because the pot-bellied Sergeant Baker wanted ID verification for everyone. This was impossible for John, as he was clothed only with the light blue surfing shorts with no form of identification. Captain Flinch’s entreaties, then veiled threats, had no impact on the sergeant.
Sergeant Baker ’s speed seemed to become inversely proportional to the degree of flushing on Flinch’s face. Finally, after several minutes, the sergeant had seemingly satiated his power lust.
“Everyone can pass except for Mr. Blue shorts,” said Sergeant Baker, “He must remain outside the gate until he presents proper identification.”
“Sergeant, you open this damn gate and let all of us pass,” screamed Captain Flinch, who looked on the verge of apoplexy, “If you don’t, all hell’s breaking loose.”
“Captain,” said Sergeant Baker smugly, “I must remind you your rank doesn’t supersede checkpoint security protocol. If your current behavior continues, I have every right to detain you as well.”
John, who was enjoying the show, couldn’t help notice Flinch’s hand shifting to the grip of his holstered pistol. Sergeant Baker noticed this, too, and motioned with his left hand. Two sentries appeared with M-14s aimed at the van. At that moment, a jeep from Central skidded up to the checkpoint. Colonel Vickers vaulted from the back seat and stalked toward the sergeant. The sergeant immediately snapped to attention and saluted.
The colonel, without returning the salute, demanded, “Corporal, why have these men not been checked through?”
“It’s Sergeant Baker, sir.”
“Not anymore,” said the colonel.
John noticed beginnings of a slight smile on Captain Flinch’s face.
Sergeant Baker began to speak, “Sir, I was—”
“Pass these men through—NOW!” interrupted the colonel harshly. He waved to the gun-bearing sentries, who immediately opened the gate. At the next two check points there were no delays. John could hear his heart pounding, but sat motionless as he was whisked to his fate.
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