A Time to Die by Mark Wandrey

“Lieutenant Tobin?” one demanded.
    “That’s what it says on my flight jacket.”
    “Please come with us, sir,” the younger of the two said. The both carried M9 pistols in holsters and the older man, a buck sergeant, had an M4 on a single point sling.
    “I formerly request your orders, Sergeant.” The man chewed his lip and reached into his pocket for a piece of paper. It was a properly signed arrest warrant for Lieutenant Andrew Tobin, 332nd Fighter Wing. The charge was AWOL and disobeying a direct order. He had his flight orders in his pocket, so he knew both charges were bogus. But it was a legitimate warrant. He’d have to deal with it from inside the stockade. “Very well,” he said and allowed the sergeant to take his holstered Sig.
    While they were cuffing him, he turned to the ground chief. A senior airman, who just so happened to be the same one that buttoned him into the ship two days ago. He caught the man’s eyes, looked at the photography pod hanging under the center of the fighter, and back at him before nodding. The airman winked and Andrew sighed. The crew chief would make sure that it made it to Sommers. It had to. The film was nothing short of spectacular. Some sort of plague was underway in Mexico, and it was heading for the United States as fast as legs could carry it.
    Three hours later he was still sitting in one of the airbase’s tiny cells. He’d been given a bottle of water a few degrees cooler than lava and a stale croissant to keep him company. He’d been nursing the water, but the croissant had been declared a battle casualty and left for dead. He was just eyeing the less than comfortable looking bunk when the door opened and a pair of guys in Army ACUs stepped in. He noticed right away that they had no unit insignias and both wore a sidearm in a detention area.
    “Military intelligence, eh?” he said as they closed the door behind them.
    “Where’s the photo pod, Lieutenant.”
    “I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about,” he replied and kept his seat. Their uniforms were bereft of rank as well. “Until I see some ID or at least proper decorum, you two can go fuck yourselves.”
    The two looked at each other and the one on the left shrugged. The one on the right stepped forward and put a forearm into Andrew’s face.
    He went over backwards from the blow, caught completely off guard, and hit the concrete floor head first. He was about to roll over the get to his feet when the other man’s knee landed on his neck, pinning him painfully to the floor. “We need your cooperation, Lieutenant Tobin.” He spat something that could never be considered cooperative and felt someone step on his artificial leg where the ankle would be. “One leg not enough for Uncle Sam?”
    The weight lifted. His attackers had obviously been taken aback. “We just want that intel, Lieutenant.”
    “Does it look like I have it?!”
    “We went and checked your plane after you landed—”
    “Fighter,” he corrected.
    They both glared at him for a moment then the one who’d done most of the talking nodded. Andrew smiled from the floor and they turned on their heels and left. An hour later he was informed that his commanding officer had been relieved of his command and that they were both to be transported Stateside for formal charges.
     
    * * *
     
    Vance had shuddered just to look at the computer. He’d stare at it for a few minutes then go get some coffee, then stare at it some more. He was sitting in the kitchen watching the quiet computer down the hall from his chair when Ann came home. She looked at him from the kitchen door and frowned. She’d stayed with him since he’d returned from the hospital in the hopes that her presence would bring him around. It hadn’t worked.
    She started dinner and went into the living room to watch the evening news. The lead story was an investigative report of disturbing video images coming out of Mexico. She stopped halfway back to the