Warlord: Dervish by Tony Monchinski Page B

words.
    The paunchy man had. “What’d you say?” He stood up straight, glaring at the lithe, thin woman. “I said, what’d you say ?”
    “Yeah,” Bronson muttered under his breath, “shit gonna get real interestin’.”
    The guy with the belly was walking towards the lone woman’s table. A second man—the youngest looking of the four—had risen and followed in his friends’ wake, circling the tables to come up behind her.
    Everyone in the cafeteria was watching the scene unfold.
    The woman pushed her tray away from herself and repeated whatever she had said. It wasn’t in English, but the meaning was clear. She didn’t look intimidated.
    The chubby guy stopped when he was on the other side of the table from her.
    “Got something you want to say, princess?”
    The seated woman rested both hands on the table in front of her, palms down.
    “ Huh ?” the chubby man challenged her, the intent on his face unmistakable.
    A set of double doors banged against the wall and two uniformed men strode into the mess hall. From their height, similar attirement, and gait, they appeared twins. Walking side by side, their footfalls echoed in the cavernous mess hall. Neither wore a sidearm, but both had tasers in their web belts.
    “You—” one of them spoke as they approached, indicating the petulant man “—back to your seat, now .
    “You too,” he commanded the man’s friend.
    The two chastised men looked at each other, then to their table. The man smoking the cigarette waved them back before grinding his smoke out in a tray. The chubby guy whispered something to the seated woman, turned and left.
    The uniformed duo came to a halt, standing at attention. They didn’t speak. Their eyes were cold and hard.
    The double doors opened with another boom and a third man in camouflage marched into the room. He was shorter than the first two but older. He wore no identifying insignia or leadership tabs, yet he possessed an unmistakable air of authority. Bald, he wore mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a pistol rested on his hip.
    Jason found himself standing up, raising a hand to his forehead in a salute. Bronson, looking up at him, scoffed and lowered his head.
    The man walked over to where the other two had stopped, stepping between them. “At ease.” His voice boomed in the capacious mess hall. Although Jason was the only one who had stood and saluted, the words were meant for all. Jason sat back down and the man continued.
    “The usual formalities will not apply here. The rule is simple: show respect, and you will be accorded respect.”
    He stopped for a few moments while one of the two other men repeated what he said in a language Jason did not recognize.
    “I am Major Hess. I am your operations coordinator. You will do what I tell you to do. You will not question what I tell you to do. You have all been talked to. You have all agreed. You are here for a reason. I am here for that same reason.”
    Major Hess paused periodically for his attaché to translate.
    “My presence here is very simple. It’s my job to keep you alive. I am here to see that you emerge from the other end of this thing in one piece. There is no guarantee that that will happen. However, in order for me to achieve my objective, you need to listen to me as you work, in turn, to achieve yours.
    “You need to do exactly as I say. My instructions will—at times—appear counter-intuitive. They may make little to any sense. Nevertheless, you must do as I command. I cannot guarantee you that you will survive the days ahead. I cannot guarantee that you will survive to go home to your families. But one thing I can guarantee you. If you fail to listen to me, if you fail to heed my directions, you will not survive what is ahead of you.”
    One of the four men seated together had raised his hand. Major Hess ignored him.
    “Today, I want you to eat and rest. Entertainment is available throughout the complex. Because of the sensitive nature of our