Tripp

Major General Ali tipped his head into Ali’s brimmed field officer cap and pointed at Tripp. Ali nodded. His index finger traced the thin mustache over his top lip. His dark black eyes went cold and flat, as he aimed for Tripp.
Tripp never blinked, just stared the man down like he would any other belligerent. Generals put their pants on the same way grunts did. Ali wanted a power struggle? He’d get it. Signed, sealed, and delivered, courtesy of US Army Corporal McClane. Tripp didn’t back down from anyone which was why he’d never aspired to OTS, Officer Training School. What did it matter if he pissed off this jerk?
General Ali marched right up to him, the bright sun glinting off all the shiny crap pinned to his chest. Not much glinted off Tripp’s chest. Tactical vests didn’t shine.
“You,” Ali bit out. He’d taken one step too many and was now inside Tripp’s personal space. “You are the American soldier responsible for apprehending this pig?”
So much for courteous introductions.
As if to make a point, the general turned and spat at the already cringing teenage terrorist. “Kneel! You will kneel to me, or I will have you caged and burned alive. Here! Now!”
Cowering, Ikram fell to his knees and hid his face behind his cuffed hands. The poor damned kid. He didn’t stand a chance against this bully. Something dark and feral inside Tripp lifted its head and bared its fangs. He hadn’t yet officially transferred his prisoner over to this pompous ANSF prick. Didn’t know if he would now. Despite the agreed-upon ROEs between the USA and Afghanistan, Ikram was technically still in Tripp’s care. True, terrorists didn’t deserve much respect. They didn’t get it in America; they got less in this country. But Ikram was just a stupid kid, and nobody deserved the treatment Ali was dishing out.
“Yes, sir, I’m Corporal McClane,” Tripp answered respectfully, keeping his tone neutral, even as his blood began a slow boil. “My team and I intercepted Abdul Ikram one block east of—”
“But you,” Ali snapped, one side of his upper lip lifted in a snarl. He stabbed a finger into Tripp’s chest, pissing him off. “It was you. You are the one. It was you who stopped him from completing his assignment.”
Calling what Ikram did an assignment made it sound as if he had a boss, which he probably did. How else would the kid have acquired that many explosives, a suicide vest, and a push-button detonator? But Ali also made it sound like an accusation, instead of something Tripp should’ve been proud of. Nothing he’d done yesterday, except preventing more deaths and taking Ikram under his wing, felt right.
“We did, yes, sir,” Tripp replied. “My team and—”
“Not we. There was no we. Your men did not bring this… this…” Ali muttered some curse Tripp couldn’t interpret quickly enough. “You alone took this piece of camel shit down. You alone took the detonator from him and ended his fatwa. You!”
Tripp couldn’t decide if the man wanted agreement or confession. He refused to give either. There was no I in his team, damn it. Again, he quietly replied, “My team and I ended this young man’s attack before more civilians were killed, sir. We were lucky. We were in the right place at the right time. It happens.” Get over your effin’ self.
Ali’s head bobbed once. He grunted, but not as if he’d conceded the power struggle. More like he’d accepted a challenge. Without another word, he jerked the Russian-made pistol out of the holster on his belt and fired. The poor, unsuspecting kid folded back onto his skinny legs like a deflated, punctured accordion. The top of his head was gone, splattered against the pants of the American soldiers standing behind him.
Automatically, Tripp’s pistol sprang to his gloved hand. His six-man squad followed suit, and it was showdown in Dodge City, with really bad odds.
“You son of a bitch!” he hissed at the glowering bastard standing so close that Tripp could’ve strangled him with his bare hands. “He was just a kid!”
General Ali turned magnanimous. Holstering his pistol with a swaggering head bob, he put one palm forward, as if placating a stupid American. As if he hadn’t just murdered a child. A sinister smile curled the corners of his thin lips. “My country and I thank you for your service, Corporal McClane,” he announced loud enough for all to hear. “That is your name, is it not? You are United States Army Corporal Tripp McClane, right? Or is my intelligence incorrect?”
Tripp was done being nice. He didn’t answer this pompous dickwad, and he didn’t lower his weapon. Couldn’t. Could barely think straight. Willed his nostrils not to inhale the sickening scent of Ikram’s blood and brains cooking on the sizzling tarmac. Focused solely on the wrinkles lining the forehead of the asshat who had cold-bloodedly murdered a fifteen-year-old boy.
“Come on, Tripp. Don’t make waves,” Spike, his best buddy, muttered as he hip-checked Tripp. “Sergeant Wolsey just drove up. We gotta go.”
“Yeah,” Tripp growled out of the side of his mouth, his mind numb at the awful turn of events. “Yeah. We do.”
But red-hot rage still burned low in his gut, the same kind of rage that had propelled him out of Idaho and into the Army two years ago. The kind that would get him and his men killed if he acted on it today. It might’ve gotten him out of the mess his sister made of his family life, but here, in this godforsaken part of the world, it could get him court-martialed. Or dead.
Like a USA robot with a script programmed into its perfectly manicured data banks, he repeated the official words he’d been instructed to say during the prisoner hand-off. Legal words he had to say. Thinning his lips, he bit out, “By the authority of the US Army, I relinquish care and responsibility for prisoner one-zero-one-two, Abdul Ikram, a fifteen-year-old child…” You son of a bitch! “…over to