We all piled into the cars, and Eric punched the pedal and burned rubber.

Eric had his night-vision goggles on and the car's headlights off. He was pushing at least forty through narrow streets with sharp turns that were unsafe at twenty. I couldn't tell which was the more imminent threat, a bunch of pissed-off jihadis or Eric's lead foot. Then I recalled how jihadis handle prisoners and said to Eric, "Faster."

Bian and I sat on both sides of Ali bin Pacha, and with all the sharp turns, he was being tossed between us like a broken rag doll.

In less than three minutes the buildings thinned out and we were back in the outskirts of the city. I'm usually good at remembering places I've been, and saw no recognizable landmarks, so this wasn't the same way we entered-presumably Eric was following good trade-craft and varying our route. I overheard him conversing with his team, and it sounded like one or two of the other teams were trailing us, guarding our back door to be sure we made it out with our cargo.

Bian said not a word. I felt no need to tell her how I felt. I was pissed; she knew it. Not only had she shot the prisoners, she had compounded her sins with inexcusable carelessness and twice allowed the bad guys to get the drop on her. The second time nearly got my head blown off; I take this personally. Also, our precious prisoner might not live long enough for an interrogation, this whole trip might be a waste of time, and Phyllis and I were going to have a long, one-way conversation.

Anyway, we now were out of the built-up area, bouncing along the same dusty road we took into the city, and I realized that Eric had somehow found a way to take us back through the lines of Captain Yuknis's company. I checked my watch: 3:20. I relaxed. Okay, Ali bin Pacha might expire before we got to Baghdad, but that aside, the worst was behind us. What more could go wrong?

Well, one shouldn't test the fates, because suddenly we were bathed in lights, and Eric hit the brakes hard enough that bin Pacha flew forward and slammed headfirst into a seat back.

The lights shut off nearly as quickly as they'd flashed on, and an American voice yelled, "Driver, out of the car. Hands above your head."

Eric stepped out again. This time, however, rather than the tall, lean silhouette of Captain Yuknis, the figure approaching through the darkness was short and squat, he moved with an affected John Waynish swagger, and he was accompanied by a pair of large Marines pointing M16s at Eric.

I rolled down my window and could overhear Eric and the officer speaking; arguing, actually. A minute passed, and things were not improving. Eric's voice was getting louder, and his interrogator's tone was turning nastier, and more imperious.

Great. I was here because my duplicitous boss outwitted me, my partner had just committed a war crime, my prisoner was probably bleeding to death, and-well, you get the picture.

I needed to vent, and this situation-and this guy-would do nicely.

I threw open the car door. "Sean, don't…" Bian insisted. "Please, leave this to Eric."

"Shut up."

I stepped out of the car and began walking toward Eric. In the near distance I heard the sound of M16 charging handles being cocked, and a little late, I recalled my Arab clothing. I stopped, reached into my pocket, withdrew my little American flag, and began frantically waving it, even as I slowly and carefully pulled the abaya over my head and set it on the ground.

The officer was yelling in Eric's face, "I really don't give a shit who you say you are, or who you claim you coordinated this with. I'm-"

"Captain Yuknis. I told you."

"Yuknis was called to a meeting at the Tactical Operations Center. I'm in charge now, and I'm placing you and that car under military custody. And yes, it will be searched. Explain your story to an interrogator when one becomes available."

"The car can't be searched."

And so on.

I approached the officer and directed the beam of my flashlight first at his chest, then on his collar. His nametag read Berry, and he sported the black bar of a first lieutenant, indicating he was Captain Yuknis's second in command.

I then shifted the beam to the lieutenant's face and was surprised by how youthful, actually baby-faced, he was. The longer I've stayed in, the more I've noticed that lieutenants are becoming younger and younger. But the junior officer in the military is an interesting creature, endowed with powers and responsibilities that far outstrip his experience and wisdom level. Some respond to this gap with intelligent humility, some with a self-destructive insecurity, and others by the silly illusion that it is deserved. Had I not guessed where Lieutenant Berry fell on this spectrum, he barked, "Get that damned light out of my eyes."

I replied, good-naturedly, "Good morning, Lieutenant Berry. Fine day, don't you think?"

"Who are you?" he demanded in a nasty tone.

"You're the executive officer of this company, right?"

"Who the fuck are you?" he repeated.

"If it was your business, don't you think I would've answered the first time?"

"Oh… a wiseass," he said, showing surprising perceptiveness. After a moment, he ordered, "Put your hands over your head."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I'm ordering you to."

"Silly reason."

"Is it? I'll have you shot. Is that silly?"

When I did not raise my hands, he looked over his shoulder and said to his two Marines, "Search and cuff this asshole. If he resists, use force."

Before either Marine could move, I said to Lieutenant Berry, "Now would be a good time for you to slap your heels together."

"You… huh?"

"Heels. The little stumps at the back end of your feet. Assume the position of attention."

"I know what the hell heels are."

"Well, sometimes with Marines, you have to explain these things." I overheard one of his bodyguards chuckle, even as he stepped closer with his M16 pointed at my face. I directed the beam from the flashlight to my own left collar and said to Berry-and indirectly to his bodyguards-"Order that Jarhead to back off before I place you all under arrest for assaulting a superior officer."

I could see the confidence drain out of his face as he stared for a moment at the black leaf of a lieutenant colonel. He seemed unsettled and uncertain what to do next, then like the little martinet he obviously was, he fell back on military instinct, drew himself to attention, and popped off a smart salute.

I did not salute back. "Lieutenant, you have insulted and threatened the life of a senior officer." I turned to Eric. "You witnessed this, did you not?"

"Sure did. He cussed at you. Called you a bad name, too. He even threatened to kill you."

I observed, "Yes, a real snot. Any decent prosecutor will get him at least ten to fifteen in Leavenworth."

"Sir, I didn't know who you were… I didn't recognize-"

"I recognized you. We were a mere two feet apart. I see no reason why you couldn't recognize me." I allowed him the necessary few seconds to consider what an unreasonable prick I am, then concluded, "No, I'm afraid that doesn't excuse your behavior."

"Would a Marine apology do, sir?"

"Not even close."

"Well… I-"

"Lieutenant, how familiar are you with Article 834?"

He looked at me, then at Eric.

I explained, "To wit, interfering with, blocking, and/or jeopardizing the progress of a vital military operation. Just below treason in the Uniform Code of Military Justice and punishable up to life."

"But sir… I didn't know-"

"Ignorance is no excuse, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"The proper response is yes, sir."

"Uh… yes, sir. What I… well, what I meant-"

"If you'd be so kind, you'll speak when I tell you to." After a moment, I asked, "Do you have a radio?"