The Royal Salute

 

The sun over Fort Jackson was unforgiving. It baked the asphalt of the motor pool until the air shimmered with heat waves.

I was kneeling by the rear tire of a Humvee, my hands covered in grease. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be in the air-conditioned Officers’ Club, sipping iced tea with General Harrison. But I saw a young private—a kid no older than eighteen—struggling to change a tire in the heat, looking like he was about to pass out.

So, I did what I was raised to do. I sent the kid to the shade to drink water, and I took the tire iron.

I am Captain David Okafor. To my men back home in Nigeria, I am “The Lion.” To my father, the King, I am the Crown Prince. But today, wearing a plain olive-drab t-shirt and cargo pants with no insignia, I looked like just another grunt.

“Hey! You!”

The voice cracked like a whip.

I didn’t look up immediately. I was tightening the last lug nut.

“I am talking to you, boy!”

A shadow fell over me. I wiped my greasy hands on a rag and stood up.

Standing there was Sergeant Cole. I had read his file. A man with a reputation for “tough love” that masked a deep, rotting prejudice. He was red-faced, sweating, and his veins were bulging in his neck.

“Are you deaf?” Cole screamed, stepping into my personal space. “Or are you just stupid?”

“I am neither,” I said calmly. My accent was slight, a blend of Nigerian cadence and British schooling (Sandhurst).

Cole’s eyes narrowed. He heard the accent. It triggered something ugly inside him.

“Oh,” he sneered. “We got ourselves an import. Listen here, recruit. When a non-commissioned officer speaks, you stand at attention.”

“I am not a recruit,” I said, keeping my voice level. “And I am not in your platoon.”

“You’re on my base!” Cole roared. “And you are wearing my Army’s colors! You think you can just slack off because it’s hot? You think you’re special?”

He poked me in the chest. Hard.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

I looked at his finger. Then I looked at his eyes.

“I advise you to remove your hand, Sergeant,” I said softly.

That was the spark.

Cole exploded.

“Who do you think you are?” he screamed, spittle flying onto my face. “Who are you going to call, a black? No one is going to take a slave like you seriously. Go back to Africa, where you belong!“

The motor pool went silent. The young private I had helped gasped from the shade. Other soldiers stopped their work.

I stood perfectly still. The word slave hung in the humid air like a toxic cloud.

“You have made a mistake, Sergeant,” I said.

“The only mistake was letting you into this country,” Cole spat. “Now, drop and give me fifty. Or I will have you court-martialed for insubordination.”

I didn’t drop. I checked my watch.

“My ride is here,” I said.

---

Chapter 1: The Convoy

 

Cole looked confused. “Your ride?”

Around the corner of the maintenance shed, a convoy appeared.

It wasn’t a transport truck. It wasn’t a jeep.

It was three black SUVs with diplomatic flags, flanked by two Military Police cruisers with lights flashing.

They rolled onto the tarmac and screeched to a halt in front of us.

Cole froze. He looked at the cars, then back at me. He didn’t understand. He thought maybe they were here to arrest me. A cruel smile touched his lips.

“Looks like Immigration is here early,” Cole laughed. “Enjoy the flight home.”

The doors of the lead SUV opened.

Two men in dark suits stepped out. They were massive. They wore earpieces. They scanned the area, hands hovering near their jackets.

Then, the rear door of the middle car opened.

General Harrison, the Base Commander—a three-star General—stepped out. He was in full dress uniform.

Cole’s jaw dropped. He immediately snapped to attention, saluting so hard his hand vibrated.

“General!” Cole shouted. “Sergeant Cole reporting as ordered, sir! I was just disciplining this… this stray soldier. He was resisting orders and—”

General Harrison didn’t look at Cole. He didn’t even acknowledge his existence.

He walked straight past the Sergeant.

He walked up to me.

I was covered in grease. I was wearing a t-shirt. I smelled of sweat.

General Harrison stopped in front of me. He stood tall.

And he saluted me.

It wasn’t a casual salute. It was a slow, respectful salute reserved for visiting dignitaries.

“Your Highness,” General Harrison said. “I apologize for the delay. The security sweep took longer than expected.”

Cole let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-choke.

“Your… Highness?” Cole whispered.

I wiped my hands on the rag again. I returned the General’s salute.

“It is fine, General,” I said. “I found ways to keep myself busy.”

The two men in suits—my Royal Guard—rushed forward. One handed me a wet towel. The other held out my jacket. It was a military dress jacket, deep green, adorned with gold braiding and a chest full of medals that Cole couldn’t even identify.

I put on the jacket. I buttoned it.

I turned to Sergeant Cole.

He was no longer red. He was the color of old paper. He was still holding his salute, but his hand was trembling violently.

“General,” I said to Harrison. “Is this man under your command?”

Harrison looked at Cole with ice-cold eyes. “He is, sir. Is there a problem?”

“There is a significant problem,” I said.

Chapter 2: The Report

“This man,” I said, pointing a gloved hand at Cole, “found me changing a tire for one of your young privates. He assumed, based on the color of my skin and my accent, that I was a recruit.”

Harrison’s jaw tightened. “Go on, sir.”

“He poked me in the chest,” I continued. “He threatened me. And then…”

I paused. I wanted Cole to feel the silence. I wanted him to feel the weight of his own words crushing him.

“He called me a slave,” I said quietly. “And he ordered me to go back to Africa.”

General Harrison slowly turned his head toward Cole. If looks could kill, Cole would have been vaporized on the spot.

“Sergeant Cole,” Harrison said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. “Did you say those things?”

“Sir… I… I didn’t know!” Cole stammered. “He was… he looked like… I thought he was just a private!”

“So you speak to privates like that?” Harrison roared. The calm was gone. “You call American soldiers slaves?”

“No! I mean… I was just trying to instill discipline!”

“Discipline?” I interjected. “Is racism now a form of discipline in the United States Army?”

“No, sir!” Harrison barked. “Absolutely not.”

I stepped closer to Cole. My Royal Guards stepped with me, their eyes locked on the Sergeant as if he were a rabid dog.

“I am Captain David Okafor,” I told him. “Of the Nigerian Special Forces. I am a graduate of Sandhurst. I have led men into battles that would make you wet your pants, Sergeant. And I am here as a guest of your government to discuss joint counter-terrorism operations.”

Cole was shaking. Sweat was pouring down his face.

“I am going back to Africa, Sergeant,” I said, leaning in close. “Next week. And when I do, I will be reporting to my government—and yours—that the United States Army allows bigots to hold rank.”

“Please,” Cole whined. “Sir, I have twenty years in. My pension…”

“You should have thought about your pension before you opened your mouth,” I said.

I looked at the young private sitting in the shade. The one I had helped. He was watching with wide eyes.

“General,” I said. “That young man over there. Private Miller. He needs a commendation. He was working in unsafe heat conditions because he was afraid of this Sergeant.”

“Done,” Harrison said. “And Cole?”

“Strip him,” I said.

Chapter 3: The Stripping

It wasn’t a literal stripping of clothes, but it was close.

“MPs!” Harrison shouted.

The two Military Police officers from the cruisers ran over.

“Sergeant Cole is under arrest,” Harrison ordered. “Charges include conduct unbecoming, assault on a foreign dignitary, and violation of the UCMJ regarding hate speech and discrimination.”

“Sir!” the MPs shouted.

They grabbed Cole. They weren’t gentle. They spun him around and kicked his legs apart.

“You can’t do this!” Cole screamed as the cuffs clicked. “I was just doing my job!”

“Your job was to lead,” Harrison spat. “Not to hate. Take his rank.”

One of the MPs reached out and ripped the Velcro rank patch—the three chevrons of a Sergeant—off Cole’s chest. The sound of the tearing fabric echoed across the motor pool.

He handed the patch to Harrison.

Harrison handed it to me.

“He doesn’t deserve to wear this,” Harrison said.

I looked at the patch. Then I looked at Cole, who was now crying, begging, a snotty mess of a man.

“You called me a slave,” I said to him. “But you are the one who is enslaved, Sergeant. Enslaved by your own ignorance.”

I dropped the patch into the oil-stained dirt.

“Get him out of my sight,” I ordered.

They dragged him away. He was wailing. The other soldiers in the motor pool watched him go. No one looked sad. No one looked angry. They looked relieved. The bully was gone.

Chapter 4: The Departure

General Harrison turned to me. He looked exhausted and ashamed.

“Captain… Your Highness. I am deeply embarrassed. This does not represent this base. Or this Army.”

“I know,” I said. “I have fought beside Americans. I know what honor looks like. That man had none.”

I looked at the tire I had fixed.

“General, do you mind if I wash up? I believe I have grease on my hands.”

“Of course,” Harrison gestured to the SUV. “We will take you to the VIP quarters immediately.”

I walked toward the car. But before I got in, I walked over to Private Miller.

The kid scrambled to stand up and salute. “Sir!”

“At ease, Miller,” I smiled. “How is the tire?”

“Tight, sir. You… you fixed it perfectly.”

“My father taught me that a King who cannot fix a wheel cannot lead a nation,” I said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a coin. It was a Challenge Coin, gold and green, bearing the royal crest of my family.

“Take this,” I said. “If anyone ever tries to treat you like trash again… you show them this. And you tell them you have friends in high places.”

Miller took the coin. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, Prince.”

“Just Captain,” I winked.

I got into the SUV. The leather seat was cool. The air conditioning hit my face.

As the convoy pulled away, I looked out the window. I saw the MPs shoving Cole into the back of a cruiser. I saw the Private holding the coin, smiling.

I settled back into the seat.

“Where to, Your Highness?” the driver asked.

“To the meeting,” I said. “I have a lot to tell the Joint Chiefs.”

Cole had told me to go back to Africa. I would. But first, I was going to make sure that men like him had no place in the army I respected.

Justice, I decided, was a dish best served with a salute.