Second Chances

Pt. 04

by G. Lawrence

General Fowler makes his claim

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Following a court hearing in Massachusetts, Jack is traveling to New York City

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

President Leonard Wagner

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. President,

The kidnapping of Premier Alwan's children posed both a crisis and an opportunity. The Tashad splinter group believed responsible had revived tensions between Iran and Iraq, but we had at our disposal a veteran familiar with the Blue Mountain region where the children were being held. It was hoped a successful rescue operation would improve our relations with both countries. Respectfully submitted, General Collin Fowler

Chapter Four

FOWLER'S SECRET MISSION

As prison cells go, the one in the village of Sar'ret could be worse. It was actually a storage room sometimes used by visiting relatives. Presumably poor relatives. I had a bed. After a time, they gave me adequate clothes. There was small window for light and a bucket for night use. There was only one rat, an industrious little brown creature with a long black tail and white cheeks. I occasionally shared my bread with her. Our conversations tended to be one-sided.

Kassan Abari had warned the village that I was a dangerous American criminal, and that if I could escape, I would kill for the sheer pleasure of it. This made them cautious, but not cruel. The villagers took no joy in their assignment, and in time, I learned they greatly resented the demands put upon them by Tashad, who stole their food.

When not out for my walks, I was kept in the storage room with hands bound. The lack of activity began to weigh on me, but I broke up the boredom by volunteering to do chores around the village. Usually lifting and carrying. The lake provided some arable land for farming, rare in this region, so I would help load wagons, fill the silos, and eventually learned to feed the livestock, which included sheep, cattle, goats and chickens. I liked the goats. I was not a fan of the chickens.

There was some suspicion, at first. They feared a trick. If the village elders had suspected how violent I'd been as a youth, or how many strong men I'd beaten to a bloody pulp in prison, they would have kept me chained. But I made a point of not causing trouble. I addressed everyone with respect, never complained about anything, and struggled to remain good-natured. Though I occasionally failed in this when my spirits were low. Without my medication, the bad dreams were creeping back.

One day there was an incident that almost turned serious. I was with a crew of village men shoring up the dam supplying water to the largest farm. Several diggers labored in the irrigation ditch without shirts, but to hide my battle scars, I kept my shirt on. A middle-aged worker whose usual occupation was tanning hides had attempted to brace the spillover with an old timber. The mud wall had other ideas.

"Ramood! Ramood, watch out!" seventeen-year-old Khillan shouted, setting down the shotgun he was supposed to guard me with.

But I had seen the danger first. As the mud wall began to give way, I pulled my shirt off and jumped into the channel, covering our heads as we were buried. In such shallow confines, mud in the lungs is generally a greater danger than mere water, and I had been in enough floods to know how to react. With so many others nearby, I knew we'd be pulled up fairly quickly.

A moment later, we were brought to the surface. I helped Ramood to the embankment and crawled up after him, no worse for wear.

"Thank you," Ramood graciously said, for he thought me better tied up than roaming around.

"You are welcome, sir," I replied, wondering how to get clean.

Thus far in Sar'ret, I had bathed in my storage room with a towel and a pan of soapy water. The slime of the irrigation ditch offered a stiffer challenge. When I saw Ma'amet rushing down from the village to see what had happened, I pulled him aside.

"Master, may I wash in the creek?" I requested.

"I am no one's master. Khillan and Ishan will go with you," Ma'amet said.

"My shirt is still in the ditch. The women may not see me like this," I begged.

"We will find something for you," Ma'amet promised, waving me away.

I went around the edge of the lake to the wide creek that fed it from the north, Khillan and Ishan following with their shotguns, and stripped to scrub the mud out of my pants. My boots were in bad shape, the soles beginning to flap, and the socks were full of holes.

"What happened to you?" Ishan said, sounding shocked.

"It's only a bruise," I said, finding a purple mark on my elbow.

"No, the scars. Were you blown up?" Ishan asked. They had seen me naked in the storage room but light had been poor. Evidence of my injuries were more obvious in the bright sunlight.

"I was not blown up. Not as you think," I reluctantly explained. "During the war, I was wounded several times. Usually the scars are hard to see, but the cold water makes them turn red."

The young men crowded close. Had I been inclined, I could have taken the guns away from them. But it would have done nothing to aid my situation. I won't say I never considered escape, but my chances were poor so far from a friendly border. And I might have to hurt someone, which wasn't my desire.

"Can you tell the stories?" Khillan asked.

"Someday, if Ma'amet gives permission, but not today," I answered.

That night, when I was put back in my room, I was not tied up. I did not ask for such a courtesy, it was simply granted without comment. My food improved, too, and each night Mrs. Ma'amet brought me a cup of warm tea.

____________

Jenny and I barely left her apartment for the first two days, getting our first taste of domestic life. She was surprised that I knew how to cook. I was surprised she knew how to do laundry. But I wasn't ready to move in. I asked around the neighborhood for affordable apartments and almost signed off on a nice little loft that would suit my needs.

On a Sunday evening, growing restless for lack of something useful to do, I decided to take a walk back to my old haunts. Jenny insisted on coming with me. We crossed the river into Brooklyn and turned south.

"I've never been to the docks before. Not these docks," she said as we walked along an old pier in a light fog.

The East River lay before us, decrepit brick buildings behind us. Cargo booms were lifting huge containers off the ships. Longshoremen directed the stacking while supervisors logged the shipments. It was getting dark as the workday wound down.

"Not everything will make it into the books," I said, noticing one of the containers being moved ship to ship rather than to the dock.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Sometimes containers go missing," I explained.

"Do you mean stolen?"

"It's been a tradition for two hundred years. I acted as a lookout for the Brannigan Brothers," I recalled. "Until they asked for more than I was willing to give."

"What do you mean?"

"They needed a security guard out of the way. A nice old guy with a family. I said no. Jake Brannigan wasn't too happy with me."

"Sounds serious. Did you get in trouble?"

"Someone shot Jake a week later. Dumped his body in the harbor. Not me, though I was suspected. I decided it was time to move on."

We stopped by Fat Louie's, a rundown saloon that had gotten worse in the last twenty-three years, if such a thing were possible.

"I watched for poker cheats here," I said, pointing to a black curtain at the end of the bar. "Got pretty good, too. Even played on occasion, but the regulars didn't like losing to a kid. I was already a beer drinker at thirteen. This is where I started drinking whisky and hanging out with the working girls."

"At thirteen?" Jenny said, shocked.

"Grew up fast, Red," I said, sitting at the bar to order a Squirrel Nut. "Bartender, is Farley still around? Or Tweeky?"

"Both dead," the bartender said. "What's it to you?"

"I was a friend of Charlie Littler," I replied, recalling an old alias.

"Now that's a name that goes back," the bartender said with a nostalgic smile. "What ever happened to Little Littler?"

"Killed in Afghanistan," I said. "But he loved telling stories about Louie's. The Big Bango. Tiny's Craving. The Night of Four Aces."

"Those were great days," the bartender agreed. "Farley used to say Littler could have had a future in the organization if his conscience hadn't outgrown his britches."

"He was a bit dainty, wasn't he?" I said.

"Tweeky always said he was a good kid. Reliable. Also said never to play poker with him," the bartender recalled, grinning at the memory.

I left a ten-dollar tip and we strolled back to the dock. The moon was coming out as we passed a neglected warehouse. I pointed out a shed where I'd lived one summer, and the old meeting place of the Wharf Rats, now boarded up.

"I didn't realize," Jenny said.

"Realize what?" I asked.

"You've talked about your childhood. It sounded so colorful. Sort of. But this? It--"

"Worse than you thought?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, it's worse than I thought."

"It wasn't all bad. And I learned some valuable lessons."

Just as we were heading back toward the subway station, two ruffians appeared from the shadows. One was short and plump, his black wool sweater frayed at the cuffs. The other was my height, with thin shoulders and a limping gait. I didn't recognize either of them.

"Got a light, mister?" the short one said, coming within a few feet of me. One hand held a cigarette, the other was hidden behind his back.

"Just when I thought there'd be no chance to show off," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shorty asked.

I grabbed his extended hand, pulled him closer, and punched him hard in the face. As he staggered in surprise, I spun him around, took the knife out of his other hand, and drove him headfirst into a corrugated steel wall. As he bounced back, I hit him again. He fell senseless to the boardwalk.

His companion hesitated, then took a step forward. I faked poking him in the face with the knife, then punched him three times in the gut with my clenched right until he dropped to his knees. A kick to the face left him sprawled out, twitching next to his partner in crime. I went through their pockets, finding forty-two dollars, and threw their knives in the river.

"Come on. Time to move along," I said, taking Jenny by the arm.

"What happened? What was that? Were we going to be robbed?" she asked.

"That was their plan," I replied, finding it hard to suppress a chuckle.

"You beat the hell out of them."

"You've had questions about my past, sweetheart. Well, that was my past. Does it scare you?"

"Sort of. It's kind of sexy, too," she admitted.

A few days later I was making arrangements to get my own apartment when another ghost from the past intervened.

"What the hell are you doing, kid?" he said in his gruffest voice.

It was General Fowler, lean as always, black hair on top, gray on the sides, and wearing civilian garb. At least he wasn't wearing a fake eyepatch like he had at my review hearing, where he called the board members sheep-humpers. He had tracked me down to the Fighting 69th, my favorite Irish pub on the West Side.

"Starting a new life in New York," I replied. "And getting more money in one day than the Army paid me in a year."

"Yeah, but no one is shooting at you," Fowler said.

"You think I miss that?"

"I know you miss it. You thrive on danger. Now what's this other goddamn crap you've been doing? Teaching rich snot-nosed punks how to write essays. Playing guitar on the internet. Saving damsels in distress. The whole world knows who you are now."

"I was never a secret agent. After the Army said I was too shot up for field duty, you made me a researcher. Black Web. Remember?"

"Don't excuse you becoming a hero," Fowler responded. "But I guess you've still got your uses."

"I'm retired. I have a girl. And I'm making money."

"Don't brag about being a pussy. I need you. Your country needs you. We're gearing up for a special mission where you can make a difference. Isn't that what you goddamn heroes do? Make a difference?"

"Sir, I appreciate the offer. But I have another life in mind. I'm dating Jennifer Blair."

"Now that's a disaster ready to happen. Do you know what America is going to say? The President's daughter with the man they think murdered her father?"

"Her mother hasn't discouraged us," I said.

"Her mother knows the soul of John Lawrence. America doesn't. All they see is a reckless adventurer ready to grow feet of clay."

"Are you going to buy me a drink, or just try to tear down my world?"

"What are you drinking, kid?"

We took our piña coladas to a corner booth in the back where we wouldn't be overheard. I knew Fowler wasn't going to leave until he had his say.

"Okay, what's this all about?" I asked.

"Got a mission," he said without fanfare.

"And I told you I'm not interested. I'm looking for an apartment," I replied.

"Got a great one for you, in Afghanistan. Comes with roommates, bad food, long working hours, and a big reward."

"And what reward would that be?" I foolishly asked.

"Saving two innocent kids from getting their throats cut."

"Are you talking about Alwan's children?"

"For someone who doesn't give a crap about anyone but yourself, you stay on top of things."

"The kidnapping is all over the news. Tashad?"

"Same old bastards," Fowler confirmed. "Some bandit named Abari is trying to make a name for himself."

"What would this have to do with me?"

"I'm assembling a special team. Experienced veterans who know the language, know the culture, and give a damn about the people. And I need a medic. We'll go in, snatch the kids, and I'll have you back by the 4th of July."

"There must be scores of better qualified medics than me," I protested.

"Medics who know the Blue Mountain region?"

He had me there, and he knew it.

"This a lot to think about, and I'll need to talk with Jenny," I said. "This is a secret mission, isn't it? You're not going to splash my name all over the newspapers?"

"Secret at the highest level. Even Wagner doesn't know about it."

"The President got pretty pissed about being frozen out the last time," I warned.

"No reason to put the cart before the horse. We'll bring him in if this pays off."

"When do you need to know?" I asked.

"I'll have a jet waiting for you in the morning," Fowler replied.

I had already decided to go on the mission. Fowler didn't need to explain the stakes that were involved, for the increased tensions between Iraq and Iran could lead to another war. The question was how to tell Jenny. I decided that only the absolute truth would do.

"National Guard training?" Jenny said. "For three weeks?"

"It's no big deal," I said. "We'll ride around the Mojave Desert shooting cactus, then get drunk in the evenings. It's going to be fun seeing the guys again."

"Did you volunteer? Tired of me already?" she asked.

"Yes, I did volunteer, and no, I'm not getting tired of you. If there was room in my duffle bag, I'd stuff you in."

She wrinkled her nose and had the cutest little pout on her face. We called out for dinner and spent the night between the sheets doing everything. I wasn't sure how long it would be before I saw her again.

The next morning, just after dawn, I appeared at the airfield ready to go. Fowler provided a blue uniform in my size, complete with service ribbons and captain's bars. We flew to Washington and arrived at the Pentagon in time for the briefing. It was much different than the last time I'd been there, still serving as a Federal prisoner.

"Jack, great to see you," General Wheeler said. The Army Chief of Staff smiled and gave me a crisp salute. Wheeler was not a tall man, and tended to be thin, but had a presence. His bushy mustache was white as ever.

I recognized Brigadier Walter Atkins, along with Colonel Kristine Leslie and several other high-ranking officers. The planning center was filled with maps, monitors, and aides providing reports. For a need-to-know facility, it seemed very busy.

"Honored to be here, General," I said, returning the salute.

"How much did Fowler tell you?" General Atkins asked. He had been hostile on our first meeting, but now appeared more tolerant.

"Rescue operation in the Blue Mountains," I replied.

"More than that, son," General Wheeler said, going to an electronic map that filled an entire table. "Our relations with Iraq have been bad since Second Afghan. If we can rescue Prime Minister Alwan's children, it will go far in restoring relations."

"Even if you're all killed, just making the attempt will send a positive message," Akins added, drawing a dirty look from Wheeler.

"Tashad's influence has grown weaker since their failed attack on Boston," Colonel Leslie explained. "But they still have enough regional strength to intimidate Iran. If we can breakup this current plot, Iran might finally be ready to oust Tashad from their territory."

"That would cut off the Iraq and Afghanistan branches from each other," Fowler said. "After that, it will be a mopping up operation, and Tashad knows it. They have a lot on the line this time."

"I figured most of that out," I said, not quite so dumb as they thought. Even if I had dropped out of high school to join the Army. "Are you using the 104th Rangers?"

"Yes. Already training in Afghanistan. We're still searching for where the kidnappers are hiding," Leslie said.

"I've been associated with the 104th because of Bobby Blair's books," I said. "I want to help, but I don't want my name involved. I already get too much publicity."

"Not to worry. We'll just say it's a SEAL operation like we always do," Wheeler assured me.

"Then I'm good to go, sir," I said. "And may I suggest the Maharambi Caves, here on the Silk Border Road? During the Blue Mountain War, it was always their preferred fallback position. Rugged terrain, few roads, and good observation."

"Very promising," Wheeler observed, patting me on the shoulder. "Fowler was right to bring you in on this."

"Can I get paid this time?" I asked.

"Paid? What do you mean?" Wheeler said.

"The last time General Fowler recruited me, it was off the books. It would be nice to get paid this time."

Wheeler turned toward Fowler with an angry stare, wondering what other secret projects had been left off the books.

"Colonel Leslie, make sure Captain Lawrence gets a voucher," Wheeler ordered. "And check into how much back pay we owe him."

"C17 leaves in the morning," Fowler told me as we left the Pentagon. "Got you a nice room at the Willard, but we've got a stop first."

"I would like to visit Alex, if she hasn't left for New York already," I requested.

"No time, kid. You've got another appointment."

"More important than Alex?"

"The President wants to see you," Fowler replied. "But don't tell him about the mission. He still doesn't know."

"You're going to get me arrested one of these days," I complained.

"I'll make sure you get a comfortable cell," Fowler promised.

Our midnight blue limousine pulled up to the White House gate, the driver providing identification. The guards had the windows rolled down to confirm who was in the back seat before waving us through.

"Jack!" Addie Wagner said, coming out the front door.

The First Lady and I embraced in the portico, to the surprise of the Marine guards who hadn't seen us together before.

"Good to see you, Mrs. Wagner. How is the family?" I asked.

"It's been hectic. Only eight months to the New Hampshire Primary," she answered.

"The President is running for reelection?" I asked, for there had been no official announcement.

"No one gives up this house voluntarily," Addie said, though I had the impression she would like to.

Escorted by Addie and two Secret Service agents, I went up the staircase to the second floor and turned toward the private sitting room. General Fowler lagged behind. He and Wagner did not always get along.

"Jack, glad you finally made it back," President Wagner said, pumping my hand. I wondered if he wanted a campaign donation.

Wagner was in his early sixties, a big man, broad-chested, with a wide face and long thick arms. His silver hair was growing thin, probably from the stress of the office.

"Don't get to Washington much on a teacher's salary, sir," I said, not apologizing.

"I see you're in uniform. National Guard duty?" the President asked.

"Individual Ready Reserve, sir. Trying to keep busy over the summer recess," I replied, somewhat deceptively.

"You've got more decorations than some of my generals," he observed.

"Sergeants get shot at more often than generals," I proudly replied.

"How often do captains get shot at?" he asked.

"Time will tell about that, sir," I answered.

He waved me into the colorful, overly decorated parlor. His secretary lingered nearby waiting for instructions, a spinsterly woman with a narrow face and bun of white hair.

"Look, I'm really sorry about that mess in Massachusetts," Wagner said. "Tom Blair is a goddamn idiot, and I told him so. But he's well-liked in the party, and the Blair Family has a legacy."

"I'm not going to criticize Mr. Blair, sir, if that's what's worrying you," I said. "The Blairs don't need any more grief from me."

"Really? After--" Wagner started.

"After that son of a bitch arrested you for saving Debbie Palmer?" Addie said, looking angry.

I sat down next to her on an old piece of uncomfortable furniture, I think it was called a settee, and took her hand.

"May I speak in confidence?" I whispered.

"Of course, Jack," she answered in a hushed tone. Though the President and his secretary could hear everything.

"I'm dating Jenny Blair," I confessed. "The last thing I want to do is start a feud with her uncle."

"I've seen you and Jenny on TV. I didn't know it was so serious," Addie said, loving the gossip.

"We're trying to keep it low key. It's all very new for both of us," I said.

"I understand," Addie agreed.

"You may be asking for trouble there, son. Have you thought about the repercussions?" President Wagner asked.

"We've run into a few already, sir. We're just trying to do our best," I replied.

"Can't help you with that. Not with reelection coming up. But after that, you'll have my full support," Wagner promised.

"Can you stay for dinner?" Addie asked.

"Yes, ma'am. That would be great," I said.

____________

Operation Kindergarten was gearing up outside Kandahar when Colonel Leslie and I arrived the next day. Sixteen years before, the United States Army had controlled the entire country, but Afghanistan as such no longer existed, just spheres of influence. Fifteen hundred American soldiers now patrolled the southwest portion of the country.

Kristine Leslie had been a Lt. Colonel when we first met. I had been an inmate at Windhaven Minimum Security Prison. She was thirty-seven now, a tall West Pointer with soft brown hair and vivid brown eyes. She kept her make-up sparse and tended to be low key, but could bark an order when she wanted to. I liked her a lot.

"Not much different since Tabrit," Kristine said as we disembarked from the C17, referring to our hostage rescue mission six years before.

"Any time I land here without rockets being fired at me, it feels different," I said.

We were both in khakis, with large floppy hats to protect from the June sun. The base was active with cargo trucks and marching soldiers. Two thousand local Afghanis supported operations. Both an American flag and the Free Afghan flag flew from the poles. The operations center was a sturdy bombproof dugout near the Officer's Club. Officer's quarters and the enlisted personnel barracks were just down the road opposite the PX. I was looking forward to a drink once introductions were made.

"Captain Lawrence, you remember Captain Jonathan Kinder and Lieutenant Laddy Berkshaw," Kristine said. Both had been on the Tabrit mission.

"Congratulations on the promotion, Jon," I said, shaking his hand. "Laddy, you'll probably get a promotion out of this one. If we're all not killed."

"At least we've got a good medic," Laddy replied, glad to see me.

"We've recruited a lot of the old gang," Kinder said. "Sergeants Wadislaw and Riesman. Corporal Franko. Specialists Armbruster, Posey, Yoshiro, Gerald. And Specialist Ahmed Karzani to help with ground ops."

"Good crew," I complimented, knowing everyone but Karzani. "When are we kicking off?"

"We need another ten days to get the resources in place," Kinder advised.

"Wheeler is hinting to Iran that we might be able to help their situation," Kristine said. "It would be better to cross the border with their permission. Or at least have them looking the other way."

"If they don't blow our cover," Berkshaw grouched.

"Gives me time to practice my parachute jumps. It's been a few years," I requested.

"You don't even like planes," Kinder remembered.

"I hate planes. That's why I like jumping out of them," I replied.

After meeting with the team, enjoying a big meal, and indulging in some light-hearted banter, I retired to the operations center. Colonel Leslie and Lieutenant Kinder found me there several hours later, hard at work.

"What's this?" Kristine asked.

"Planning the mission," I replied, hardly looking up.

I was using a secure laptop to search the Black Web. Satellite photos hung on the wall. Terrain maps littered the tables. The coffeemaker was brewing another pot.

"It's getting late, Jack. We've had a long day," Kristine hinted.

"Can't postpone this, Kristy. We have to know where we're going and what to do when we get there."

"Are you finding answers?" Kinder asked.

"Yes. I've mapped three scenarios. Now I'm double-checking Tashad's communications," I replied, scratching the beard I'd started to grow.

Kristine and Jonathan took stools next to me, watching as I moved from one forbidden internet site to another, exploring obscure networks and cross-matching feeds. Then I would mark a map, make a note, and go back to the computer. After another hour, I shut the system down. My searches left no trails.

"That's amazing. Where did you learn to do that?" Jonathan asked.

"Military intelligence. I put in some time before leaving the service, then worked as a subcontractor," I explained.

"Is this why Fowler brought you onboard?" Kristine asked.

"No. Fowler wants a medic who knows the Blue Mountain region. The rest is just a bonus," I replied.

"Some bonus," Jonathan said.

"Do you have a security clearance for that? You were trolling the high grade," Kristine said.

"Sorry, Colonel, I'm not allowed to discuss methods," I answered.

""What did you find out?" Kinder asked.

"There are seven likely locations, but two are better than the rest. Tighter satellite focus over the next few days should give us what we need."

"You don't look very confident," Kristine guessed.

"Finding the kids isn't the hard part. Saving them is going to be difficult," I answered.

It was four days before the enhanced intelligence I requested was ready. I worked with Colonel Leslie and General Atkins on planning the approach but kept certain details vague. I also spent time with my sergeants, for they are always the key to any successful operation.

Joe Wadislaw and Liam Riesman were veteran non-commissioned officers, though not quite so veteran as me. At thirty-two, I was the old man. We had served together before. Joe and I had once spent several weeks at Diego Garcia on leave with Brenda Castillo and Lenora Bowren. Before I was sent back to Windhaven Prison to finish my sentence.

"We've got to pull this off without the officers mucking it up," I said, taking them aside.

"Jack, you're an officer, too," Joe said.

"Sergeant, are you looking for trouble?" I asked.

"No, sir," he said.

"Then save the insults until this is over. I was a sergeant before they put these bars on me, and someday I'll be a sergeant again. Or maybe a private."

"You know something they don't?" Liam questioned.

"Got a good idea where the kids are. Sector 4, Caves 17-21. But there's no way to get a team in there before Tashad kills them."

"So, what's the plan?" Joe asked.

"The 104th is going to lose the battle," I said.

We spent the next few days mountain climbing a few miles from camp. Attaching anchors, rappelling, grappling, tying knots and untying knots, until running lines was second nature. It had been a common practice during the White Mountain War, where the 104th had operated behind enemy lines, and I'd had experience in the Blue Mountains as well, though those maneuvers had been less intense.

"What's it like? Being back again?" Wadislaw asked as we shared beers at the edge of the airstrip late in the afternoon.

Four of us had a picnic table under an umbrella. Cargo planes flew overhead.

"It's always different, and always the same," I replied. "I was just eighteen the first time. Came here speaking English, Spanish, and a little Chinese. Went home speaking Arabic, Dari and Persian. I'd never flown in an airplane before and became an expert jumping out of them."

"The boys are glad to have you here," Riesman complimented. "Going into action with The Sarge is something to brag about."

"If we aren't all killed," I lightheartedly said.

"We like the plan. So crazy it will probably work," Wadislaw suggested.

"During The Fallback, we needed to keep the enemy off-balance," I recalled. "They had the numbers. Supply lines. The initiative. All we had was guts and desperation. Doing the unexpected bought us time."

"You took the toughest assignment," Riesman said.

"That's not true. No one is going to be shooting at me," I disagreed.

"You hope," Wadislaw replied.

Life at the base was better than Fowler hinted. The food was good, the barracks comfortable, and I enjoyed being back with the troops. Planning the operation kept me busy, and I also watched the Black Web for the latest information. Rumors of a rescue attempt would have Tashad on edge, but Iranian security wasn't good. Agents within their own ranks were keeping Tashad appraised. This was a disappointment and an opportunity.

Two days before the planned assault, I went into the barracks at 02:00, waking everybody up.

"Huh? What's up, Jack?" Jonathan asked.

"We're moving out. The plane is on the tarmac," I said.

"That's not the schedule," he mumbled, wanting to go back to sleep.

"New schedule. Grab your gear," I ordered.

Within minutes, I had twenty Rangers on the airstrip when Colonel Leslie arrived with Lieutenant Kinder. They were surprised.

"Somewhat premature, Captain. Is this a training exercise?" Leslie asked.

"Operation Kindergarten, sir," I answered with a salute. "We're going to need some help, though."

I reached into my pocket, taking out a map.

"Care to explain?" Leslie inquired, looking the map over.

"An Iranian agent tipped off Tashad, just like we expected," I reported. "But they think the attack is the day after tomorrow. They are positioning rockets to intercept our approach, which leaves the caves undermanned. While the squad demonstrates on the north face of Sector 5, I'll be going into their complex through sector 4."

I took the map back and showed her the coordinates.

"I've already alerted General Fowler," I said, pointing at precise locations. "Air support will hit here, and here. They'll leave this sector open, that's the line of retreat. It would be helpful if you evacuate the team before Tashad overruns them. The helicopters need to be here at 05:00, or here at 05:15, or here at 05:25. Expect heavy firing."

"How are you evacuating? With two children?" she inquired.

"I've got locations here, here, or here, depending on how Tashad wants to play it," I explained, pointing at highlighted markings. "And if those don't work, there are a dozen routes out through the desert. They can't cover them all. Especially if you keep them busy."

"This is supposed to be a complex operation. We have a hundred Rangers standing by," Kinder complained.

"And if Tashad was occupying the lower end of the Silk Border Road, or Trappist Ruin, or the caves above Callow Run, they would be needed. But we are never going to get a hundred Rangers into a small area like Maharambi without Tashad reaching the children first. The logistics don't work," I replied, producing a thorough analysis of the plan.

"How'd you figure this out?" Leslie asked, displeased but not objecting.

"I spent three and a half years evacuating wounded off battlefields, Kristy. And two more years evacuating civilians from hurricanes, floods and tornadoes. Getting rescue teams into dangerous locations and victims back out is what I do."

Leslie asked a few technical questions with Kinder looking over her shoulder and then okayed the new schedule. She knew as well as I did that a surprise attack was our best option.

"Good luck, Captain," Leslie said with a salute.

"We'll be back in time for lunch," I replied.

The two-engine transport taxied into position. Fighter aircraft and attack helicopters were being readied to support the assault.

"Last chance," I said, climbing into our plane. "Volunteers only. Just so you know, General Atkins said that if we all get killed, the mission will still be considered a success."

"We're going into battle with The Sarge," Corporal Franko said. "Win, lose or draw, we're going to be legends."

The squad cheered. I didn't have the heart to tell them how much of Bobby Blair's book was exaggerated. Well, probably exaggerated. I hadn't actually read it.

I crawled forward to sit with the pilot. It wasn't the first time. I'd discussed the plan with her every day for the last week while practicing our night drops, usually with satellite sequencers for reference. She was the best low altitude pilot in Afghanistan, giving me some confidence. But parachuting over enemy territory never comes with guarantees.

"Ready to try this?" I asked.

"Calm down, Sarge. You'll be out the door and I'll be gone before they know we're there," Captain Stevens said. "Just be at the pick-up on time. You won't get a second chance at that."

"Buy me a drink if this works?" I teased.

"Give you more than that, hero."

"I'm seeing someone," I declined.

"So am I," Stevens answered with a wink.

We flew for several hundred kilometers over dark deserts with barely the wisp of a moon. Scattered clouds provided cover. We were headed for the Iran-Afghanistan border, just south of Turkmenistan. At Herat, we banked north-northwest, watching the mountains grow. I went back into the cabin where the Rangers were cinching their parachute straps.

"Almost time, guys," I announced. "If they don't see you coming down, they'll figure it out quick enough. After the initial push, make it look like you're hung up. Tashad will dig in, at first, then counterattack when they sense weakness. Keep your distance. Make your fighting retreat to the evac and get the hell out."

Captain Stevens gave me the five-minute warning.

"Guys, thanks for your confidence," I said. "I know being a decoy isn't the most glamourous task, but without you, this has no chance of working. I'm buying if we get back."

"When we get back!" they shouted, for it had become our private joke.

Stevens took the plane around the back of a peak, then dropped right over our entry zone, a rugged stretch of section 5 two miles northeast of the Maharambi Caves. Wadislaw and Yoshiro were out first, followed by the rest of the team. The weeks of hard training were paying off.

"Good luck, guys," I whispered as the plane banked sharply.

Below me, I saw traces of watch fires. Tashad was estimated to number about two hundred in this region, spread out in camps of ten or fifteen each. A few women were employed for cooking and washing in the village below the caves. There was no immediate reaction to the arrival of the Rangers.

We continued flying south, the mountains on our right. Once we had gone far enough, the plane banked again, climbing over several of the higher peaks. This allowed us to circle around and approach section 4 from the west. Stevens took us over a spiny ridge, leveled off, skipped over another ridge, and then dove steeply to where the mountain dropped off into a wide canyon.

"Here's the tough one, Sarge. Ready?" Stevens called out, keeping a close eye on the GPS coordinator.

"Thanks, Suzie," I replied.

I set myself in the door, feeling the cold air rush by, and watched for the signal. When the light turned green, I thrust myself out, hurtling toward the black mountain.

The chute deployed almost immediately, for I was already close to the ground. Weighted down with ropes, a backpack, and my medical kit, it was a hard landing, but nothing unexpected. I wasn't carrying a rifle or sidearm, but I did have a steel knife.

The GPS showed I had landed only eight yards from my target, and fifty yards from the edge of the cliff. Not bad for someone with so little time to practice. The sound of Susie's plane faded into the night, heading back toward the north face. I cut the parachute loose and made my way down to the ledge, trying not to let my equipment rattle. Rough hillsides and narrow ravines pocked the landscape, most of it still deep in shadow. Night vision goggles provided good visibility.

My tablet was loaded with intricate satellite photos of the mountain, detailed to the square foot. I matched up what I was seeing until sure of my location, then sunk an anchor in the rocks. The rope was uncoiled, looped through, and the ends secured to my harness. Then I edged over, rappelling in cautious hops.

The face of the mountain was nearly vertical. It was good I'd spent extra time rehearsing, for most of the effort was performed blindly. For a moment, I feared I'd missed my mark, but had to trust my preparation. This was no time to doubt myself.

And then suddenly I was hanging in midair, the mouth of a cave before me. Dim lights showed at the back. I saw storage boxes and a stack of rifles. With a kick, I swung in and landed on my knees. There was no one in the area.

I unloaded my equipment near the mouth of the cave and set my backpack where it could be kicked into the crevice if necessary. After placing another anchor into the ledge, I tossed the length into the ravine a hundred feet below. It was my escape route.

Shooting began in the distance. Muzzle flashes. An explosion. AK-47s were answered by M4s. Most of the action was around on the north side of the mountain where I couldn't see it, but the reports echoed through the hills.

Though I had not been in this exact cave before, I had explored many of the Maharambi Caves during the Blue Mountain campaign. This section would feature narrow tunnels connecting caverns used for sleeping, eating and storage, much like the Japanese had used on Okinawa during a previous war. Because access was so difficult from the lower levels, I did not expect a strong guard. I did draw my knife, keeping it low at my side as I probed forward.

The caves were eerily quiet, at first, connected by a series of corridors. Dim lights mounted on the wall guided my way. I searched the first room, and then another, being sure the children weren't there but not lingering.

Then I heard voices coming from the right. Someone was speaking Arabic, in a land prone to Persian. If my map was right, it would be section 21. Hopefully a lucky number.

There was a sentry up ahead, dressed in a long white cloak and hood, as Tashad liked to do. He was looking the other way, down toward the lower tunnels where the sound of the firefight outside was drawing defenders away from me.

"Hey, Mac. Got a light?" I asked in Arabic.

The guard turned in surprise and I coldcocked him with a right hook, then slammed his head into the rock wall. He collapsed, blood leaking from his skull. I knelt down, went through his pockets, and found a Makarov.380. Knowing my skills, the pistol would only be good at a very short range.

The sentry had been standing outside a cave entrance protected by a cloth drape. I peeked in, seeing several electric lanterns, a wooden table, chairs, and a clothing rack. The outfits were a mixture of Afghan and Persian. In the back of the cave was a bed with two bundles on it. There did not appear to be more guards.

I paused, listening for anyone approaching, and went inside hoping to find a clue to the children's whereabouts. There were two metal plates on the table with leftover rice. And a water pitcher next to two cups. Suddenly one of the bundles on the bed moved.

"Who's there?" I whispered, holding the gun ready.

There was no answer, but there was a muffled sniffle. I crept forward and pulled back an old gray blanket. A nine-year-old girl and seven-year-old boy were staring up at me in fear.

"Are you Marjani and Hydar?" I asked in Arabic.

"Yes, sir," the girl said.

"I am an American soldier. Would you like to go home?"

I found warm jackets for the children and led them back toward the cave where I entered. They were thin, but not desperately so. The girl was tall for her age, with long reddish-brown hair and light brown eyes. The boy's hair was darker, the eyes nearly black. They were quiet, not asking questions. At the last moment, I took a long white cloak off the rack, dressing as Tashad do, with a hood pulled down around my face. With my beard now ten days old, it made a good disguise.

The shooting to the north was growing fainter. I knew the team must be retreating. They had twenty minutes to reach the first evac area, and were no doubt under pressure. I heard the occasional rocket-propelled grenade.

Once back in the storeroom, I found the harnesses I'd brought, fixing one around each child's waist and shoulders. Tightening my own harness, I was about to hook us all together when footsteps were heard from the tunnel.

"They are coming," Hydar said, reaching to protect his sister.

The stolen.380 had been set on the floor next to my backpack. I kicked the pack over the ledge, hearing it tumble down the mountain side, and picked up the pistol just as a tall man in a brown cloak entered. In the dim light, he was hard to see. With the sun coming up behind me, I was probably difficult to make out, too.

"What are you doing? Why are they here?" the man shouted.

"We are hiding from the Americans," I said in my best Arabic accent. My Pashto and Dari accents were better.

"Who are you?" he said, pulling back his hood to reveal a long dark beard and piercing gray eyes.

I raised the.380 and pointed it at him. He stopped, assessed the situation, and slowly retreated, disappearing down the corridor.

"That was Kassan Abari. Why did you not shoot him?" the boy asked.

"It didn't occur to me," I replied.

I hooked each of them to my shoulder straps, fed the line through my harness loops, and backed out of the cave until perched on the edge. I made sure to have a good hold on the rope.

"Hang on, this might be rough," I warned.

They grabbed tighter as I jumped backward, using my legs to thrust off the cliff wall while using my hands to control the speed of descent. Halfway down, on a tiny ledge, I paused to catch my breath. There was yelling from up above.

"There are men," Marjani said, pointing.

At least two Tashad were looking down on us, surprised at first, and then angry. I saw them gesturing. If they couldn't haul us back up, which would be difficult, they would probably cut the rope and let us fall.

"Hang on again," I said, jumping from the ledge and rappelling down as fast as possible without losing control.

The rope jerked, then slackened. We were nearly to the bottom, going fast. I didn't look up or down, concentrating on the task before me.

"Hard landing. Be ready," I said, nearly out of breath.

The rope gave way, the end flying wildly, and I crashed on the gully floor, the children landing on top of me. They moaned and started to get up.

"Don't move. Play dead," I ordered.

They obeyed with remarkable speed, breathing hard but lying still. In the deep shadow of the ravine, we'd be hard to see. Several faces peered down from the cave and then pulled back.

I waited another few seconds, watching carefully, and then unhooked the harnesses.

"Hide under the ledge," I said.

As they crawled near the rock face, I searched around for my backpack, returning a moment later. I gave each of them water.

"Is anyone hurt?" I asked.

"My arm," Hydar said, holding it out. There was a deep bruise below the elbow, and I could not dismiss the possibility of a break.

"Be brave, Hydar. I'll see to it," I urged.

"Are you a doctor?" Marjani asked, not convinced.

"A medic. It is like a doctor, only not as smart," I replied.

I wrapped Hydar's arm with a stiff bandage and gave him a mild painkiller before moving down the ravine to the south, away from the battle that could still be heard in the distance. I saw the helicopters coming in, two for retrieval, four others providing covering fire. We could see the horizon lighting up with red flashes and curling pylons of black smoke. And then the sky suddenly filled with bright yellow fireballs followed by low rumbling thunder as two jets roared overhead, firing rockets into the north face of the mountain. It was a spectacular show.

"Go, go, go," I said, hurrying the children along.

The ravine drained into a dry creek bed filled with weeds. We turned east several hundred yards, then south again. My original evacuation area was now out of reach, and without my signal the helicopter wouldn't know where to find us. I decided not to attract extra attention for the time being.

"Where is your gun?" Marjani asked as we turned east again, reaching a broad stretch of scratchy green prairie.

"I must have lost it in the fall," I said.

"What kind of soldier are you?" Hydar wondered.

"Not a very good one. But hopefully good enough," I replied.

I pushed the children on until they were worn out, sometimes carrying one and then the other, until I was exhausted, too. At midmorning, we came on a small pond surrounded by drooping trees. A good place to rest.

"Marjani, fill the water bottles," I said. "Put these pills in it. It's a purifier."

As Marjani knelt at the pond, I unwrapped Hydar's arm, felt the bone, and decided to use a splint, just in case. I wouldn't use another painkiller until he needed it.

"It's a good wound, earned in battle," I said. "Your father will be proud. He will be proud of both of you. You are very brave."

"Where is the rest of your army?" Marjani asked.

"They led Tashad in the other direction so I could find you," I answered.

"You are alone?" she pressed.

"No, I am here with you and Hydar. We will do fine," I explained.

An hour later we were on the move again. I knew where to go, it was just a matter of avoiding detection. Several times I saw helicopters above the hills to the north, which the Army sometimes flew out of Kandahar. But the Turkmenistan military was known to use them, too, and I wasn't sure if they were friendly. I felt no reason to take the chance.

When we reached the edge of the prairie, I stopped everyone for food and prayers, taking my best guess at the direction of Mecca. My backpack was filled with what was needed, including a tiny prayer carpet that was more symbol than substance. Nevertheless, it served a purpose.

Just before sunset, we came across an abandoned farmhouse that showed clearly on my satellite photos. I tried to raise a signal on my communicator, but got no response, being too far from access. Which was good. If the Army couldn't track me, enemies couldn't either. And I had deliberately taken us well off the grid.

I fetched water from the well and we made a small fire in the kitchen, sitting on the floor. We chanted evening prayers, Hydar and me in the front room, Marjani by herself in the back room. I distributed more food packets.

"I did not know Americans were Muslims," Hydar asked, rubbing the sore arm.

"I am not a Muslim. I am a Catholic," I answered.

"But you say the prayers?" Hydar said.

"It is out of respect for you and your father, and to seek blessings for our journey," I explained. "My God will not be angry with me."

"What will happen next?" Marjani asked.

"There is a village a day from here. The people speak Dari, a language I know well," I replied. "We have plenty of food and water, and friends waiting for us. Do not be worried, I won't let anything happen to you."

"We don't even know your name," Marjani said.

"My name is John. I am a captain in the United States Army, and I came all the way from New York City to help you."

"Will we go to New York City before going home?" Hydar asked.

"No. My commander will contact your father, and he will come get you. Do you have any other questions?"

They were children. They had lots of questions. I finally had to call a halt so we could get some sleep.

We awoke at sunrise, had a leisurely breakfast, and took our time walking southeast along a dirt road. The land was mostly dry, but we found clumps of trees every few miles. Dressed as we were, and moving casually, nothing about us would arouse suspicions. And this was not an area where Tashad could operate freely during the daylight hours.

By late afternoon, we reached a grove of dates not far from a small farming village. We found the main road and were soon in sight of the houses. I saw flocks of sheep near an irrigation channel and paused to study the landscape. It was unlikely Tashad agents were operating this far from their base after being chased by jets and helicopters, but there was no point in getting careless. I tried my communicator again and finally got a signal.

"Kindergarten to Home Plate, come in please," I requested.

"Home Plate to Kindergarten, message received," a voice said.

A moment later, a more familiar voice came online.

"Jack? Where in the goddamn hell are you?" General Fowler asked.

"Sir, I'm with two children. Even if they don't speak English, you should watch your language," I replied.

"So where are you?" he asked,

"A klick east of Bastis, near an old barn. Ready for retrieval."

"Under pressure?"

"Not that I know of, but the situation is unknown. Don't take any chances," I recommended.

Suddenly the communicator was struck from my hand. I turned to see an angry farmer with a hoe getting ready to hit me on the head. I rolled out of the way, jumping to my feet.

"Relax, sir. We mean no harm," I said in Dari, holding my hands out.

"You dress like a bandit. Your children dress like bandits," he said, still ready to strike.

"We are not bandits," I said.

But I declined to say too much more. Americans were not welcomed in this part of the country. And we were in Turkmenistan's sphere of influence, not the American zone.

"I will take you to the elders," the man said.

He reached out, grabbing Hydar by his bad arm. The boy let out a screech. I stepped up, took the hoe from the farmer's hand, and pushed him back. When the man turned as if to attack me, I dropped the hoe and went after him with both fists, two left jabs to the face, a right punch to the gut, and a strong right uppercut to the jaw that put him down. It happened so fast, the farmer never even saw the final blow coming. Hydar and Marjani looked at me in surprise.

"You are not such a bad warrior," Hydar remarked.

More villagers arrived. I handed Hydar my knife and picked up the hoe. The farmer's friends were not happy to see him lying in the dirt bleeding from a split lip.

"I don't want to hurt anyone, but I will," I warned the small crowd.

There were half a dozen villagers. A motley assortment. I doubted more than two had much fighting experience, and I'd already picked out which ones to take down first. My lack of fear may have given them warning, for they were cautious.

"What do you want?" one asked.

"Food and water for the children. We will leave soon. There will be no trouble," I answered.

"You gave Afshar trouble," their leader said.

"He took my boy's arm without permission. A man who does that should expect trouble."

Not speaking Dari, Marjani and Hydar could not follow the entire conversation, but they understood enough.

"You must speak with the elders," another man decided.

"I will speak with your elders," I agreed, taking the knife back from Hydar. "But if any man attempts to touch these children, I will cut his fingers off. Is that understood?"

They understood all too well, backing away just enough to show respect. I put the knife back in the sheath.

"We're going for food and water," I said. "They might have tea."

"I would like tea," Marjani said.

We did not rush to the village, which was about half a mile away. It had been a long day of walking and we were all tired. We stopped several times to drink water from our bottles.

We finally reached the hamlet of Bastis, a plaza surrounded by two dozen stone buildings, some mud huts, and corrals for livestock. They raised cattle as well as sheep. Three old men emerged from the largest house to see the strangers. The village women stayed back, watching but not interfering.

"You are an American," one bright fellow figured out.

"Yes," I said.

"Americans attacked Sky Rock yesterday. Many Tashad were killed," the elder reported. "But Kassan Abari escaped. He has sworn revenge."

"Is Abari nearby?" I asked.

"They say he has fled to Iraq," a well-informed farmer said.

"Then it will be hard for him to find revenge, unless your village seeks to help him. Is your village friends with Abari?"

"Tashad has no friends, but it is unwise to offend them," the elder replied.

"It is good to pick your friends carefully. It's even more important not to make dangerous enemies," I advised.

"Are you a dangerous enemy?" another elder asked.

"Only when I need to be. It's been a hard day for these children. Will you give them food, and perhaps some tea?"

"I think these are the children Mahdy spoke of," a young sheep herder said. "Abari's escaped prisoners. There is a reward for them."

"They fit the description," another agreed.

"Hydar, Marjani, come here," I said, switching to Arabic. "Stand close to this wall. Don't get in the way."

The children backed against the large house, standing in the shade of a straw overhang. I turned toward the crowd, now numbering about twenty, and then I drew the knife again, setting myself.

"What are you doing?" an elder asked.

"We have not been offered hospitality. You speak of rewards offered by murderers for these children. So now I am preparing to kill the first man who thinks to underestimate me," I answered.

The elders retreated, debating what to do. There was a door nearby. If one of the farmers suddenly produced a shotgun, I would retreat inside. Their numbers would mean little in such close quarters. And in small villages like this, it was rare for anyone to risk death for no good reason.

The elders finally reached a decision, but I never learned what is was. Six helicopters suddenly appeared over the nearest ridge, circling the village, the rotors kicking up a dust storm. One of the birds landed in the plaza, causing the villagers to scatter. I put the knife away and took Hydar and Marjani by the hands.

"Come, my young friends," I said. "That's our ride."

__________

We wore ear protectors as the noisy Bell UH-1Y Venom raced over the broken landscape. An Arapaho ARH-70 flew before us. Several more Venoms came behind us. Strapped in our seats, a doctor treated Hydar's arm while Marjani looked out the window. I felt a huge sense of relief, but wouldn't be satisfied until we were on the ground.

"You were going to fight them all," Hydar said, staring at me with big eyes.

"I don't think they wanted a fight," I replied.

"How many would you have killed?" he asked.

"My hope was not to kill anyone. I'm a medic. My job is helping people."

An hour later we were back at the airfield outside Kandahar. The children were unloaded first and taken to the infirmary, glancing back at me briefly. I sat down on the tarmac, removed the dusty white cloak, and took my medication, drinking an entire bottle of water. My hands weren't quite trembling, but weren't steady, either. I always tended to stay calm during a mission and feel the stress afterward, a legacy of my childhood on the streets, where putting up a brave front was crucial to facing down bullies. Colonel Leslie and General Fowler came out to see me.

"Son of a bitch, you did it," Fowler said, helping me up.

"That was the assignment, sir. How is the squad?"

"Two wounded, Riesman and Matsui. None seriously," Leslie reported. "Everyone stayed to the schedule, except you."

"The evac was hot. I couldn't take the chance," I explained.

"Let's get to debriefing, then I owe you a drink," Fowler said.

"More than one, sir," I insisted.

I shaved and took a shower. The Arab garb was abandoned, returning to Army khakis. That evening, while chowing down on a cheeseburger at the Officer's Club, I watched a jet land with Iraqi markings on the tail.

"That would be Prime Minister Alwan come to fetch his children," Kristine said, sharing my table. "Hydar and Marjani have been asking for you."

"Can't see them now. Without the beard, I'm John Henry Lawrence again. If they don't recognize me, the Prime Minister will."

"Would that be so bad?" she asked.

"The press already follows me around. This would only make it worse. Besides, wasn't this a secret operation? I thought we were blaming the SEALs?"

"I hear U.S. involvement isn't going to be mentioned at all. Saves Alwan the embarrassment of thanking us."

"Heaven forbid he should show some gratitude," I grouched.

"The children are telling a story about you," Kristine mentioned, probing my thoughts. "They say you fearlessly held off forty men with a knife until the helicopters arrived."

"There weren't forty men. Fifteen, maybe."

"Hydar wants his father to reward you."

"It looked braver than it was," I said, sipping my beer.

"How so?" she asked.

"I've been in situations like that since I was a kid. The villagers needed to decide what price they would pay. Two or three killed? Four or five maimed? That's a steep price for a small village to pay over a stranger and two children. And I knew that."

"I wouldn't want to play poker with you," Kristine said.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day," I replied.

We watched from a window as distinguished dignitaries met on the tarmac, exchanged pleasantries, and then the children ran to meet their parents, sharing hugs. A band struck up a tune and flags were waved.

"This makes it all worthwhile, doesn't it?" Leslie asked, wiping a tear from her eye. "Is this what it was like when you were working for First Responders? Reuniting victims with their families?"

"On the good days," I replied.

* * * * * *

This story was originally published 10 years ago. I am using this opportunity to repair typos and tighten the narrative. For readers who are enjoying this story, please give it your support. Thanks.