Second Chances

Pt. 07

by G. Lawrence

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. The history is similar in some respects to our own and very different in others. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Fearing his controversial relationship with Jenny Blair is ruining her life, Jack has accepted General Fowler's invitation to join peacekeeping forces in Syria. Readers may wish to remember that this is an alternate timeline. International events happened differently here than in our own history.

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 soon come together.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

With the release of your son's new book, None Left Behind, interest in awarding Jack a posthumous Medal of Honor has been revived. I see those goddamn harpies in the press who turned on Jack are once again singing his praises, being the goddamn parasitical vermin that they are. Excuse my language. I was heartened to read that Jennifer has entered Yale's Master's Degree program. I know leaving her was the hardest thing Jack ever did. Your Eternal Servant, General Collin Fowler

Chapter Seven

WHITE HELMETS

Winter was beginning to give way. The ice on the lake had nearly disappeared, and birds were chirping in the trees. It wasn't spring yet, but the signs were everywhere.

"We can take the boat. Go fishing," Ishan suggested.

"Better to set traps in the mountains," Khillan recommended.

"I should not go so far from the village," I disagreed.

"No one thinks you will escape," Khillan said.

"I appreciate the confidence. It would be better if I stayed near. Nanina may need help with her baby."

"That's women's work," Ishan complained.

"Don't make me quote the Qur'an," I said with a smile.

"You know more of the Prophet's words than I do, but you have not converted to Islam," Khillan remarked. "What attracts you to the Christian God?"

"Maybe we could set a few traps, if Ma'amet gives me permission," I said to change the subject. I got up from the riverbank, dusting off my work jeans.

Late in the afternoon, there was an alarm from the village. We ran up the hill from the lake, the youngsters faster than me. There was a beat-up pickup truck in the middle of the plaza. At first, I thought it must be Abari. Should I attempt to run? How far would I get? But then I recognized several men from a neighboring village and a distraught woman.

"What's wrong?" I asked, out of breath from the sprint.

"A girl. Marjia. She has been shot," Ma'amet said.

"How?" I inquired.

''It was an accident. They seek our doctor," Ma'amet answered, for Sar'ret's infirmary was the only one in the area with a surgeon.

"Dr. Askari is in the lowlands. How serious is it?" I asked.

"Very serious, I'm afraid," Ma'amet said, shaking his head.

I squeezed through the crowd, peering into the bed of the truck. Marjia looked eight or nine years old, brown-haired and small-boned. She'd been shot in the abdomen. Her mother was stemming the flow of blood with a towel.

"Move her into the operating room," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

"Jack, you may not. If the girl dies, her father will demand your death," Ma'amet warned, grabbing my arm.

"I am a dead man already, my father. At least Marjia might be saved," I answered, going for the doctor's medical kit.

A large crowd gathered at the infirmary in the village center. Marjia's family was not happy about the infamous American posing as a doctor. And I was not a doctor. I had helped Askari with minor surgery, and practiced as a veterinarian on goats and sheep, but never anything so serious as a gut wound.

"You may not touch her," Marjia's father said, blocking my path.

"The next doctor is too far away. The drive will kill her," I said.

"Better to die than be defiled by an infidel," a burly man insisted.

It wasn't her father. Probably an uncle, thick and stout, with a bushy black beard. Marjia's mother was crying, but she had no voice.

"Every moment decreases her chances," I urged, anxious to get started.

Marjia's uncle pulled a hunting knife, setting it against my throat. I could have taken it away from him, but out of respect for Ma'amet, I would initiate no violence. Ishan hit the angry man on the back of the head with his fist. Then Khillan took the knife away and turned, pointing his shotgun at Marjia's family.

"If you do not wish the American's help, don't accept," Khillan growled. "But he has done nothing dishonorable by offering."

"Leave now, before there is trouble," Ishan added, raising his old rifle.

"Please, brothers. They are frightened," I said, pushing the weapons aside. "Parents of Marjia, I can offer no promises. Her life is not mine to give or take. I can only try."

I gazed at them with humble urgency, understanding their reluctance.

"You will try," Marjia's father decided.

The girl was lifted from the truck bed and carried by her family into the infirmary. Then all the men except myself were required to leave.

"Remove her clothes," I said, sterilizing my hands and putting on a face mask.

The women who would act as nurses, her mother, older sister, and Ma'amet's wife, also scrubbed and donned masks. I said a prayer for all of us, and began probing the wound for the bullet track. We had no X-ray machine or monitoring equipment. Sar'ret was too remote for such luxuries. The girl's life was truly in the hands of God.

Dr. Askari kept blood plasma in his refrigerator for emergencies, and the blood types of all the villagers were on record. Those who matched Marjia donated, an IV replacing the blood that was lost. Which was a lot. At one point, the girl stopped breathing. Her mother began to wail, but it was premature. I pumped up the resuscitator and she quickly came back, much to my everlasting thanks. Marjia was a strong girl, with a will to live.

This was not like being a medic in Afghanistan. The casualties there only had to be kept alive until they could be evacuated to a combat support hospital. Marjia was not close enough to such a resource.

After a while, I lost track of time, but it must have been several hours. My eyes grew blurry and hands shook. I needed my medication. Or a stiff shot of bourbon. The bullet was removed, the leakage stopped, and her vital signs stabilized. Dr. Askari had been summoned back, and I heard a surgeon was coming with him. I just needed to accomplish the basics without killing her.

Once the bleeding was stopped, the wound was closed, but not sewn up, pending better treatment. Marjia slumbered peacefully on the pain killers. I told the women to get some rest, for it was after sunset. I stayed at Marjia's side, keeping track of her pulse. Listening to her breathing. Using a damp cloth to keep her cool. Oxygen was ready if she needed it, though I probably needed it more.

Dr. Askari returned in an ambulance filled with medical equipment. Another doctor and a nurse were with him, rushing to take over. I thanked them and wandered out of the infirmary into a cool night, finding Ma'amet, Ishan and Khillan sitting on a bench guarding the door.

"How is she?" Ishan inquired.

"She's alive. I can't ask for more," I answered.

"You saved her," Khillan said.

"No, but Allah is trying to save her," I replied, finding my legs weak.

I sat down with Ma'amet and the boys. Lalia brought me a bowl of hot vegetable soup. Bonfires lit the plaza, many in the village keeping vigil. The towns and villages of the mountains were often competitive but would come together in a crisis. Hundreds now shared blankets and prayers.

After a time, Dr. Askari emerged from the infirmary, spoke with Marjia's family, and came in my direction.

"You are a butcher," Dr. Askari said. "But you saved that girl's life."

"I tried to remember what you taught me," I replied.

Askari stepped up to embrace me, hugging hard enough that it hurt. Everyone from the villages saw the gesture and took note, for Dr. Askari was highly respected.

"I know the chance you took. Allah will bless you," Askari whispered. He reached into his pocket and gave me another bottle of medication, enough for two months.

"I found this in Sāmarrā," my friend said.

"Thank you, sir," I replied, grateful for his consideration.

"If you were not here against your will, you would not need our charity," Askari said, looking at Ma'amet.

"You need rest," Ma'amet advised. I nodded. I was exhausted.

As we started to leave, Marjia's mother and sister came to thank me, followed by her father and the burly uncle who put a knife to my throat.

"We will find a way to pay you," Marjia's father said.

"A pair of leather boots would be nice," I suggested.

"Is that all my niece's life is worth? A pair of boots?" the uncle commented with a frown.

"If I expected to live a long life, I would ask your village for a wife," I said. "But Tashad will come for me in the spring, and then she would be a widow. A pair of boots will not be lonely after I'm gone."

The entire group fell silent. My words were harsher than I intended, but I was tired and not thinking clearly.

Ma'amet took me back to his house, making a place for me by the fire. I slept soundly.

_________

My unit crossed the Syrian border from Turkey on a cold late December day. There were forty trucks filled with food and first aid supplies, and six trucks filled with soldiers. I was in charge of the medical unit, wearing captain's bars on my shoulders. I could have worn a Red Cross armband but wasn't sure if it would protect me or draw fire. Major Samir Hossain, a West Point graduate born in Cincinnati, was in command.

"Your Arabic is better than mine," Hossain praised as we rode together in the lead truck. A jeep and a JLTV were out in front of us.

I had met Hossain during our training in Turkey. Brown-haired and dark-eyed, we were the same height with similar builds. He dressed informally, as most of us in the desert did, and liked to carry two sidearms. I would have called him Two-Gun Samir if it hadn't been disrespectful.

"That's not entirely true, but thank you," I said, watching the road for trouble.

"You are not going to carry a gun?" he asked.

"That's not my mission," I replied.

This portion of the route was largely flat and empty. Scrubby plants and low hills filled the horizon.

"Ten years ago, this land was torn apart by a generation of civil war and foreign interventions," Hossain recounted. "The peace has held since then. But it's fragile."

"General Fowler doesn't think United Nations peacekeepers will be enough. Our numbers do seem small."

"Too many or not enough, that's always the problem," Samir said.

Toward the end of the day, we reached a staging base outside Qarah. Half a dozen flags represented the United States, Japan, France, Ethiopia, Tunisia, and Canada. There was supposed to be a United Nations flag, but I didn't see one. No one was wearing a blue helmet.

"We're the 4th U.S. Battalion," Hossain reported at the chain-link gate.

We preceded into a tent city containing a thousand soldiers, engineers and aid workers. Our convoy stopped at the hospital to unload. I found some old friends.

"Brenda?" I said, seeing a dust-covered lieutenant leading a well-armed squad.

"Jack! Oh my God," Brenda Castillo said, rushing to hug me.

Not very military, but sometimes exceptions are made. We had spent several weeks together at Diego Garcia when we were both still sergeants, sharing the same bed. And not wasting our time while in it. She had been energetic and passionate. As I was headed back to Windhaven Prison, we were under no illusions that our affair would be brief. Born of a poor family in Detroit, Brenda had been a star basketball player at Roosevelt High School before rising through the Army's ranks to receive a lieutenant's commission. She stood 5'10, weighed in at a hundred and fifty pounds, and liked to highlight her long black hair with tinges of red.

"You remember Sergeant Bowren and Sergeant Wadislaw from Tabrit, don't you?" Brenda introduced.

"Of course. Good to see you, Lenora. You, too, Joe," I greeted.

I neglected to mention that in addition to the Tabrit mission, Joe and I had recently served together in Operation Kindergarten, which was still classified. He had proven my most reliable sergeant, a curly-haired Ohioan built like a brick wall.

Lenora Bowren was sturdy, too. Tall for a woman, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, with hands like a truck driver. She could drink with the best of us and had a bawdy sense of humor.

They saluted, me being a captain now. I returned the salute, wishing I was still a sergeant.

"We're attached to the 4th," Joe said. "Are you in command of the convoy?"

"Major Hossain. I'm just supervising the medical division," I explained.

"You never did like guns," Lenora said.

"'Where's the bivouac?" I asked.

They pointed to a lonely clump of trees. A scraggily pecan grove, but better than nothing. Maybe we could hang some Christmas decorations.

"See you once these trucks are empty," I promised.

The sun set over the desert. The base was busy. So many languages were being spoken it seemed like the Tower of Babel. Surprisingly few were fluent in Arabic, which explained why Fowler wanted me so badly.

I had just sent my teamsters for chow when an orderly summoned me to battalion headquarters. I dusted off my uniform, a mixture of brown, light-tan and lime green patterns designed to match the terrain and went to see why they wanted me. The canvas tent held eight officers standing around a tactical map of northern Syria.

"Lawrence, heard you were here," Brigadier General Walter Atkins said, a stocky grim-visaged Texan. And he seemed pleased by the news. When we had first met at the Pentagon six years before, Atkins had not been a fan. Relations improved following the Blue Mountain operation.

"Yes, sir. Reporting as instructed," I said, standing at attention.

"Take it easy, Jack. We're in the goddamn desert," Atkins said. "Too much brass to introduce everybody. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain John Lawrence. Silver Star, Bronze Star with silver leaf cluster, four Purple Hearts, and recently awarded another oak leaf cluster for the Tabrit mission."

"Sir, really," I protested, for it was very embarrassing. "I'm sure there are many here with illustrious records."

"Actually, you're the most veteran member of the battalion," Colonel Rizzo said, tall, blond and straight-laced. "Mostly rookies here. My duty was Camp MacArthur in the Philippines before they kicked us out. Prescott served at the Libyan embassy. Hossain has been an attaché in Turkey. Linster, Tamura and Herrera haven't been in the field before."

"General Wheeler speaks highly of you," Colonel Prescott said, young and attractive for a senior officer. I made her for a West Point graduate.

"What's the mission, sir? I thought we were ferrying supplies to the camps," I asked. "Not Aleppo, I hope."

"Aleppo is still a ghost town," General Atkins said. "But plenty of refugees to the south. We're going to move down the Euphrates, establish a presence, and coordinate the air drops. Central Command wants the supplies going to the refugees, not the war lords."

"I understand, sir," I said.

"We know you're medical corps, but it would help if you stayed with the forward units," Colonel Prescott requested. "Your experience will help the scouts provide accurate reports."

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed, excited to be where the action was.

On my way back to the 4th's encampment, my cell phone rang. It was probably one of the few places in Syria that I'd get a signal.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hi, Jack," my favorite voice answered. "How is it so far?"

"Like driving through Central Park, only with more sand. How are you doing, Red? How's your mother?"

"Everyone's fine. We're hoping you won't be over there very long. Will you be back in time for your birthday?"

"I don't know. No one is discussing timetables."

"I'm in Utah now finishing my degree. Professor Lofoya gave me a new job arranging seminars. Ambassador Zakharova is going to address our senior class next week."

"That's terrific. You're going to do great."

"Did you hear about your aunt?" she asked.

"Something about a plea bargain," I recalled.

"Theresa called. One year in a minimum-security facility. She said the letter you wrote to the judge requesting leniency made a big difference."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still unhappy with her," I remarked. "I just don't want my cousins hurt more than they already are. What their mother did wasn't their fault."

"They know that. Theresa and Tom say thank you."

"But not Marigold?" I asked.

"Give her time. Look, I know I was having a hard time before you left. I'm sorry I didn't realize it was hard on you, too."

"Sweetheart, no one is at fault. I'm where I need to be. You are, too. I'm proud of you."

"I love you, Jack," she said.

I didn't say it back. She needed to find someone else.

"The guys are waiting for me. Got to go," I wrapped up.

"Take care of yourself," Jenny said, her disappointment obvious.

The 4th had campfires going. Modest off-duty drinking was allowed provided no one got out of control. Brenda had gotten my tent set up in the middle of the camp, but we could no longer share it due to military protocol.

"Something wrong, Sarge? I mean, Captain Lawrence," Joe asked.

"Where's the beer?" I asked, feeling sad.

Joe smiled and produced a bottle of Red Danger.

"I need to get off my feet," I pleaded, finding a folding chair near the fire.

I sat down, trying to relax. I had known Joe, Brenda and Lenora since Tabrit. I wasn't going to stand on my rank with them anymore than necessary. The circle gradually grew to about forty. Corporal Alvarez brought me a plate of baked chicken and rice. Private Wong passed a basket of potato chips.

"Everyone got your bunk assignments?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," my guys answered.

"I haven't played sergeant in a while. Speak up if you need anything," I urged.

"You're a captain," Brenda said, provoking me.

"My exalted rank was only supposed to be for one mission, Lieutenant Castillo, as you well know," I responded. "And I wasn't even in the Army at the time. I was kidnapped from a Federal prison."

"General Fowler says you are whatever he says you are. I was at the hearing, remember?" Brenda said.

"I didn't mind being shanghaied, I minded the promotion. I liked being a sergeant," I complained. "What made you sell out, Sergeant Castillo?"

"I needed the money. My mom got sick," Brenda said.

"How is she doing?" I asked.

"She's doing great since a foundation in Utah started paying her medical insurance," Brenda explained. "You wouldn't know Professor Lofoya, would you?"

"Never heard of him," I lied.

"That's funny. He testified at your review board," Brenda pressed.

She was having a good time making fun of me.

"It's just a coincidence," I said. "There are lots of Professor Lofoyas."

"Yes, and they've all won Nobel Prizes. By the way, everybody who isn't minding their own business, this was right after Jack, and I started shagging following the Tabrit mission."

"Brenda, my former sex life isn't anyone else's business," I protested.

"It's my sex life, too. And I'm not a prude like you are," she declared.

The 4th wasn't really a battalion. More like two hundred men and women drawn from different branches for a vague mission. We bonded around the fire, for we needed to count on each other if things got rough. I encouraged the youngsters to tell us about their hometowns, families, and schools. Unfortunately, the conversation eventually turned back toward me again.

"What's it like being the old man?" Joe asked, winking at me.

"Guess I do have a few years on you," I realized.

"Only a few? That's a laugh," Joe said.

It was true. Of the group, Brenda was closest to me in age, being twenty-eight. Even Major Hossain was only thirty.

"You know, Jack, most of these guys were just kids during Second Afghan," Brenda said. "Maybe you can give them the scoop?"

"No one wants to hear old war stories," I answered, reaching for my beer. I only took a sip. War zones are no place to get drunk.

"Sure we do," Private Johnson requested. "Weren't you just a kid back then?"

"Younger than any of you," I remembered.

"Come on, sir. Let us know how it was," Corporal Alvarez asked, leaning forward.

"What's the point of being an old soldier if you don't share?" Brenda said, being a nuisance.

The crowd of youngsters sitting around the fire had grown to fifty, their eyes lit by the flames. I hadn't known most of them for more than a few weeks but would need to if we were going south into harm's way.

"Just a little," I reluctantly agreed. "In the spring of '16, the U.S. Army was occupying most of Afghanistan. Had been for years, though nobody seems to know why. A push was made to shove the rebels back over the northern border, and suddenly four Islamic countries calling themselves the Freedom Coalition decided to push back.

"I was in high school at the time. Playing baseball. Getting ready to graduate. I had just turned eighteen when the American position in Afghanistan deteriorated. I dropped out of school and enlisted as a medic. I was idealistic, and just as stupid then as you are now."

"We're patriots!" Private Johnson objected. He came from a Texas family.

"The Fallback had begun. The Army gave me six weeks training and dropped me into the war zone. I wasn't the only kid tossed in like that, but I was one of the few medics. I was learning by trial and error."

I stood up, gazing at the starry horizon. As bad as Syria might get, I couldn't imagine it being worse than those days. The blood, and confusion. The guilt, for many died that I didn't know how to help.

"I was assigned to the 144th Infantry," I continued. "There was one skirmish after another as we retreated toward Kabul, until we decided to make a stand at Point Cinco. It was our last best choice. Without supply routes, everything had to come in by air. We held, but had nothing left when the shooting stopped. We were ordered to give up our ground and retreat to Kabul."

I picked up a rock and threw it in the dark. The anger was still there.

"Sir?" Watson said.

"We paid a heavy price for that dirt. Three thousand casualties. Over a thousand dead. My girlfriend, Keisha Mastobo. She was one of them. I got this."

I pulled up my shirt, showing the scars on my right side where shrapnel had raked a dozen holes in me.

"It was my first Purple Heart. Don't make a habit of winning them," I advised.

"You must hate them," Private Mora said, her small fists clenched.

"Purple Hearts?" I asked.

"The Muslims," she clarified.

"Kit, there were Muslims fighting right beside me," I replied, a little irritated. "Their villages cared for our wounded. Many were my friends, and they taught me their language. Shared their food. Tore their clothes for bandages when I had nothing left. A shepherd found me half dead on the field at Sirputa and sheltered me until help came. At the risk of his own life, and the life of his family. The war wasn't about religion, it was about one culture clashing with another."

"Sorry, sir," Mora said, shrinking back.

"Don't be sorry. Try to understand," I urged.

"Yes, sir," several young soldiers said.

"Well, everyone knows about Kabul," I continued. "Jihadist militias from the Pakistani red zone suddenly swarmed in on us from the south, and we lost the city. Street to street. House to house. Four months later, we made a stand at Christian Ridge outside Kandahar, held them off, and then retook the city. The Entrenchment stabilized long enough for us to expand the airfields."

"Was the war almost over?" Watson naïvely asked.

His buddies slapped him for such stupidity.

"The war still had three years to go," I told him. "In February '17, the Freedom Coalition made coordinated attacks on all our northern bases. Losing one would open our lines, for we had no reserves. While trying to help a young soldier, just about your age, a sniper shot me in the back of the neck. The bullet shattered my collar bone on the way out."

I showed them that wound, too, a light red swirl. It was my best one, always impressing the kids.

"After surgery in Germany, I recuperated in an Afghan village and went back on the line. By now, the Army was running out of medics, and out of noncommissioned officers. I was promoted to sergeant six days before my 19th birthday. We fought at Sharpen Bluff, got our asses kicked at Lavanna Valley, and finally retreated into our works around Kandahar. Eighteen months of hard fighting, and all we had left was a burned-out town and no way to evacuate. It felt like the Alamo."

"But you survived?" Mora asked.

"No private. We were all killed," I grimly replied.

Mora's buddies laughed and mocked her, which I enjoyed.

"What we did is counterattack, but not around Kandahar. Airborne units fought the White Mountain War, the Blue Mountain War, Operation Desert Rat, and the Gray Border Incursion. Special Forces like the 104th Rangers took the fight behind enemy lines. Sometimes deep into enemy territories. When it got too costly for them, the Coalition finally agreed to an armistice. Afghanistan has been divided into spheres of influence ever since."

"And you fought in the White Mountain War. With the 104th Rangers," Brenda said, in case they hadn't read Bobby Blair's book.

"That's a different story, and not one I'm going to share," I said.

__________

We moved out in early January, heading toward Lake Assad. None of the United Nations forces followed, preferring to distribute supplies from the safety of the border region. It made it easier for us. Diesel fuel was in short supply, and we didn't want to spook the locals with an armed invasion. Brenda, Lenora and Joe were acting as my staff, for the medical supplies required an armed escort.

On the road to Lake Assad, which is really a large reservoir, we teamed up with a unit of White Helmets. These remarkable Syrians took no sides in the current conflict, as they had not taken sides in the last one. They were first responders, doctors, aid workers, and military security. Humanitarians and patriots in the truest sense. I put Brenda in charge of my unit and rode with the White Helmets for a time, asking questions.

"You are an American soldier," Captain Salim Salmo said. "Why are you not carrying a gun?"

"Most of your people aren't carrying guns," I replied.

"We keep a few weapons to scare off bandits, but we are not targets of the insurgents. Americans are."

"I'm medical corps. If I go to help someone, I don't want them to be afraid I might shoot them," I explained.

"You are the one likely to be shot," Salmo replied. "Find yourself a gun."

Salmo reminded me of first responders I'd known working out of Virginia ten years before. He was lean, energetic, quick to issue orders, and always watchful of each new situation. He stood an inch taller than I but was ten pounds lighter, with a thin black mustache, determined brown eyes, and a Marine haircut. His southern Syrian accent was one I sought to imitate.

The caravan reached the lake, a broad body of water that fed irrigation channels for the surrounding region. The dams appeared in good condition. We took photographs, let the engineers do a cursory inspection, and set up camp in the ruins of an old power plant. Major Hossain put up an American flag, and I admired his pride, but suggested he take it down. We were a small unit, lightly armed, and not prepared for a fight. Once we had an established position, I would be the first to raise the flag again.

A convoy of eighteen trucks and sixty troops moved out the next day, heading for Al-Raqqah. Once a city of two hundred thousand, it was now half rubble with barely fifty thousand residents. Twenty White Helmets and several dozen aid workers traveled with us in cars and pickup trucks. Our assignment was to assess the needs of the city and secure an airfield for the supply planes. We took along several reporters, hoping the press coverage would emphasize the humanitarian purpose of our mission.

Al-Raqqah looked like too many cities I'd seen. Collapsed buildings. Rubble strewn streets. Food sold off carts instead of storefronts. They were recovering, but slowly. Their hospital was understaffed.

"We need to establish the airfield," Major Hossain said.

I jumped out of the truck, talking with the locals and trying to get a sense of the city's mood. They were surprised that my Arabic was so good. Every once in a while, I'd throw in a little Persian just to surprise them. My Persian was fairly decent.

"We'll find an empty warehouse next to the airfield," I reported to Hossain. "They say there's a bulldozer available to clear a runway. There are Tashad elements to the south, but no one has seen them in the city."

The Major took the bulk of the force to the airport, including most of the White Helmets. I lingered behind on a street corner with Joe and Private Mora distributing bread, honey, dried milk, and soup packets. When a case ran out, we'd move the truck a few blocks and start again. We gave away half a ton in one afternoon.

"You really like this, don't you, sir?" Private Mora said, a trim young Hispanic woman just out of her teens. She hailed from Los Angeles, having joined the Army to escape the gangs.

"We're here to help people, Juanita. There's no regulation that says we can't enjoy it," I replied, handing a box of green tea to a grateful old woman.

City leaders came to the airport warehouse, some asking how they could help, some wanting supplies, and a few just curious about our mission. We let Captain Salmo do the talking, though after my name came up, many wanted to speak with me. I hadn't realized my infamy was known so far from home.

"Another convoy is on the way," Major Hossain reported that evening. "They want us to secure a route."

"Either the river road, and then east through the city, or down through the foothills," I said, for they were the only roads capable of handling trucks.

"What do you think?" Hossain asked.

"We'll need to scout both. See which poses the least risk," I replied.

"Take C squad. Check the river. I'll take B squad to scout the foothills," Hossain decided.

We spent the night securing the base and planning the scout. I allowed no alcohol or frivolity. Our equipment was checked and double-checked. Miranda Wright, a fortyish sandy blonde reporter from the Washington Times, wanted to go with my unit. I reluctantly agreed, having no authority to stop her. Then Harry Feldman, a pudgy middle-aged journalist from the Miami Ledger, insisted on joining us, too. I was the story, not Major Hossain. I hoped he wouldn't hold it against me.

We started out the next morning in three trucks and a jeep, armed with M4 carbines and an M249 machine gun. I put Lieutenant Castillo, Corporal Alvarez and three privates in the first truck. Sergeant Wadislaw with two privates rode in the second. Sergeant Bowren, with Private Mora and Private Johnson, brought up the rear in the third. Captain Salmo volunteered to ride with me in the jeep with the two reporters, which was brave. We traveled well-armed. Even I was wearing a Colt 9mm sidearm.

"This is the best route, but Tashad knows that," Captain Salmo warned as we drove through the quiet streets. "The foothill road is vulnerable to snipers. Once the river road is secure, there should be no problems."

"Recommendations?" I asked.

"My White Helmets are canvassing the neighborhoods. The people want the airfield open as much as we do. They will give warning if they can," Salmo responded.

It was the best I could hope for. Once the rest of the 4th Battalion came up, we'd have the numbers, but that wouldn't be for several days.

We reached the river, which was really a branch of the reservoir. The road had taken a beating, but nothing that couldn't be cleared. The waterfront was in decent shape. A few shops were open for business, and some women were selling fish.

"Look at those kids, Sarge," Joe said, seeing some youngsters playing soccer. "Bet we've got some spare balls back at camp."

"Next trip, Joe. Let's survey the road for obstacles. Captain Salmo, think some of these townspeople would like to share our supplies?"

"I'm ahead of you," Salmo said, going to find the local leaders.

"Castillo, how's the route looking?" I asked.

"Our scanners aren't detecting any explosives," Brenda said. "We'll sweep again on the way back."

People came forward from the dilapidated buildings. We distributed food and medical supplies until one of the trucks was empty.

"John Henry, why have you come here?" Mr. Feldman asked, the reporter following me around. The portly fellow was wearing army khakis, but in deference to his Miami readers, sported a Panama hat made of straw.

"United Nations relief effort," I said.

"No, why are you here? Why did you flee the United States? Was it because of the Jenny Blair scandal?"

"Mr. Feldman, would you like to be thrown in the river?" I inquired.

"Is that your answer?"

"Yes, sir. That's my answer," I confirmed.

Miranda Wright was coming in my direction. I couldn't throw her in the river, but I could ignore her if necessary.

"Jack, how are the Syrian people reacting to the American occupation?" she asked.

"Sixty troopers in a city of fifty thousand is not an occupation, and so far, they are tolerating us," I said. "Once supplies are coming in, I think the situation will stabilize. I don't think anyone wants a renewal of the fighting."

"Are you here to inspire them?" Miranda asked.

"Are you trying to be funny?" I questioned.

"No. No, it's ... Well, you are kind of a Horatio Alger story."

"Who is Horatio Alger?"

"See? You've made my point," Miranda smugly replied.

"Keep your head down, Mrs. Wright. In a place like this, you never know who is shooting at you," I warned.

Captain Salmo brought several shopkeepers and neighborhood leaders to talk about distribution networks, and then it was time to start back. Castillo's truck headed out first, followed closely by Sergeant Wadislaw. Sergeant Bowren and I stayed behind with Salmo a few extra minutes, asking about storing fresh water from the reservoir. The reporters tried to interview the locals, but none were speaking English. Though a few knew how.

There was an explosion. We looked around, seeing a plume of smoke coming from the road back to the airfield. There had been a plaza along the route.

"Let's go," I ordered, jumping into the jeep with Salmo driving.

We hurried through the dust ridden streets, coming on a stopped truck. Sergeant Wadislaw, Private Mora and Private Johnson had taken position behind a barricade, their M4 rifles ready. Castillo's truck was in the plaza, tipped on its side, the wheels still spinning.

"What happened, Joe?" I asked.

"Not sure. Maybe a rocket," Joe reported. "Brenda is out there, in the open. She's been hit. Alvarez is lying near the truck. Watson crawled over there into that doorway holding her arm. I think all of them are wounded."

The waist high barricade was a rough pile of oil drums and scrap iron. I looked over, seeing Brenda on her back about thirty feet from the front of the truck. She was barely moving. Alvarez was on our side of the overturned vehicle, lying near the rear axle. I saw no movement at all. Watson was huddled in a shop doorway clutching his arm and looking dazed. He'd lost his weapon.

"Johnson, get my medical kit out of the jeep," I said. "Joe, you'll have command here. Stay low. If someone starts shooting at us, see if you can get covering fire from that building on the left. Michaels, Lawson, keep the M249 ready. Under no circumstances is anyone to enter the plaza. Do you understand?"

"What's the score, Sarge?" Joe asked.

"Tashad may have snipers ready for our first responders. This was common in Afghanistan. I'm not giving them more than one target," I explained.

"One?" Private Mora asked.

"I'm a medic. This is my job," I insisted. "Remember Joe, regardless of what happens, covering fire only. I'm counting on you."

"I won't let you down, sir," Joe promised.

I saw the two reporters watching from behind their jeep, wisely staying low. Both were holding cameras. I was tempted to say something, but managed to control myself. Johnson came back with my kit. I tightened the straps on my flak jacket.

"Here goes," I said, going around the barricade and running for the truck with my head down.

There were no shots. I grabbed Alvarez by his jacket and dragged him against the underbelly of the truck for protection, smelling gasoline. There was no pulse at his neck. No breathing. I looked into his eyes, finding a blank stare. I checked the pulse on his wrist, finding nothing. It was too late.

I signaled Joe, letting him know Alvarez was dead, then pointed at the building up ahead, indicating a possible sniper. There was movement on the roof, but not a curious onlooker, who would have been standing up. I motioned that I was going after Brenda and covering fire burst from the barricade.

I dashed forward, staying low, and was suddenly knocked to the ground. Something had hit me in the ribs on my right, causing an explosion of pain. Hopefully the flak jacket had absorbed the bullet.

Drawing myself to a kneeling position, I pushed forward, getting halfway to Brenda when I was hit again, this time in the left shoulder. Blood splattered my face and arm. I really hoped my collarbone hadn't been broken again. An initial effort to get up failed.

Joe and his boys were trying to suppress the sniper. Or snipers. But their angle was poor. They needed someone shifting toward the left, and I had no doubt he was working on it. Brenda lay ten or twelve feet away, breathing but seriously hurt. Blood was soaking her shirt. The distance looked like a mile.

Another shot, chipping the pavement next to me. And another. I started to turn around, seeking the protection of the crashed truck. And that's almost what I did. But I couldn't leave Brenda out there alone.

I turned back, crawling. My hands grabbed her flak jacket, and I drew her into my lap before opening the medical kit. And was struck again, the shot deflecting off my helmet.

My ears were ringing. For a moment, I couldn't see. A direct shot would have penetrated the helmet and killed me, but this one had glanced off. Was it deliberate? Were they playing with me? Hoping to draw my team out?

I stuck a morphine injector in Brenda's arm, then dug out an absorbent bandage for her chest wound. Just as I leaned forward, another bullet hit the medical kit, scattering the contents. The sniper was in front of me and to the right, on the roof of a three-story building. I could barely move, and Brenda couldn't move at all.

"Jack? Jack, is that you?" Brenda whispered.

"It's me, sweetheart. Save your breath," I said.

"I was thinking, only you are this stupid," she moaned.

"Yeah, story of my life," I replied.

Another shot, chipping the cement close enough that fragments cut my sleeve and drew blood from Brenda's cheek. I took off my helmet, held it over her face, and turned toward the sniper, staring at the roof. And then I slowly raised my hand toward him, putting out my middle finger, holding it high in the air. Even in this godforsaken part of the world, there could be no doubt what I meant.

Covering fire came from behind me. M4s. Johnson and Mora had reached the doorway where Watson was holed up, their angle now better. And then I heard Lawson use his M249, the machine gun chopping up the building's façade with devastating effect.

It was now or never. I grabbed the straps on Brenda's flak jacket and pulled her backward a few feet at a time, grunting with each effort. A hail of bullets filled the air above us. Whether it was one minute or five I don't know, but we reached the belly of the truck where she was drawn in close. But we couldn't stay there. With gasoline everywhere, the truck could catch fire.

Brenda was unconscious. A probable benefit. I secured bandages on her wounds, scooped her into my arms, and plodded toward the barricade at my fastest speed. Joe and Harry Feldman grabbed her as I skirted the oil barrels. Determined fire from Lawson's machine gun now dominated the plaza, ripping up the roof top and echoing through the city.

"The sniper?" I asked, hardly able to breathe.

"Don't know, sir. Might be gone," Joe replied.

"Am I hit?" I inquired.

"Top of the shoulder. Maybe a through and through," Joe said, poking the wound.

Mora got my other medical kit from the jeep, applied a morphine patch, then cut my jacket open and taped a bandage over the wound. Painful, but less than serious. More like a deep gouge.

"Backup?" I asked.

"On the way," Joe reported.

Sergeant Bowren arrived, followed by Captain Salmo and his White Helmets, who quickly administered to Brenda.

"Alvarez is probably dead, but we need to be sure," I said. "Covering fire, Joe."

And with that I was over the barrier again, running low to reach the truck. Gunfire came from my right, but not from the sniper's perch. I assumed the sniper was gone, having done his duty.

Alvarez was deceased. Likely killed when the rocket hit the truck. I began to drag him back to our position but lacked enough strength. Feldman came out and brought Alvarez the rest of the way. I hadn't credited the reporter with so much courage.

More troops from the 4th arrived, and even some local policemen, securing the site. The attackers were gone. If any were killed or wounded, we never found out. I tried to get up several times to check on Watson, but Joe and Salmo kept pushing me back down.

"Goddamn it, Sarge, stay put," Joe cursed. "The drugs didn't cure you, they just made you stupid."

I wished everyone would stop calling me stupid, but took the advice, lying still until medics got me in a jeep.

"Looks like I got my story," Mrs. Wright said, sitting next to me for the ride. "Is there anything you want to say?"

"No," I replied.

I visited Brenda just as the helicopter was arriving to evacuate her. The White Helmets knew their stuff, patching her well enough for the trip.

"Thanks, Jack," she said, reaching for my hand.

"Just doing my job," I replied, trying not to squeeze too hard.

"It was great seeing you again," she whispered.

"More than great. Get well quick. We need you."

"You got it, Sarge," she said as the orderlies came to take her away.

Brenda died two days later at the military hospital in Qarah.

__________

Captain Salmo and I drove south in a white canvas-covered cargo truck. He still had his white helmet. I wore Army khakis without any insignia. With Salmo was his aide Ali, a gangly good-natured lad of twenty-two, and Ali's older cousin Zada, who was also our cook. The rest of the command stayed behind, expanding the base at Al-Raqqah. With more U.N. units arriving, it was becoming a hub for operations throughout central Syria.

"I have seen the picture," Salmo said, doing the driving.

"Which one is that?" I asked.

"The one the reporter took. Of you in the plaza. On your knees with Castillo in your lap. You are giving the bird to the sniper," Salmo said. "The photo does not show your face, or hers. In this way, it represents all soldiers, everywhere, who offer their lives for each other. There is talk that Miranda Wright might win a Pulitzer."

"That won't bring Brenda back," I said.

"The White Helmets are using it in our recruitment. That could be any of us out there. It often is."

"You know I admire your work," I reminded him.

"Thank you, my friend," he replied.

It had been six weeks since the ambush in the plaza. After two more firefights, in which I took no part, Tashad had pulled out, giving us the city. A victory for the 4th Battalion, though it didn't feel like a victory to me. The date was April 8. My 33rd birthday. I didn't say anything to Salmo. Most of my life, I hadn't even known the date of my birth.

"How's the shoulder?" Ali asked from the back seat.

"Stiff. I've treated it with beer and whisky chasers," I answered.

"There is no alcohol where we are going," Zada warned, her voice almost a growl.

"That is a good thing," I answered.

For the next few weeks, we made slow progress down the Euphrates River Valley toward the Iraqi border. Most of what we saw were small farms, herds of sheep, and villages struggling to stay out of another war. We would stop in an area for a few days, make contact with local authorities, and evaluate regional needs. Then I would write reports and send them back to headquarters. I enjoyed meeting the people and learning the local accents. It was like a working vacation, except for the danger of being shot.

"You are brave to travel alone," Zada said, wearing a light brown dress and dark brown leather jacket rather than an abaya.

A Kurd by heritage, Zada was in her mid-forties, the oldest of our group. Stocky, with strong arms, her long black hair was always covered by a blue scarf.

"I am not alone, Mrs. Yousef," I replied. "I am with two White Helmets and an opinionated woman. And in this country, it's safer not to look like an invader."

"It has been peaceful so far," Ali agreed.

"I'm glad there is no enthusiasm for fighting," I assured her.

"That doesn't mean the militias won't start trouble, especially Tashad," Salmo warned. "But for now, it looks like the U.N. arrived just in time. No one expected it."

"No one ever expects the U.N. to arrive in time," I remarked, a critic of the many times politicians had fiddled while Rome burned. I scratched my two-month-old beard, surprised to find some gray hairs.

"I am sorry to ask again, but why did you come on this survey?" Ali asked. "There were many Syrian volunteers among our brigades."

"A brief answer, Jack. Salim and I are also curious," Zada begged.

They were good company, even though I would only pray with them once a day instead of five. And they tolerated my mumblings on Sunday mornings.

"The camp was getting too small for me," I reluctantly explained. "I was stared at everyplace I went. People would get up when I entered rooms. Even officers who outranked me would stand up and await a salute. General Atkins gave me a Purple Heart for that scratch on the shoulder and recommended me for another Silver Star. I needed room to breathe."

"It was not a scratch," Salmo insisted.

"I've had enough real wounds to know the difference. I feel them every time the weather turns cold," I disagreed.

We finally reached Al-Mayadin at the end of March. It was a bustling city of 40,000 on the Euphrates River.

"This is the end of our survey," Salmo announced. "We will make contacts and turn back at the end of the week."

"Let's check their hospital," I urged, hoping to study new techniques.

I knew now I could never be a doctor. I was getting too old, and my education would never match the requirements, but more knowledge would make me a better first responder.

"There is a hotel near the river we have used before," Salmo said. "Ali, take Zada and get us rooms. We will be back before sunset."

The hospital had three floors. The streets around it were clear. I guessed it acted as a regional treatment center, for Al-Mayadin was the district capital.

We casually walked through the front door. Salmo looked like a White Helmet officer, smartly uniformed and official. With a scraggily beard and rumpled khakis, I looked like a bandit.

"Please take us to your director," Salmo said.

"And I would like to visit your children's ward, if you have one," I requested.

"Director Farzat is out, but Dr. Qabbain is here," the desk clerk said.

The doctor arrived a moment later, looking harried.

"What can I do for you, commander? And who is your roguish friend?" he asked.

"We are doing a survey. This is my assistant," Salmo said.

"Assistant? Or a spy?" Dr. Qabbain suggested.

"I'm not a spy, sir," I objected.

The doctor scrunched his eyes with suspicion. I still had enough of an American accent to mark me as a foreigner, but he couldn't fault my pronunciation.

"Are you CIA?" Dr. Qabbain asked.

"No, sir. I am not CIA," I answered.

"I think you are. No American would come this far south if they weren't a spy," he insisted. I needed to play a card I didn't want to.

"Have you heard of John Henry Lawrence?" I asked.

"Of course. He is on the news all the time," Qabbain said.

"Is John Henry Lawrence a CIA spy?" I continued.

"No. He is a hero. He shot the Satan Blair," the doctor responded.

I looked at Salmo, who nodded. No one would talk to us if they thought I was a spy, and it might compromise the White Helmets to be seen in such company. I took off my hat and sunglasses. It took the doctor a moment to comprehend.

"It is you," he said, eyes growing wide.

"I am here with the United Nations relief effort," I said. "They want to know your supply needs."

"We need many things," Dr. Qabbain said.

"Then let's start making a list," I recommended.

__________

The next few days were spent in and around the hospital. I visited the medical wards, particularly the younger children struggling with a sparse supply of medicines. Recommendations were also made for upgrading the monitoring equipment, better drugs, and training new orderlies. Ali and I ate with the staff, joined in prayers, and one evening I borrowed a sitar to play a few folk songs, singing in Arabic.

"There are many requests. Will the relief forces fulfill them?" Dr. Farzat asked at our afternoon meeting.

The conference room was packed with doctors, administrators, and town elders. Captain Salmo remained our primary spokesmen, but more and more, they were looking to me for answers.

"We've requested an air drop of antibiotics and surgical tools. It will arrive tomorrow at dawn," Salmo explained, based on our best information.

"And what does Dr. Lawrence say?" Dr. Qabbain asked.

"Sir, thank you, but I am not a doctor," I replied, though I had spent much of my time in Al-Mayadin providing first aid in the emergency room. "I've made a personal request to the 4th Battalion for priority delivery. They will do their best, though the militias are making distribution difficult."

"The people are fed up with the militias," a town elder said. "They promise unity and provide grief."

"The United Nations isn't here to challenge them," I said. "We're just here to help rebuild. The Syrian people need to choose their destiny."

"It is hard to choose a destiny with a knife at our throat," the elder complained.

"Fourteen years ago, when I was a young soldier in Afghanistan, the Freedom Coalition drove American forces back in a costly war," I recalled. "They said it was in the name of Islam. For the liberation of the Afghani people. And today, that land is the poorest in the world. Ruled by warlords. The war was not about Islam, or freedom. It was about power. In my experience, power is not given, it's taken."

"We will weigh your words," the elder said.

I was in the hotel on a Friday afternoon, a cramped but acceptable room overlooking the waterfront. We were scheduled to return north the next morning. My reports were almost finished, and I was drinking a pleasant tea Zada had found for me. I hadn't had alcohol since leaving Al-Raqqah and was starting not to miss it.

"Are you packing, my friend?" Ali asked, the skinny assistant barging in on me.

"Finishing my reports," I answered.

"You write too many reports," he said, making fun.

"U.N. administrators want details. The supplies won't arrive unless they are confident of the need," I explained.

There was a boom outside, possibly an explosion. I ran out on the balcony, seeing a plume of smoke from the marketplace two blocks away. Something was on fire.

"Let's go," I said, grabbing my medical bag.

"You should not," Ali said. "There is talk of John Henry Lawrence. Someone may be looking for you."

"The people have been friendly. I don't carry a gun. There should be no trouble," I disagreed. "And if someone needs help, I can't sit here doing nothing."

We went down the stairs and out the front doors. Zada soon joined us. I didn't see Captain Salmo. We ran with dozens of others to see what happened, reaching the square in minutes.

It appeared a bomb had gone off in one of the vegetable carts. A dozen people were on the ground, their clothes still smoking. Twenty or thirty others appeared stunned, dragging family members away from the epicenter. A few were fighting a blaze where a shop canopy had caught fire.

"Ali, set up a triage area near the river," I said. "Zada, make a place for the women."

I charged forward, using my jacket to bat out smoldering hot spots. I saw burns and cuts, but so far, no fatalities. Many came to assist. We applied bandages, soothed burnt skin, and loaded victims into trucks for the brief ride to the hospital. One woman was particularly bad. I applied a compress to her leg until a doctor knelt at my side to take over. I noticed Salmo coordinating the triage area and waved, but he didn't see me.

"Help me," a heavily bearded man said, carrying a teenage boy with a scalp wound.

I held the boy's feet, carrying him to a small truck at the edge of the marketplace. Just as we were about to load him through the tailgate, the bearded man dropped the boy. When I knelt to pick him up, the boy grabbed my arms. More hands grabbed me, at least three or four large men, and I was hauled into the truck. Before I could drive my attackers off, someone hit me over the head.

Sometime later, I woke up to a bumpy ride on a dirt road. I was in the back of a canvas-covered cargo truck. There were six men riding with me, Tashad by appearance, and I was tied up. A glance out the back showed we were no longer in the city.

"What's this about?" I asked in Arabic.

"You can speak English, John Henry Lawrence. I know your language," the largest of the kidnappers said. He wore desert camouflage fatigues under a long white cloak, typical of the Tashad's nomadic pretentions.

"Why have you taken me? I'm not worth a ransom," I replied.

"You are worth something, to the right people. Perhaps not alive," he responded.

Which had a bad sound to it.

After another hour, the truck stopped out in the middle of nowhere. We had been traveling south, which meant we weren't in Syria anymore. They cut the rope off my ankles and dragged me out, throwing me to the ground. I counted eight abductors, well-armed with AK-47's. They milled about, whispering to each other, but not to me. We were on a treeless dirt road devoid of landmarks.

Then a black SUV came from the north. Their leader disembarked, radiating a roguish charisma.

"I am Kassan Abari, Commander of the Free Iraq Militia," the tall, bearded man said. Two of his minions put me on my feet.

Abari was my height, in his early forties, thin but strong boned, with a broad chest. We had seen each other once before, in the Maharambi Caves, but he hadn't recognized me.

"You are a terrorist," I corrected.

"And you are the betrayer who killed Frac Khanani," Abari replied.

I actually hadn't killed Khanani, Alex and Dragon did--but I wasn't going to give this gangster the satisfaction of arguing.

"I say it was justice. Let's fight. You and me. We'll let fate decide," I challenged, straightening up.

It was for show. I doubted he would accept, and I couldn't throw a decent left punch until my shoulder got stronger.

"I am not one of your American prisoners to be shamed and murdered," Abari said, grossly misstating my prison record.

"You're a coward, hiding in the shadows like a cockroach," I said, just to piss him off.

"You will not provoke me," Abari replied, amused by my hollow insults.

They moved me to the bottom of a hill, nothing but dirt and weeds behind me. One minion attached a copper wire to my ankle, grinning like it was a joke. Then everyone moved back, and a camera was pointed at me. They even had a sound boom.

"John Henry Lawrence, you have been tried and found guilty by the Free Iraqi Militia for crimes against Islam," a stout hooded man in a black robe said, speaking English with a British accent. "Will you save your life by denouncing the Great Satan?"

I'd have denounced the Great Satan in a second if I thought it would do any good, but it was just a ploy.

"I missed the trial part. Can we go over that again?" I asked.

"You are not funny," the traitorous Brit said. "The verdict is rendered. Now it is time for judgement."

Kassan Abari stepped forward, making sure the camera got his good side. He swaggered about, then took position behind me.

"To all Americans, watch. This is what we do to your heroes," Abari said, drawing a pistol. Then he stepped back, grinning like a polecat.

Without further ceremony, four Tashad militia stepped forward pointing AK-47s. I would have squared my shoulders and pretended I wasn't terrified, but everything was happening too fast. I glanced from side to side, wondering if there was anything I could do, but it was too late.

The Tashad gunmen opened fire, but at the same moment, an electrical charge ran up my leg, shocking my entire body. I fell to the ground twitching, and when the current stopped, lay prostrate in the dirt.

"Should we film it again?" someone asked in Arabic. "We might get a better fall on a second take."

"No, he will not react with the same surprise a second time," Abari decided. "What we have is good."

Abari knelt down beside me, removing the wire from my ankle.

"Did you enjoy being killed?" he asked.

"I didn't know it would be so painful," I gasped.

* * * * * *

The two timelines are beginning to come together. If you are enjoying this story, please give it your support.