Diminished Capacity

Chapter Five

by G. Lawrence

This chapter is a continuation of a previously published story. It is a crime novel that ultimately turns into a romance along with strange plots and fantastic exploits. There is occasional nudity and sex. All characters are over 18 years old.

Background: War veteran John Henry Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair in a Maryland park. He has no memory of the event, but rather than see the country devolve into endless conspiracy theories, he took responsibility. Important note; this story takes place in an alternate timeline from our own. It is not political. No contemporary issues are mentioned. It's an adventure story.

Recap; Jack prevented terrorists from destroying downtown Boston with a nuclear bomb but must still face justice for shooting the president. A crime that has him baffled for he doesn't remember anything about it.

* * * * * *

General Patrick Wheeler

U.S. Army War College

Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania

General Wheeler,

Many myths have grown up over the years regarding our retrieval mission in Tabrit. I am satisfied that Captain Lawrence's account may finally put some of them to rest, though I have reservations concerning the operation's merits as a strategic study. With respect, Colonel Kristine Leslie, Chief of Operations

* * * * * *

Chapter Five

COLONEL FOWLER'S SURPRISE

I flew with Jacobs and Rodriguez on an FBI jet to the Saratoga County Airport, then drove thirty minutes to the Federal Correctional Institution at Windhaven. The facility consisted of four outer barracks, a large central structure, and a receiving center for new inmates and visitors. The prison had been built on a grass-covered plain near groves of pine and willow trees. There was a lovely blue lake only a quarter mile away. The security was a chain-link fence that didn't even have barbed wire.

"I really feel like a dangerous criminal now," I complained. "What are they going to say when you walk me in without handcuffs?"

"They'll say you're a smart aleck," Jacobs remarked.

Jacobs was a good guy. I liked him. Not so much Rodriguez. He hardly talked, and he was a New York Giants fan who looked down on my beloved Philadelphia Eagles.

We entered through a side gate, going up a steep staircase to the processing area. Two guards and a clerk greeted us. Jacobs gave them my papers, shook my hand, and departed. Rodriguez gave me a nod and handed my Jack Wood guitar to one of the guards.

"The warden wants to see you," the clerk said, directing me to an elevator.

I was escorted to the second floor and down a long corridor. The Warden's Office was at the end surrounded by a conglomeration of cubicles and waiting rooms.

"Mr. Lawrence, welcome," Warden Mims greeted.

He was a stout black man in his mid-fifties with the look of a wrestler. His receding hairline exposed a wide face with the barest white stubble on the chin. The greeting seemed sincere.

"Thank you, Officer Grayson. You can wait outside," Mims said to his guard.

Grayson left without comment. I assumed they had discussed this meeting in advance. I stood at ease, arms behind my back, head up but not presuming to speak.

"May I call you John?" he asked.

"Most call me Jack, sir. Either will do," I replied.

"You can call me Warden Mims, or just plain Mims. We're not that formal here unless we need to be. Do we need to be formal?"

"No, sir."

"I don't need to tell you how unusual this is," Mims continued. "It's rare that we get inmates convicted of second-degree murder, and the ones we get are usually old men about to be released. None of them have your ... notoriety."

"I'm not seeking to be notorious, sir. I prefer to serve my time as quietly as possible. It's my intention to never speak with the press."

"I have a note here from an old friend. He pulled a lot of strings to have you assigned to Windhaven. I take it you know Harold Rasmussen?" Mims said, hinting for more information.

"Yes, sir. He represented me before the court."

"I hear you're recovering from a serious illness. How are you?"

"Improving each day. The doctor gave me a prescription."

"Good to hear it. I have your uniform," Mims said, producing a khaki jumpsuit. "I thought you might prefer to change here."

I looked around. It was traditional for new inmates to be strip-searched. I had been after my arrest, and half a dozen times since. Including cavity searches. Mims read my thoughts.

"There is reason to believe you're not carrying contraband, so we'll dispense with the usual formalities," he informed.

"I'm grateful, sir," I said, stripping down.

I noticed a photo on the wall of Mims posing with old war buddies. He'd been in the 91st Army Reserve and seen action in First Afghan. Had Rasmussen tipped Mims off that I was a combat veteran? Mims took note of my battle scars but didn't say anything. To a vet, they spoke for themselves.

"Sir, there's a good chance I'll be here for the next thirty years. May I ask what to expect?"

"That's really up to you. Our inmates tend to be younger, sometimes troubled kids. We offer classes, vocational training, guidance counseling. Hopefully once they leave here, they won't come back. There are also some older white-collar felons. Forgers. Embezzlers. We don't expect much from them."

"I got my GED in the Army," I said. "Maybe I can teach some classes?"

"I think we're going to get along just fine," Mims said, looking relieved. "Grayson will take you to Housing Unit One. You get your own room."

"What makes me so special?"

"It appears some very influential agencies have taken an interest in you. Any idea why?"

"I'm afraid that's a conversation for another time, sir."

The facility was less relaxed than Warden Mims believed. I took note of several unsavory types, as they were taking note of me. There were also a few celebrated millionaires among the population, mostly con artists and tax cheats, but none as famous as me.

My room was adequate. Bed, sink, desk, and a bookshelf. I also found a laptop computer with a Secret Service seal on the cover. A note inside was from Alex. It said, "Let us know if you find more rogues." My guitar was in the corner.

And so here I was. Instead of being dead. Or on death row. For the first time since Rasmussen gave me his startling news, I needed to think about the rest of my life. And I hadn't done anything like that for a long while. Not since the night I proposed to Francie. Had God saved me for something special? Father Sebastian would say so, but he was an optimist. Alex repeatedly urged me not to lose hope, and it appeared she'd been right. Neither had taught me long-term planning.

I started getting visitors right away, fellow inmates who wanted to meet the celebrity prisoner. I reluctantly shook a few hands but refused to be photographed. An admirer of President Blair spit on me. I introduced myself to the guards, making sure they didn't think I was hostile to them. I also met with the prison doctor about my prescription and asked him what was available to mitigate nightmares. They were less frequent now but still an occasional hazard.

When the lights went out, I hoped to be locked in my cell. Not to be trapped, but to keep unwanted nuisances away. It turned out only selected inmates got locked down for the night, and I wasn't one of the lucky few.

The first morning, I met a friend who would have a major effect on my prison years. His name was Fredrick Lincoln, a thirty-year-old African American about the size of Omar. Everyone called him Bear. He was serving a conviction for manslaughter, having killed a child molesting forest ranger in a fit of rage. I would have given him a medal. Now Bear was getting anger management sessions while learning to be a medical assistant. We sat for breakfast in the large, noisy commissary.

"I ain't gonna bother you none," were the first words Bear spoke to me.

"How's that?" I asked.

"Everybody here talking about you. Some following you around," Bear explained. "Figure you gots a right to your privacy, same as anyone else. I respect that."

If it was reverse psychology, it worked brilliantly, because the two of us soon became inseparable. Bear was outgoing, amiable, and popular. Everything I wasn't.

"Are they letting you work in the infirmary?" I asked him one afternoon after seeing his textbook.

"Not yet. Got to pass a test, and I failed the first two times," Bear lamented.

"I'll help you pass," I casually offered. "Maybe you can do me a favor?"

"Be my pleasure. Need someone beaten up?"

Bear was joking, having a big grin on his face.

"Sort of. There are boxing gloves in the gym. I need a sparring partner."

"I'm plenty big compared to you," Bear said in surprise.

"I know. I'll be less afraid of hurting you."

Bear stepped back to look me over. I still wasn't up to my full weight, and I needed a lot more physical conditioning. He probably thought I was crazy.

Over the next few weeks, I gradually found a routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I worked in the infirmary and taught First Aid. After Bear passed his test, he became my assistant. The doctor guessed right away that my background was more intense than my official resume would suggest.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I taught the kids trying to earn their GEDs. Some classes were conducted in English, others in Spanish. I'd read hundreds of books while growing up, and later in the Army. Now I needed to learn how to teach. One young student in particular, Rafael Martín, had a real talent for written expression. I started working with him separately, critiquing his papers and providing what advice I could.

Other students, aspiring to more than a GED, soon wanted to join our sessions. I did not find basic composition difficult, having written after-action reports for the Army and mission summaries with National First Responders. I encouraged the fledgling writers to expand their vocabulary and focus on the essentials.

On Saturdays, I was the student. Several of the inmates were experts on guitar, piano, singing, dancing, even acting. I joined their theater group, and though I never performed in the Saturday shows, I was active behind the scenes. When they asked me why I didn't want to be on stage, I pointed out that many of the inmates recorded the shows. Being who I was, appearing in their videos would be in bad taste.

Sundays, I attended mass, followed by counseling sessions with Father Simón. Bear had his anger management classes, and many inmates had emotional issues. I finally started dealing with mine, and with the help of proper medication, the nightmares faded.

Those were my day jobs. My nights were something entirely different. Usually I worked in private, if not secret. Sometimes I would let Bear hang out with me, if the work wasn't too sensitive. Jimmy "the Ditz" Diego and Cooper "the Bird" Jackson could also be discreet, though I couldn't let them in on the big projects. They asked me if I ever had any nicknames, and I mentioned the one I had playing baseball in high school. After that, they called me Clutch.

Using the computer Alex gave me, I returned to the Black Web, occasionally trolling for bad guys. But I had a new project in mind. The felonious millionaires in our midst knew lots of other rich people and had lots of contacts in the business world. And I knew organizations that needed money. Using my background in intelligence, I began putting donors and charities together, channeling the funds through accounts I controlled using a string of aliases. I didn't keep any of the money for myself, I just enjoyed making a difference in a new way. And what the heck? If the FBI caught me, I was already in prison.

This was my pattern for the first eight months. I taught, learned, and played baseball in the afternoons. And I surprised Bear in the boxing ring. We had some good matches. I forwarded two mangy counterfeiting suspects to Alex and six potential gunrunners to Dragon.

My proudest accomplishment was helping Professor Alvino Lofoya set up a school on the Monument Valley Indian Reservation in Southern Utah. Professor Lofoya had won a Nobel Peace Prize and wanted to found a school of international relations. Students from all over the world would come to learn the intricacies of diplomacy, and the school would provide good jobs for the reservation. But Lofoya had no talent for fundraising. I contacted him under the name Clutcher, and we struck an instant rapport. Within six months, his name and my sources raised enough donations to open the doors. We had a long way to go, but we would get there.

This might have been my life for the next several decades, but an old nuisance came calling one afternoon in early January to shake things up.

I was summoned to Warden Mims' office, which was not unusual, for Walter and I spoke once or twice a week. He served non-alcoholic beer that we pretended was real. I had even warned him about my fundraising, should questions be asked later. On my way, I chatted with the guards and flirted with the female secretaries. No escort was required. On this day, Mims met me at his door, giving me a strange look, and we went in. Colonel Fowler was sitting in Mims' chair.

"Hey, kid, it's about goddamn time," Fowler said, jumping up. "So, tell me, Warden, how's my boy doing in this rat hole?"

I noticed Fowler was wearing an olive drab dress jacket decorated with campaign ribbons. Normally, he abstained from such ornamentation.

"Mr. Lawrence is a model prisoner," Mims replied. "Keeps a busy schedule. Never gets in trouble."

"I did beat up a couple of bullies," I mentioned.

"Not officially," Mims corrected.

"That's true. Not officially," I agreed.

"Colonel Fowler has been acquainting me with your war record," Mims said, a bit peeved. "Your real war record."

"Colonel, sir. I hope you haven't been speaking out of school?" I said, frowning. "Those records are classified."

"Had to, kid. It's the only way this bureaucrat would let me take your skinny ass out of here," Fowler said with a growl. I turned to look at Mims, then back at Fowler.

"Take me where, sir?"

"That's classified. Comes from the highest authority," Fowler said. "I've got a letter of transit signed by General Patrick Wheeler."

"Since when does the Army Chief of Staff care about former sergeants?" I inquired.

I took the letter for a quick study. Since teaching English and helping Rafael submit stories to literary magazines, I'd become quite adept. Maybe I would write a book someday. Not about myself, that would be stupid, but I knew of some colorful characters who would make good subjects.

"Sir, my name is not on this document. The space is blank," I pointed out.

"He's right," Mims agreed.

Fowler grabbed the document back from me, stole a pen off Mims' desk, and scrawled a big X instead of my name.

"Goddamn it, don't you numb nuts know anything about plausible deniability?" Fowler grouched. "The Secretary can't know your name. No one can."

"Except me," Mims said.

"That's right. Don't make me kill you," Fowler warned.

"He's not going to kill you. That only happens in spy novels," I quickly said. "Now what's this all about?"

"Got your greens right here. Let's get going," Fowler announced, holding up an Army uniform wrapped in clear plastic. It displayed my campaign ribbons and combat decorations. Purple hearts. Bronze stars. A silver star. Mims eyes went wide, taking a deeper look at me.

"Sir?" I asked Warden Mims.

"It's up to you, Jack. Just come back when it's over so I don't get fired," he said.

"This had better be important, Fowler. My baseball team is on a winning streak," I complained.

"The country isn't, kid. That's why we need you," he quickly replied.

__________

Fowler and I rode in the back seat of a town car driven by two military policemen. It had comforts suitable to a general, including a full bar. I was offered a drink but declined, having been on the wagon since arriving at Windhaven.

"Border trouble?" I asked, as it was the only reason they would need me.

"Tango-Charlie district, your old stomping ground," Fowler confirmed.

"One of them," I clarified, for I'd served in many regions, first with the 144th Infrantry and later with 104th Army Rangers.

We flew on a twin-engine jet to Andrews Air Force Base, and then a staff car drove us to the Pentagon. The section we entered was primarily for classified operations, so there wasn't a lot of foot traffic in the halls. A few turned to see me walking by in a sergeant's dress coat decorated with a host of campaign ribbons. Most just shook their heads, assuming what they were thinking must be a mistake.

"I shouldn't be wearing this. I'm not active military," I whispered to Fowler, for the gaudy display on my chest was embarrassing.

"Activated your reserve status this morning. Couldn't let you in the building otherwise," Fowler explained.

"You can't activate a convicted felon," I said.

"No one tried to stop me," he answered. "Besides, you weren't exactly convicted, were you? I don't remember there being a trial."

We entered a secure communications center where half a dozen generals and colonels were pouring over maps of western Afghanistan. Monitors relayed the latest updates. We stopped before General Wheeler, who I recognized. Though I doubt he remembered me. He was a few inches shorter than I, meticulously dressed and rigid in posture. The bushy white mustache nearly covered his mouth.

"As promised, sir," Fowler said.

I came to attention and saluted. Wheeler looked over my ribbons.

"Looks like I should be saluting you, son," he said. "Heard you know this country."

They made way so I could lean over the table. The satellite images were clear. Better than those we used during the war.

"Yes, sir. I know the country well," I confirmed.

"How is that, Sergeant?" a lean colonel asked, his voice high-pitched.

"Following Point Cinco, I was off the line for five weeks. I spent a month in these villages while recuperating," I replied.

"Recuperating from what?" a peevish general asked, his heavy brows frowning.

"Gosh, sir, it's hard to remember," I said, running my fingers along the ribbons representing the Purple Hearts.

"Tango-Charlie is a million miles behind enemy lines," someone else said, doubting my story. I was thinking that idiots like this caused us to lose the war.

"It wasn't at the time, sir. This was before lack of supply caused us to be pushed back," I explained, making no friends.

"Okay, this is our problem. A Tashad militia force has taken five Americans hostage," Lieutenant Colonel Kristine Leslie said. Other than Fowler, she was the lowest ranking officer in the room and the only woman. "We think they are being held in the Majar Valley region. Four are Mormon missionaries going where they don't belong. The fifth is a CIA agent we need to extract. We need you to pinpoint which of these villages Tashad would keep them in so we can launch a recovery effort."

"What are the parameters, sir?" I dared to ask.

"We have a hundred special forces ready to storm the village. Ten AH-64s for air support," Leslie explained.

I looked over their plans, which were a hodgepodge of conjecture, alternate scenarios, and cover-ups should the mission go bad. No wonder they needed a sergeant to straighten everything out.

After studying the map, I zeroed in on a small hamlet near Bajer Lake, just below the Reedy Mountains. A review of the satellite photos confirmed my assessment. It was the village of Tabrit.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to help," I said, backing away from the table.

"Never thought you could," Brigadier General Walter Atkins said, his beefy jowls and stubby nose making him look like a bulldog.

"No, wait a goddamn minute," Fowler said. "You know something. Damn it all, you know where they are."

"He can't possibly know where they are," General Atkins declared.

It would have been gratifying to prove the pompous ass wrong in front of his superior officers, but I couldn't indulge myself. Fowler pulled me into a corner.

"Now listen here, Lawrence. I put my butt on the line to drag you out of that pesthole. Don't fuck with me," he demanded.

"Sir, I'm not going to help," I repeated.

"Think on this, boy. I don't have to take you back to Windhaven. There are worse places you can go."

He had raised his voice enough that the others could hear, just to humiliate me. Reminding everyone I was a lowly criminal serving time.

"You had best tread softly, sir," I replied just as loudly. "I know things about the White Mountain War you don't want the press asking about. Or Congress."

There, that had done it. The threat I had never used in the four years since I'd left the service. It aroused a lot of curiosity.

Fowler grunted, waved his arms, and finally took a deep breath.

"Okay, kid, you've got more balls than I gave you credit for," Fowler conceded. "But you should still help us. It's the right thing to do."

I supposed he had a point. And there were folks who were going to need help, whether I cooperated or not. I walked back to the table.

"I can bring your people home," I said.

"The hell you can," General Atkins sneered.

"Walt? Shut the fuck up," General Wheeler ordered. "Okay, young man. How?"

"I will lead a small team in, locate the hostages, and bring them out before Tashad knows we're there," I replied.

"You would go to Afghanistan?" Atkins asked.

"I've been there before," I replied.

The senior officers huddled with Fowler. Colonel Leslie edged toward me, bumping my elbow. She was tall, about 5'10, with long sandy blonde hair and sharp features. Her make-up was sparse, except for the dark brown coloring in her eyebrows. I thought her quite attractive.

"Really think you can pull this off?" she mumbled.

"Confident enough to bet my life on it," I answered.

We couldn't hear the entire conversation, but there was a good deal of disagreement. I was sure they would reject my offer. There was no reason they should think me capable of such a boast. Suddenly, Fowler lost patience, grabbed General Wheeler's arm, and drew him away. I saw Fowler's hands waving, then he pointed at me while whispering into the general's ear. I only heard one word. Boston. The general turned toward me, his jaw dropping. I didn't need to guess what Fowler had revealed.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," General Wheeler sputtered. He walked up, looked me over, and studied me with the ancient gray eyes of a veteran. He was no fool, having seen combat in three wars and countless skirmishes. Then he grunted.

"Leslie!" he called out.

"Yes, sir," she said, rushing forward.

"Organize the mission. Take Lawrence with you," General Wheeler instructed.

Every other officer in the room burst with objections, but Wheeler waved them away. He signaled for Fowler and they left the room.

"Wow, I didn't expect that," Leslie said.

"Me, either," I admitted, wondering what I'd gotten myself into.

Lieutenant Colonel Kristine Leslie, a thirty-five-year-old graduate of West Point, wasted no time. Within an hour, we were on a helicopter headed for Davison Airfield, and then a cargo jet to Kandahar. We sat together in a comfortable cabin behind the cockpit. I took my shoes off.

"Sergeant Lawrence, we haven't been formally introduced," Leslie said.

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed, giving her a salute.

"Any clue why General Wheeler suddenly changed his mind back there?"

"Yes."

"Going to tell me?"

"No."

"Can you tell me why you refused to brief the planning session? And then decided to take control yourself?" she asked. It wasn't an angry question; she was curious.

"Colonel Leslie, I'm not really military anymore," I said. "I left the service after the war. My participation is Fowler's idea. If we can speak in confidence, I will be honest with you. Otherwise, it's best we respect our ranks."

"Let me be honest with you," Leslie said. "I was a green lieutenant in Second Afghan, then a captain, and promoted to major as the officer corps thinned out. Cleaning up bad situations in the supply areas. I'm a good organizer. We did well enough that the enemy was finally brought to the negotiating table. That was the last time the Army had any real success there.

"Our rescue attempt in Syria last year was a fiasco. Eight Rangers and three hostages dead. The mission in Libya before that didn't go much better. I've been given command of this one, which can make or break my career. And they picked you, of all people, to make it work. Someone thinks you can do this and I've got to trust that they're right."

"Fair enough," I said. "Colonel--"

"Call me Kristine when we're off duty. As you say, you're not really military."

"I'm Jack," I agreed. "The village we're going to is at the south end of Mahar Valley. During my rehab ... that is, my first rehab, I spent a month in and around those villages. I dressed as they do, ate their food. I already spoke Dari; the villagers taught me how to speak it properly."

"And they tolerated you?"

"I was just a kid, eager to learn. Eighteen years old. I helped with chores. Practiced First Aid. Sang to the children. And I never lied to them."

"Is that why you spit in General Wheeler's face? You don't want an armed assault on the village?"

"My intention is to save lives. Nothing else would have gotten me on this plane," I answered, recalling Father Sebastian's admonishments on a Christian's duty.

Fourteen hours later, we landed at our base outside Kandahar. Landing in Afghanistan without someone firing rockets at me was a new experience. I had changed to camouflage fatigues, leaving my fancy dress uniform in a footlocker.

"I have a special team in mind, drawn from several Ranger battalions," Leslie explained as we rode to headquarters in a jeep. "Weren't you a Ranger?"

"Technically, I was 144th Infantry. After Lavanna Valley, I was assigned to the 104th Rangers and stayed with them for the rest of the war. I never went to Ranger training."

"Lavana Valley? That was ... That operation didn't go well," she recalled.

"If you mean an arrogant commanding officer walked us into a trap, yeah, it didn't go well. He died there. Nearly all of the officers died there, and fifteen others. We crawled back to where the helicopters were waiting and barely got out. Thankfully, we were able to bring our dead and wounded with us."

"Wait a minute. There's the story of a sergeant. He--"

"Let's not rehash old legends. The war is over. What have we got now?"

"This unit is drawn from enlisted personnel. I sensed officers aren't your preferred teammates."

"Other than they screw everything up?"

"Spoken like a true sergeant," Leslie laughed.

We reached the command post designated for planning. Leslie's team was already there, eleven young men and three young women. Only two were officers, both lieutenants.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sergeant John Lawrence," Colonel Leslie introduced.

Needless to say, the team was shocked.

"This mission, and Sergeant Lawrence's participation in it, is classified at the highest level," Leslie continued. "You will not mention his name outside approved channels for any reason. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Colonel," they all acknowledged.

"Good, now let's make this work," she said.

My plan was simple. The best ones are. I called it Operation Cakewalk. We found hillsides similar to the mountains above Tabrit to practice our approach to the village and spent the next week training. I also needed to rediscover my low altitude jumping skills, for it had been a while since I used a parachute.

At night, the enlisted personnel shared the same barracks. I came off the wagon for the duration, drinking beer and the occasional shots of Russian vodka. I had also started growing my beard again.

Camp Massoud was on the plain southwest of Kandahar, the Arghandab River on one side and a broad valley on the other. The installation housed fifteen hundred U.S. Army, five hundred Marines, and three thousand Free Afghan Militia. Mantz Airfield stayed busy bringing in supplies, and there were several warehouses. Special Forces had their own section, which included a PX, picnic grounds, and a saloon.

"You are a rough taskmaster," Corporal Riesman said as we sat around a late-night campfire. He was not complaining. All of them had it tougher in Ranger school, even burly jocks like Riesman. The desert sky was clear, the stars out in force.

"This is about timing. Moving up and down the mountain in the dark without shooting each other," Sergeant Lenora Bowren said, her voice tired.

"And without com," Sergeant Brenda Castillo added, for any signals the team used would put Tashad on alert.

At 6'1, Bowren was one of the taller women I'd met, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. She'd played basketball at Fresno State on a scholarship but bailed on officer training classes.

I particularly liked Brenda, who was always focused and cheerful. She stood at 5'9, lithe with quick reflexes. Her high school soccer team had won a Detroit city championship. Which was no surprise. Her father was a professional baseball player from the Dominican Republic. Brenda's long wavy hair, tinted dark red, shimmered in the light of the campfire.

"Jack's got a good plan, but don't forget that Lieutenant Kinder is in command on the ground," Colonel Leslie said, daring to share with the enlisted personnel.

"No, that won't work," I protested. "Once we're on the ground, I call the plays."

"Regulations say an officer has to command the mission," Leslie said, and I knew she was right.

"I was in command at Lavana Valley," I said. "After all the officers were killed."

"You were at Lavana Valley?" Lt. Kinder said, a skinny twenty-four-year-old West Pointer on his first Afghan tour. "They say it was a massacre."

"It wasn't our best day," I confirmed.

"I'll see what I can do," Leslie promised.

Sergeants Bowren and Bradley Wadislaw stayed up late with Brenda and me, drinking into the evening. Tomorrow was the last day of training, so no alcohol after that. Everyone in the unit was curious about how I'd come to be there. As all four of us were sergeants, they felt entitled to ask.

"Give us the scoop," Brad insisted.

Like me, Brad was a veteran of Second Afghan. He was my height but a little thicker, with blond hair and a ruddy complexion. He could probably outdrink me if he wanted. I suspected his mother might be Irish.

"After I was pulled from the field, I did contract work for the intelligence agencies," I explained. "I also assisted an important operation, and some people were grateful. When it was time to sentence me for shooting President Blair, they pulled strings. Now, apparently, the Army feels free to borrow me."

"Why did you leave? You had such a great record," Brenda asked.

"One of my final assignments was Katanna Bridge," I replied. "The casualties were not all inflicted by the enemy. Possibly a third were caused by friendly fire. Misdirected artillery, that we kept begging them to correct. Which I stated in my report. I was advised to change it and refused. Pressure was brought to bear. When Central Command finally ordered me to change it, I decided to retire."

"Weren't there only a few survivors?" Brenda asked.

"Five out of twenty-seven," I confirmed. "I parachuted in after their medic was killed, and casualties were already heavy. We held the ridge above the river crossing all night, taking heavy fire. It gave time for the 99th Infantry to make a flank attack. By sunrise, only two of us could still hold a weapon."

"What happened to your report?" Brad asked, stroking a trimmed beard.

"I don't know," I said.

"Why did you shoot Blair?" Lorena inquired, squinting her dark eyes.

"I don't talk about that," I replied.

"But you did shoot him? A lot of people, even books, say you were framed," Brenda pressed.

"They say you took the fall for the Joint Chiefs to prevent the Remobilization," Lorena questioned, for it was a popular theory.

"Or maybe the CIA," Brad suggested.

"I was not part of a conspiracy," I protested. "And I prefer to drop it. I'll be in prison for the next thirty years. I don't want to keep rehashing old news."

"Fair enough," Brenda said. "Let's make a toast."

"To Operation Cakewalk. And the Sarge," Lorena offered. I laughed.

"What's wrong?" Brenda asked.

"During the White Mountain War, just about everyone in the company stopped using my first name and just called me Sarge. I haven't heard it for a while," I explained.

Forty-eight hours later, Leslie had us assembled near the C-130 that would make the drop. Leslie had a surprise for me.

"Good news, Jack. Solved the command problem," she announced.

We waited to hear her solution. She took out an envelope with new insignia.

"You've been given a field promotion," Leslie said, producing captain's bars.

"You're making me an officer? That's not fair. I work for a living," I protested.

"You'll be the highest-ranking officer on the ground," she said.

"Let's hear it for Captain Lawrence," Brenda declared, and the team cheered.

"It's only temporary," I insisted.

We boarded the four-engine turboprop, timing our jump for two hours before dawn. Enough time to regroup and take our positions. The aircraft was large, with plenty of room for our team. We occupied benches near the rear hatch, checking our equipment while listening to the engines. There was only darkness outside the small windows. I was nervous, for my previous night jumps were not fond memories.

Lieutenant Kinder was the first out of the hatch, bravely jumping into the moonlit night toward a narrow valley behind a ridge. Castillo was next, then Bowren and Wadislaw. I was fifth, feeling the cold air rush past as I fell, and then the chute opened with a jerk. It was good I'd taken a refresher course. I wasn't convinced that jumping out of an airplane was anything I'd ever grow comfortable with.

We rendezvoused on a hilltop a mile and a half from the village, treeless and covered in scrub brush. It was big enough for the rescue helicopter to land when summoned. The waxing moon was just a sliver in the sky. Lieutenant Kinder arranged the landing beacons for when they were needed. Corporal Riesman and Specialist Gerald assisted.

The rest of us moved down a ravine to a spiny ridge with a good view of the lake. Station alpha. The landscape was dry, mostly weeds and thickets. Sergeant Bowren and Specialist Posey took position with a heavy machine gun to cover our retreat. Farther down the ravine was a dirt road, rarely used, for it terminated another quarter mile up in a grove of fig trees. Lieutenant Berkshaw and Specialist Franko dug in at station beta with RPGs. Closer to the village was our final staging area, station gamma. Sergeant Wadislaw and Specialist Armbruster had SR25 machine guns and First Aid supplies. I began stripping off my jumpsuit. And everything else. They were shocked to see me standing there naked.

"What are you doing?" Brad asked. I showed him my new outfit.

"Colonel Leslie found these for me in the marketplace," I whispered, dressing in a decorated shirt, wool slacks, and flat shoes common to the region, over which I wore a long-sleeved gray robe with a hood, more typical of Tashad.

"You took off everything," Brenda said.

"If I get stopped and searched, I don't want them finding me in Walmart underwear."

Brenda and Corporal Denton came with me to the village, a hamlet of forty houses, barns, and granaries. Both were good climbers, cautious and steady. Not likely to panic should the situation turn bad. Denton was especially nimble, a fast runner but still strong enough to carry someone if necessary. At nineteen, clear-eyed and bushy-haired, he reminded me of myself in an earlier incarnation.

We stopped in heavy brush overlooking the south side. The main road ran through the village, connecting many similar villages surrounding Bajer Lake. We were on the east side of the road, the lakefront several hundred yards to the west. A row of stone houses with thatched roofs lay just below a steep hill. I had spent enough time here to know every detail. I had chased laughing children in the narrow lane behind the houses. It was less than an hour before dawn.

"The hostages are in one of those dwellings," I whispered. "Keep an eye on that alley. When I find them, I'm going to get them out through a back window. Hurry them up to station gamma."

"Wait a minute. You don't have a gun," Denton warned.

"Don't need one, Tule," I replied, strolling calmly to the road and turning north.

The village was quiet. It wouldn't begin to stir until just before sunrise. I remembered a log bench under a tree and sat for a moment. Had it really been nine years? I can't say that I was a naïve kid back then. That had been beaten out of me long before on the mean streets of New York City. But I did have a future, if I could survive the war. The village elders had even suggested I come back, for they needed a doctor.

My hood was pulled over, the beard covering the lower part of my face. Several Tashad militia were down near the lake, sitting around a campfire. Another was on a watchtower at the far end of the village.

I suspected the door I wanted. It was the largest house on this lane, often used for meetings, and had guest rooms for visitors. I had stayed there myself. It was the only practical place to hold hostages without disturbing village life, and such a disruption would have shown in the surveillance photos I studied.

Two Tashad walked past, rifles slung over their shoulders. They were speaking Arabic rather than Dari. Foreigners. I held my breath, hoping they wouldn't take notice of the quiet fellow sitting in the shadows. They paused, looked in my direction for a moment, and then moved on.

The door had been painted red since my previous visit. I took it as a warning for strangers to stay away. I did not consider myself a stranger. A final glance around showed no particular activity. An old fisherman was heading down to the lake. Two young women were grinding grains for breakfast. I wondered if one was Mashure, who I had flirted with. Within the customs of the village, of course. I tested the door, found it unlocked, and quietly pushed it open. The hinges creaked.

There was a member of Tashad just inside, dressed like a shabby sheik, carrying a Kalashnikov. He was tall, thin, narrow-faced, and had a dirty black beard. He looked at me with questioning eyes, wondering who I might be. I punched him with a hard right jab, grabbed his collar with my left hand, and punched him two more times. My bouts with Bear, that sometimes got rough, had not been wasted. I took the Kalashnikov away from him as he fell unconscious to the floor.

An elderly woman standing over the hearth looked up in surprise. She was making a large vat of Aush soup. I motioned for her to remain quiet. Another guard emerged from the rear corridor. I hit him in the face with the butt of the Kalashnikov, pushed him against the wall, and bashed him again. He dropped near the doorway. I pulled the clip out of the assault rifle, cleared the chamber, and tossed the weapon in a corner.

"Do not speak, mother," I said, not only in Dari, but in the accent of her own village. "If there is shooting, the Americans will attack and kill everyone. Where are the guests?" She pointed to the back rooms.

I set her down next to the hearth before tying up the guards and gagging them. In the far corner, several more women were waking up. I was surprised that Tashad put them in such a dangerous place, knowing Special Forces might storm the village. But I should not have been. It wasn't the first time Tashad had hidden behind women and children.

"Keep them quiet. I don't want the little ones hurt," I whispered.

The old woman nodded. I don't know if she recognized my voice. It would help explain her cooperation if she did, but she didn't say anything.

I went down the corridor and found the last room crowded with five people sleeping on mats. One was awake, having heard the commotion. The men were still wearing the light green work shirts and pants they had been captured in. The women were dressed in a style I knew as firaq partug. Unlike the men, their clothes were clean and well-mended.

"United States Army," I whispered. "Get everybody up. You're going home."

He shook the others, putting his hands over their mouths when they started to protest. I knocked out a heavy plank, opening a back window into the narrow alley below the hillside. The hill and the row of houses would provide excellent cover for the escape. I pointed my red flashlight, blinking twice to Brenda and Denton. They would come down the lane to help.

"Everyone needs to stay quiet," I urged. "We are going out this window and up the hill. There will be a helicopter waiting for you. Stay quiet."

I had been casual before, not wanting to attract attention, but there was no time to loiter now. The women went out the window first, then me, followed by the men. Denton helped the ladies. Brenda stood guard with the M4. I picked her for the duty, knowing she wasn't trigger happy. The group moved quietly in single file, most of the noise being heavy breathing, for everyone was nervous. Except me. For some reason, I felt calm. Focused. I would get nervous later, when I had the luxury.

We reached the end of the lane and turned left up the ravine. The sun was beginning to rise on schedule, making the trail easier to see. One of the men needed help, his legs stiff from lack of exercise, and I gave him a hand. Brenda and Denton were the only ones armed.

At station gamma, Brad and Posey were on alert. I let Posey help my rescue victim while Denton kept everyone going. I stayed behind with Brenda, expecting pursuit. In the early dawn light, the village was becoming active, but there was no alert yet. There soon would be.

"Time to go," I said.

We were halfway up to station beta when we heard the helicopter coming. Everyone in the village would hear it, too. Colonel Leslie had ordered several Apache attack copters to provide a diversion. I saw three suddenly appear over the lake, turning north past the watchtower. We assumed Tashad had rockets, so none of the birds lingered.

When Brenda and I reached beta station, the hostages and my team were already gone, Lieutenant Berkshaw and Specialist Franco staying behind to provide cover. There was plenty of activity behind us now. Reports had indicated as many as sixty Tashad were in the valley, but they needed to guess which direction the hostages had fled. A U.S. Army CH-47 about to land on a nearby hilltop was a big clue.

Station alpha was ready to go. Brad directed the hostages on to the landing area. The light was good, the dirt trail clear. Berkshaw, Brenda, Denton and I held the position to give the evacuation more time. Tashad militia were coming up the draw now, beginning to fire their small arms. More approached along the ridgeline. I counted a dozen but knew there were more.

"We should get going, Captain," Berkshaw advised as firing from the valley became general.

I glanced around, not accustomed to being called captain, and then waved them on. We were about halfway up the ravine, a hundred yards short of the landing area, when Denton suddenly fell. A leg wound. Our party stopped. Berkshaw and Brenda laid down covering fire, and we had more support from above. The Apaches had returned, their rockets chopping up the landscape in smoke and flame. We were now far enough from the village that there would be no civilian casualties. Only the enemy militia were targets. Near the top of the ridge, partially obscured from below, we saw the rescue helicopter landing. It raised quite a cloud.

"Not serious," I decided, tying off Denton's thigh and throwing him over my shoulders.

We started up the hill again with Berkshaw and Brenda bringing up the rear. These were courageous kids, moving steadily under fire, staying with the mission. I was tremendously proud of them. Our Tashad pursuers were still at long distance, kept back by the attack helicopters whipping over the landscape.

Suddenly I staggered and fell, Denton landing on top of me. I cursed up a storm, mumbling words I don't usually use. Blood was running down my leg.

"You've been shot in the butt, sir," Denton observed.

I felt the right cheek, where the pain was greatest. It was a flesh wound, not deep. Probably a fragment from a ricochet. I got back on my feet, helped Denton up, and we limped the rest of the way.

The team had set a perimeter around the top of the hill, keeping Tashad at bay. The beating of the transport's twin copter blades produced a tremendous racket, kicking up a storm of dust. Denton and I were helped up the rear ramp, and the rest of the team piled in behind us. Lieutenant Kinder climbed in last. He signaled the pilot and we were off, turning east away from the village before gaining altitude, the Apaches providing protection. In less than a minute, we were out of harm's way.

The hostages were huddled in the forward section attended by doctors. I recognized Aaron Ritterman, the CIA agent we were sent to retrieve. I drew back my hood, needing to breathe, but kept a Pakol cap and dark sunglasses so none of the civilians could identify me. With my month-old beard and head cover, why in the world would they think they'd been saved by John Henry Lawrence?

Armbruster was treating Denton's leg wound. Brenda suddenly pushed me on my side, cut my pants open, and started swabbing my wound with a disinfectant. It stung.

"Operation Cakewalk, sir?" Denton said, in pain but in good spirits. "Maybe we should have called it Operation Butt Whack?"

Everyone laughed, probably out of relief, though I didn't think it was funny.

The flight back to Kandahar was fast, or felt like it. We landed on the Army airfield at Camp Massoud where the helicopter was pulled into a large hangar. I disembarked first, helped by Brenda and Lorena. The press was about to be let in, allowing the brass to show off a successful mission, but I had to disappear first. The hostages were told I was a local Afghan helping the military, as confirmed by my dress, and could not be exposed for fear of endangering my family from retaliation. It was an effective cover story.

Colonel Leslie met the team, giving salutes and shaking hands. She looked me over in particular, offering a nod.

"Go to the equipment room. We'll have a medic check you out," Leslie said.

"Thank you, Kristine," I replied, happy my Army career was over.

Brenda helped me to a storage area. The moment she put me on a table, I ordered her back out with the team.

"You're a hero. Go bask in the glory," I said.

"You should be with us, Jack," she protested.

"I've had my share. Get going."

"Okay, Captain. I'll obey orders," she complied. "But just so you know, I think you're the bravest guy I've ever met. I'll be seeing you later."

And then she planted a kiss on me that left no doubt about her plans.

As Brenda left, Aaron Ritterman entered brushing back his tousled brown hair. As a CIA agent, he couldn't afford to have his picture taken either. He looked forty years old, medium height, and thin. As were many operatives in this part of the world. He wore an open collared shirt and mirrored sunglasses. No wonder Tashad caught him, I thought. He reeked of spook.

"In my fifteen years of field work, that was the ballsiest thing I've ever seen," he said.

"I don't know what you mean, my friend," I said in Dari, laying the accent on thick. Ritterman walked up and pulled off my sunglasses.

"I know who you are," he said, grinning.

"How in the hell could you know that?" I said, shedding the long robe.

"You're not such a secret in some quarters. Not as much as you think," Ritterman said. "And we appreciate the sacrifices you've made."

"Sacrifices?"

"Taking the fall for Blair without demanding an investigation," Ritterman explained. "If you ever want to work for the Company, we'd love to have you."

"Wouldn't that be a little hard to explain?" I inquired.

"Not so hard. We'll make a new identity for you. We can say John Henry Lawrence died in prison. Of liver disease."

He pulled down his sunglasses and winked. I couldn't be sure what he meant and decided not to ask.

A moment later, a skinny black-haired doctor rushed in carrying her medical bag. She was about fifty, dressed in a white coat instead of a uniform. She wasn't Army, or any other branch that I recognized. Colonel Fowler followed wearing unmarked khaki fatigues.

"Ritterman, glad we got your ass out," Fowler said, shaking his hand.

"Waited long enough," Ritterman said, though it wasn't really a complaint.

"Kid, you did great," Fowler said to me. "Now stay down and let this quack take a look at you."

As I laid down on the table, the doctor yanked away my boots. Then she started cutting off my pants and underwear with giant scissors, throwing the pieces on the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said, trying to preserve some modesty.

"You need to be examined," she answered with a harsh German accent.

"Careful with those sheep shears," I objected.

"Have no worry, I've sheared plenty of sheep," she assured me.

She finished with my pants and went to work on my wool shirt. Before I knew it, the crazy bitch had me buck-naked, carefully inspecting my arms, back, neck, and scalp. Her fingers danced over me like a keyboard, poking muscles and ribs. When she reached for my balls, I brushed her back.

"That's enough," I finally protested.

Okay, maybe I was a little banged up. Jumping out of airplanes in the dark will do that, and I'd picked up a few bruises on my knees and elbows when Denton fell on me, but nothing to justify becoming a medical specimen.

"Only one injury. In the buttocks," she concluded.

"I could have told you that," I responded.

"It's my job to be sure. You could be in shock," she insisted.

Pushing me down, she probed the wound. I squirmed and said ouch. When Ritterman stepped forward to hold me in place, I put up my hand.

"Touch me and you're a dead man," I warned. Ritterman laughed.

The doctor sprayed the wound with a disinfectant, took a silver sliver out with tweezers, and used a few stitches to sew me up. I won't say it didn't hurt.

"Five days rest and aspirin," she prescribed.

"Well, Captain, looks like you've got another Purple Heart," Fowler said.

"I'm a sergeant again, if I'm anything," I replied. "And no one is giving me a Purple Heart for this. No, thank you, sir."

Ritterman and the doctor were grinning. They had a sick sense of humor. I wrapped myself in a tarp and sat up, realizing I would need to lean to one side for a while. We heard the celebration in the hangar. Soldiers were being congratulated. Reporters were shouting questions. Leslie had brought in a brass band. I had no doubt several generals had shown up to get their names in the newspapers. Fowler nodded to Ritterman and the doctor, who retreated from view.

"Looks like I owe you a favor, Jack," he said.

"You can start by getting me some clothes," I grouched.

_________

The guys and gals of my team had our own celebration that night in the barracks. I was glad to be wearing pants again, having found a khaki uniform without any gaudy displays. I was drinking rye whiskey and having a good time.

Colonel Leslie joined us for a while, announcing there would be a unit citation, and Denton was getting a Purple Heart. My name would be left out of the official accounts, but the confidential reports needed to be accurate, so they weren't cutting me any slack.

Brenda squeezed close to me on the bench, whispering in my ear. As we were both sergeants, there was no impediment to fraternization. I would not be sleeping alone.

The room went quiet went Colonel Fowler arrived with Brigadier General Walter Atkins. Atkins, who had been at the planning meeting in Washington, was not my biggest fan. Crewcut and formally dressed, he looked out of place in the casual surroundings. Much as I suspect he intended, for he was not a team player. Fowler was carrying a duffle bag with Lawrence stenciled on it. I finished my drink.

"You're not taking Sarge out tonight, are you?" Brad asked.

"And if we are?" General Atkins defiantly said.

"I'd say we rescued five hostages today. We can still make it six," Brad replied, standing between me and the general.

"Sergeant, I can have military police here in two minutes," Atkins threatened.

"And we'll kick their asses!" Loreana declared to drunken cheers.

Atkins stepped back. He wasn't a coward, nor was he anxious to piss off a dozen intrepid heroes who had just made national news reports.

"It's okay, Brad. This is how it works," I said, trying to go around him. Getting up caused me to groan. My butt hurt, but I'd had worse.

Brad blocked me with his arm. Lorena got in front of me. Then Brenda and Armbruster. Suddenly, everyone was on their feet. Was there going to be a fight?

"Stand down, soldiers. No one's going anywhere tonight," Fowler said, throwing the duffle bag to me. "Just a few accessories that Jack's going to need in Diego Garcia."

"Diego Garcia?" Brenda asked.

"We figure Lawrence needs a couple of weeks to recuperate from his injury," Fowler said. "Got a nice little beach house picked out for him. Not far from a seedy saloon that serves the best Pina Colada you've ever had. If any of you heroes want a week of sun and surf, you're welcome to join him."

* * * * * *

Jack has survived another adventure, but he still has trials ahead in chapter six when he confronts the slain President's widow.