The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  “You’re not proud?”

  “No. It reminds me of a painful time. That’s why it’s in a drawer.”

  “And you’re right. It’s none of my business. Please forgive me.” He hugged her. She put her arms around his waist, leaned her head against his chest and sighed.

  “I should tell you,” she murmured. “Maybe it will be good for me. The only person in my life now who knows this story is Mel, and it feels good to me that she knows.”

  Rainer kissed her and gave a contrite little smile. They went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table. Zan told him the story of her Silver Star.

  Afghanistan, Earthly Year 2005, Phase 18919

  A faint line of red glowed between the jagged peaks on the horizon as the hour approached dawn. Zan huddled next to a boulder in a dusty ravine, grimacing as she swallowed the foul-tasting contents of her MRE. Her dismounted recon troop had been tracking a band of Taliban in the barren mountains along the border with Pakistan for two days. Their mission was to follow the enemy fighters, hopefully to a larger group, and call it in. In other words, provide a drone target.

  “Time to gear up, sis,” said Patrick Mulrennan, the gunnery sergeant in command. “We’re out of here at oh-five-hundred.”

  Zan stuffed the last of her powdered eggs in her face and cursed how fast the guys in her unit could eat.

  “Yes, sir! But please stop calling me sis.” She gave him a look. Her indignation was only half fake.

  Patrick ran his big hand through his dark brown hair, which made it stick up even worse than before. He frowned at her and walked off to check some equipment. Kurt, Patrick’s right-hand man, wandered over after he shouldered his rucksack.

  “You need to let him call you, sis, you know.”

  “Why? It’s patronizing.”

  “Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, being the only woman and all, but it helps him to think of you as a little sister. He can’t think of you as anything else, can he?”

  “He can think of me as a soldier.”

  “Give him a break, Zan.”

  Kurt had said this to her before. She handled it better when they were on base. Out among the wind-blasted rocks, deep in the peril, Zan had to work hard to view herself as a soldier as opposed to some frightened girl in over her head. Strictly speaking, her recon unit wasn’t cleared for combat because women weren’t allowed to fight. They were trackers only, at least on paper. But shit happened. No matter where they were they could find themselves under fire.

  Of course, a firefight with the Taliban usually ended with a lot of dead Taliban. Patrick was a big reason for that. He’d seen so much action that his transfer to this particular recon unit was the army’s lame attempt to give him some relief. Everyone in the troop counted themselves lucky to be led by him, but he and Zan had especially hit it off. Patrick was from Idaho like her. Irish like her. Sure, she cared for all the guys, but Patrick was special. He understood her. He looked out for her. Off-duty, they were always singing Irish songs, annoying the hell out of everyone.

  No doubt they were attracted to each other, but there was no room for romance there. Patrick was a professional, and unit cohesion could be the difference between life and death.

  Zan shouldered her ruck and trudged off with the others to pick up the trail on the ridge to the northeast. She and Reggie, the other tracker, had no problem detecting disturbances in the rubble-strewn terrain. The sand perpetually blew around, but the pebbles stayed put.

  “This way, big bro,” she said to Patrick. He smiled.

  “You trackers never let us down,” he said.

  The troop followed the trail along the ridge for several miles until it led into a shallow valley with a dried-up creek bed at its center. When they reached the valley floor shots came tearing down from the ridge behind them, creating little puffs of dirt on the ground and hitting the rocks with hollow pings.

  “Take cover!” Patrick yelled, pointing to an outcropping and a cluster of boulders about a twenty yards ahead to the right. Zan hightailed it and was shortly covered in sweat, whether from exertion or fear she didn’t know. She prayed her eyes weren’t rolling like she was a terror-stricken horse. They managed to make the rocks with only one wounded.

  They knew the drill. She and Reggie, the trackers, took a position behind the combat veterans, joined by Malcolm, the medic. He was helping Phil, who’d been shot in the buttocks. Clem, the radio operator, also joined them. Just after Patrick finished counting heads fire rained on them from the other end of the valley, from the north. All of a sudden, the rear wasn’t the rear anymore.

  “Motherfucker,” Reggie said, peeking above his boulder. “How the hell did two groups of enemy manage to communicate? I thought they were off coms ‘cause we can hear ‘em.”

  “For all we know, they use pigeons,” Zan said. She could see the Taliban now, on both sides, picking their way forward by turns as their comrades laid down bursts of covering fire. Patrick and Kurt shot a high number of the enemy who approached from the south, but they outnumbered the Americans three to one. The band creeping down from the north had better cover. It suffered no casualties. Or maybe Zan, Reggie, and company were lousy shots.

  Patrick and a few of the other combat guys ran in their direction, dashing from rock to rock. In a few minutes, Patrick was at her side.

  “Clem,” he shouted. “Call for an exfil!”

  The troop held out, clinging to their boulders while they waited for the helicopter to arrive.

  When Malcolm and Patrick ran to retrieve two more wounded soldiers, Zan stepped out from behind her boulder to cover them. She got hit in the calf and stumbled before she breathed in a lungful of dust that made her cough violently.

  “Zan! You good?” Patrick yelled.

  “I’m good. A through-and-through. It can wait. Get the guys!” She hobbled over to another rock and leaned against it. She tied off her leg with a tourniquet just below the knee then resumed fire.

  A few of her buddies weren’t so lucky. They were killed before the helicopter arrived. Others were hit but saved by their body armor. Kurt was wounded but kept up a barrage of bullets on the south side.

  When the exfil team flew in about thirty minutes later, they landed behind a ridge to the east to avoid small arms fire. Patrick and the other experienced fighters told the rest of the troop to make for the helo while they provided cover. They darted from rock to rock, making themselves targets to draw fire. The rest retreated toward the ridge.

  Reggie ran beside Zan. She heard a phfft, looked to her left and screamed to see Reggie in the dirt, blood pouring from a wound in his neck. She screamed for Malcolm, as flat to the ground as she could make herself. He rushed over.

  “I don’t know if he’s going to make it,” he said in a wobbly voice as he worked to stanch the bleeding. “We’ve got to take him over the ridge. Oh, man.” Malcolm looked back towards the firefight. Zan put her hand on his shoulder.

  The only medic. He feels like he has to save everybody.

  “Please, please be all right,” he mumbled. He half fell on Reggie.

  “I’ll go back, Malcolm. You take Reggie.”

  Most of the others were close. A few ran over to help. Zan couldn’t see what was going on behind the ridge. She charged towards it, every thought on Patrick. She crested the ridge to see both bands of Taliban converging on his position. Rage allowed her to ignore the pain in her leg. She half ran, half slid down the slope.

  I won’t let you die, Patrick. I won’t.

  He and Kurt were the only two left to keep the Taliban at bay. Both had been shot. Zan ran to the boulders on the north side.

  “What the fuck, Zan?” Patrick shouted. “Oh please, oh god. Get over the ridge. I thought you were gone. I thought you were safe.” He choked on his words. “Go, goddammit. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I won’t leave without you.”

  “The fuck you won’t! Go. Right now!”

  “I won’t. Come on.” She tried
to drag him back toward the ridge.

  “If you want to save someone, go get Kurt. He’s hit worse than me. I can get over the ridge on my own power.”

  Zan brought her hand over her mouth to hide her quivering lips. Brought it over her nose to ward off the smell of death and gunpowder.

  “Now! That’s an order!” Patrick shouted.

  She did as he said. She got Kurt over the ridge, but only because Patrick stood up and ran right into the Taliban. They mowed him down. When she looked back she saw his body, all crumpled and bloody in the dirt. She wailed and screeched, her vision blurring from an onslaught of tears, sweat, and grit.

  Malcolm and the others came to carry Kurt to the helicopter. Zan tried to run back toward Patrick but they dragged her along. The helicopter took off. They couldn’t risk retrieving Patrick’s body. Not with the Taliban rushing the ridge.

  “We can’t leave him!” Zan screamed. “We can’t!”

  Her wailing continued until Malcolm hugged her, holding her face to his chest. She closed her eyes as they flew away from Patrick, vibrations playing through her weary bones, the thwap thwap of the rotor blades assaulting her ears.

  Philadelphia, Earthly Year 2014, Phase 18997

  Barakiel held her. For several minutes after Zan finished her story, she leaned against him, making soft noises and wiping at her nose with a crumpled tissue. He stroked her hair, reliving the din and stink of battle on her behalf.

  I understand, my love. I wish I could tell you why.

  When Zan had exhausted her emotion, she sat up.

  “That’s why they gave me the Silver Star,” she said. “For saving Kurt. For trying to save Patrick. I didn’t even want to save Kurt, and I didn’t save anyone. Patrick saved us. He gave his life to save us.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Did they not honor him?” Barakiel asked quietly. He held her hand.

  “Yes, they did. A posthumous Medal of Honor. He came from a military family and I think it gave them some comfort, everyone knowing he was a hero. They were proud.”

  “As well they should have been. He was the finest kind of soldier. He was the finest kind of man.”

  “He was.” They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “I wrote a song for Patrick,” Zan finally said. “No one has ever heard it. Would you like me to play it for you?”

  Barakiel felt a tightness in his chest. He couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

  She will share this with me. She loves me.

  Zan explained that, like many soldiers, Patrick was haunted by some of the things he had done. One night, he told her he didn’t think he’d ever be able to lead a normal life. She tried to reassure him. He appreciated her words, but he’d made his peace with it. He said he accepted what he was. It made her sad. Made her feel like he was lost to her. She wrote the song because, after his death, she understood a little more of what he meant.

  “After all that crying just now, maybe I can manage to get through it without breaking down.” She picked up her guitar and plucked a couple strings to make sure it was in tune. She strummed in a minor key and sang.

  When I was a child, I laughed ready and easy,

  And the sky seemed like magic to me.

  But I left home and I took up a duty,

  And I learned that the world takes its fee.

  If I die in these mountains, be happy for me.

  I can never go back to Boise.

  With death in my mouth and machine gun dreams,

  I can never go back to Boise.

  That boy in the street, saw his eyes as I killed him.

  As he died he turned into me.

  I try to let go of his eyes as I killed him,

  But we are what we do, what we see.

  If I die in these mountains, be happy for me.

  I can never go back to Boise.

  With death in my mouth and machine gun dreams,

  I can never go back to Boise.

  The mournful notes mirrored the pain in Zan’s voice.

  She creates this beauty out of loss. She is perfect.

  When Zan finished the song, she hung her head. “I couldn’t save him.”

  “No.” Barakiel moved in front of her and put his hands on her knees, hoping his touch would express his desire to share her sorrow.

  “That helplessness is the worst thing anyone can ever experience,” he said. “The pain of failing to save someone you love, it never fades. It will make you hollow if you let it. You cannot let it. You must remember that you tried, Zan, the best you could. Find some peace in that.”

  “You sound like you know what it’s like,” Zan said in a frail voice. “Did you try to save someone?”

  Barakiel lowered his eyes. He wanted to tell her everything. About his mother, his exile. He wanted to tell her that he was a warrior, just like her.

  I cannot. It is far too soon.

  “Yes, but this is about you, not me, and I don’t think I’m ready to tell you that story. I’m sorry.”

  She touched his face. “That’s okay. I understand.”

  How can she understand? I practically forced her to bare herself to me today. I do not deserve her.

  “Zan, it’s a beautiful, sunny day. Let us go to the ocean. We can consign our pain to the waves, and listen to them whisper their comfort.”

  “The things you say, Rainer,” Zan mumbled, shaking her head. “And yes, that sounds like a good idea to me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  AFTER PUTTING IN A SOLID WEEK of surveillance at gun shows, Zan and Mel sat in Nguyen’s office while he read their report. Zan hated writing reports but she had to admit they enforced discipline, and that Nguyen’s processes made her a better agent. When all the events were brought together as a narrative, it was easier to focus, maybe stir up an insight.

  “This is excellent,” Nguyen said. “So, you identified a straw purchaser who’s been hitting the rural gun shows, but you don’t think she’s responsible for the flood of handguns we’ve had in the city recently?”

  “We think that she’s contributing to a group, one among many,” Mel said. “We should shadow her for a while, to see if she leads us to the mother lode.”

  “All right, Agent Romani. I trust your judgment, but I’m going to need you to handle the tail yourself. Mostly. Two agents are on trials and the others are caught up in investigations. Can you do it?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good. And thanks for your hard work on this, both of you. Looks like it’s going to pay off, and your friendly relationship with Philly PD is making me look very good.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Zan said.

  They left the office. Nguyen was letting them run with this. Zan and Mel exchanged smiles of satisfaction as they headed back to their desks. Once there, they worked out the logistics of tailing the straw purchaser. They had followed her to her apartment, so they would have to go there at the crack of dawn and wait for her to leave.

  “You realize that handling the tail ourselves means some seriously long hours,” Mel said.

  Zan nodded. “Long hours of the most boring detail imaginable.”

  “The glamorous life of law enforcement,” Mel said. “Too bad you have to put the spleen case on the back burner. Nguyen wants you to hand it off to Philly PD anyway. If you want to convince him otherwise, success with the straw purchasing investigation could be very persuasive.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “May I remind you to invest in clinical strength deodorant and breath mints? I hate stinky stakeout partners.”

  “I guarantee nothing.” Zan shook her head and waved her hand back and forth. Mel pretended to be annoyed.

  “Are you going to be able to concentrate, or will you spend the long hours having sexual fantasies about Rainer?”

  “Ha! Can’t promise I won’t. Pretty hard for me to stop.”

  “I can tell when you’re thinking about him, you know. You get the most unbelievable look on your face.”

>   “He’s an unbelievable man.”

  “What’s going on with you two these days, anyway?” Mel moved her head back and scrutinized Zan down the bridge of her nose. “Why all the dreamy looks?”

  Zan got up and closed the office door.

  She’ll be shocked. I haven’t let my guard down since she’s known me.

  “I told him I loved him.”

  “Jesus, Zan. Do you want him to think you’re needy?”

  “He said he loves me, too. And I am needy. I need all Rainer, all the time.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. That got serious fast.”

  “I know, it’s crazy, but we’re dealing with Rainer here. He’s not like other people.” Zan dropped her head. She blinked a few times.

  I don’t want to get too emotional. She’ll think I’m losing it.

  “He’s so open with his feelings. I guess it inspired me to be open, too. Besides, he said the most amazing thing to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’d been alone so long he’d gotten used to it, but being with me made him realize he was only half alive. He said I brought him back to life.”

  “Wow, uh, just wow.” Mel slapped her hands onto her desk and stared at them. “Well, I wanted you to get some romance in your life.”

  “Best. Advice. Ever.” Zan grinned at her friend, causing Mel to grin in return.

  “After he said that, I blurted it out, that I love him,” Zan continued. “I was beside myself. He said he loves me, too, and we had the most magical, slow sex. It made me cry. He’s just, oh, I should shut up about it.”

  “It made you cry?”

  “Yes. The way he touches me sometimes, it makes me cry.”

  For a moment, Mel appeared as if she was going to cry herself. “You should see the look on your face right now. I’m so happy for you. I guess I should stop wondering if this is the real thing.”

  Zan laughed, then blushed. “Oh, it’s real. Not only have I told him about my ugly drunken past, this weekend I told him about Patrick.”

  “You’re kidding. How did he react?”

  “He was comforting. You know, it’s weird. It wasn’t anything he said, really. He just had this way about him as I told him the story, as if he understood completely. He’s lost people close to him. Both his parents died when he was young. Maybe that’s why.”