“I’m intrigued, Ed. Let the man finish,” one of the construction reps said from the back of the room. “What have you got in mind?”
“This is rural Ohio. We already have a large farming and bartering community. I’m proposing an initiative where any farmer or company with a backhoe or land clearing equipment could volunteer to trailer the machine and go to designated homes in the area. Once there, they would dig out a spot for a structure capable of supporting multiple families. Digging the hole will be the easy part. It’s the block work that’ll be labor intensive.”
“Okay,” the construction rep said, “We clear some land, then what?”
“Once the excavation is complete, we get donated cinderblock or brick, mortar, sand, and gravel delivered. From there, teams of experienced volunteers go and do workshops or something. Teach people the art of masonry so they can build it themselves. Most of the folks around here are tradesmen anyway so they’ll pick it up easy. A follow on crew of carpenters then arrives and installs the roof, vents, and doors,” Josh answered.
The idea floated through the room for a few moments before another rep spoke up. “I like it. Lord knows I could use some good publicity after we built the bypass and practically mothballed a few of these towns, but I’m not eating all of this labor.”
“I believe the man already suggested that the people help,” a faceless rep in the corner declared.
Mayor Cranston, ever the politician ignored the back and forth. In his mind, he heard a positive reception and latched on to the idea. He decreed, “Homeowners are required to lend a hand throughout the process. Sound fair?”
“I can live with that,” the rep replied. “All families designated for a particular structure are asked to assist in the block, framing, and backfilling. Deal?”
The declaration was met with a cacophony of nods and grunts.
Josh smiled and said, “Sweet! Now who wants to donate what?”
The group spent the next several hours ironing out the details.
* * *
Gregg was starting to come out of yet another scopolamine-induced stupor when the familiar metal grinding of the locks began searing its way into his brain. His training had kicked in and he had successfully managed to only speak in half-truths, or so he thought. It wasn’t that the drug forced him to tell the truth. In actuality, the narcotic simply made it extremely difficult to make up something and remember the details. Knowing this, Suhrab ordered that he be continually medicated until he was no longer able to resist. After that, he pretty sure they coerced everything they needed out of him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chastain,” Suhrab said to the dreary eyed prisoner.
“Shut up you little bastard,” Gregg replied groggily. “I’d spit at you if I had any to give –,” he started to reply before he vomited and lost consciousness again.
When he awoke next, the sun shone on his face through the fractured filtering of palm fronds. As he slowly began to stir, he could hear children playing in what sounded like water. His body was completely at ease. Crap. I’m dead.
He wasn’t sore, his wounds had long since healed. After he killed Aban, no one had laid a finger on him. The pounding in his head, the dryness in his mouth, lethargy, and his most recent memory of vomiting told him he wasn’t. Not only was he still alive, but Suhrab had probably drugged him with some kind of roofie. I’m gonna kill that little prick if I ever find him.
Gregg lay there motionless, taking inventory of his physical and mental acuity. His wrist and ankles had the dull constant thrum of pain and scarring from the shackles. All of his senses appeared to be functioning. He had sensation in his ability to hear, see, smell, taste, and touch. All his body wanted to do was rest, but he couldn’t.
As he rotated his head and eyes and surveyed his perimeter, Suhrab and his goons were nowhere to be found. He had to locate an outpost. He had to get word to Emily that he was alive. Gregg knew that checkpoints littered the Middle East during the decade the United States was operating in theatre. Fortunately, he also was privy to the fact that the UN forces reestablished most of them after Israel’s nuke-fest in 2012. All he had to do was find it. Where the hell am I?
Gregg slowly began to rouse himself from the cover of the brush that Suhrab and his men had placed him under. He started to make his way toward the sound of the children. He figured that no matter what he did or said he would probably scare them half to death. One would surely run off and find a parent or village elder. In fact, he was counting on it.
Gregg emerged from the brush along the riverbank and stumbled down the embankment, collapsing on a sand bar. The water looked so cool and inviting that he was determined to crawl the rest of the way. Just as he had hoped, one of the children spotted him crawling toward the river’s edge and began calling out for his older brother. Gregg had never been so happy to hear Kurdish in his entire life. Given the location of where his transport was shot down, coupled with the fact that Suhrab was an Iranian terrorist, he knew he was probably in northern Iraq. The Kurds were, more or less, friendly towards Americans.
The brother emerged from atop the bank on the other side. He immediately ordered the younger sibling to fetch their mother. That’s an interesting twist. The father’s most likely dead.
He reached in just to feel the sensation on his fingers. He cupped his hand to capture some of the life sustaining liquid for a drink when he heard the older brother enter the current. Gregg sipped the cool refreshment until he saw the brother training an old Russian made rifle on him as he waded across.
The young man approached cautiously as Gregg greeted him in Kurdish. Gregg explained in the boy’s native tongue that he was a United States soldier. The boy responded in broken English, “Welcome, Chammah.”
Chammah, thank God. He immediately began to mentally review all of the maps of the region he had been forced to memorize whenever his team came back to the area. He knew that he was definitely in northern Iraq and he spent the next few seconds trying to figure out how Suhrab could have gotten him here. Iraqi Route 3 from the Iranian border?
“You know English?” Gregg responded amazed.
“I speak good, good English,” the boy answered. “My mother teach.”
Trying to spare the child any embarrassment with his limited abilities, Gregg asked him in Kurdish, “What’s your name?”
The teenager quickly provided, “Hunar Berwari.”
“Berwari?”
“You’ve met the Berwari’s?” the young man replied.
“It’s popular among the Kurds. I know several in fact,” Gregg continued in his native dialect.
Intrigued, the boy asked, “Do you know my father, Samal?”
Gregg responded that he knew of a man with that name, but they had never worked together. He did, however, meet Birwa, his wife.
“Yes, yes,” came the excited response. “That my mother!” he offered in broken English.
Gregg switched back to Kurdish and said, “Tell your mother that you have found ‘Longbow’. I’m going to stay here and enjoy the water for a few minutes.”
Gregg’s training and memory was beginning to take over. He began to recall that the Great Zab River had its headwaters in southeastern Turkey, near Lake Van. It joined the Tigris a little over fifty kilometers south of Mosul, Iraq. Every natural obstacle in northern Iraq had been pounded into his head during his time in country working with the Kurds. He was grateful that the winter snows had subsided. It would have been nearly impossible to cross if it were at full crest.
Hunar looked at Gregg with great puzzlement about the ‘Longbow’ remark, but did as he was instructed. As he strode back across the knee deep Zab, Gregg inched forward until he could submerge his head in the cool mountain fed water. The ailing soldier slowly sipped at it and then proceeded to dunk his heaq over and over, trying to alleviate the throbbing headache. Damn, I should have asked him what day it was.
Chapter 20
September 1st, 2022 - October 15th, 2022
Secretary McInerney continued to plug away at Congress in an attempt to jumpstart the hearings. He provided high level analysis and statistics to the nation regarding each sector and the issues being experienced in each of his broadcasts.
In yet another shortcoming to his planning, Elias had not foreseen water shortages as a byproduct of the population growing their own food. Heated court battles over water rights ensued between municipalities. Josh’s suggestion of rain harvesting mechanisms alleviated most of the issues for homeowners. Those with their own wells were immune to the chaos.
With Josh assisting nationally and carrying the baton locally, he was making quite a name for himself in the region. Allensville, McArthur, and the surrounding cities and townships were functioning like a co-op. The towns assisted one another and provided support mechanisms as needed. To bring them all closer as a larger community, Layla and Katherine suggested that the Vinton County Wild Turkey Festival, which had been cancelled in light of the nation’s plight, be repurposed and rescheduled for Labor Day. All of the participants in the Service Saturdays program, as well as the beneficiaries, would come together and share in the bounty of the harvest. The idea was met with great enthusiasm. Much to their father’s dismay, the pair had suggested holding the event at their farm outside of town.
Evan, Juan, and his sons constructed a stage while the girls and their friends went in search of musical talent. They posted flyers and scrounged as many tables, chairs, and as much sound equipment as could be mustered from the churches and schools that were willing to donate. Since it was to be a community event, they invited church choirs, school orchestras, and marching bands. They also scoured local bars in Athens for contacts on additional groups to perform as well.
Early in the afternoon, locals began arriving by the carload with an assortment of food. Visitors brought out platters full of turkey, duck, lamb, and other assorted meats as well as crock-pots over flowing with soups and stews. Baskets were teeming with homemade rolls and breads, and jars and containers of butters and jams. There was more produce on the tables than anyone had ever seen. All of the selectiveness that had dominated grocery stores was gone. These vegetables were oblong, misshapen, and knobby. They looked like the images depicted in history books from Mount Vernon, Monticello, and the first Thanksgiving.
Before opening up the meal for the masses, Josh took the stage and introduced the Pastor for the blessing. The man blessed just about every living thing under the sun, but kept it short.
Katherine had insisted on providing distractions and athletic entertainment for the families that she remembered from her childhood. She retained the usual fare in the sack and three-legged race and beanbag toss, but added wiffle and bocce ball, volleyball, badminton, and croquet.
People mingled, ate, and played until dusk when the stage lights were turned on and the concert started. The various church organizations performed first. With songs like the National Anthem, Amazing Grace, and Matt Redman’s 10,000 Reasons (Bless the Lord) the assembled masses were constantly sitting and standing.
The local schools went next and played a number of their rehearsed fight songs and student favorites. The regional groups followed and belted out a few originals, but at Layla and Katherine’s request, mostly stuck to oldies, classic rock, and country staples. They surprised their father by booking a bluegrass band and a barbershop quartet as well.
When the last of the acts finished, Katherine took the stage and thanked everyone for coming. She then asked the Pastor to come up and close the festival with a benediction.
Josh waited for the prayer to finish and then stepped up to the mic and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a few more songs for you tonight. In fact, they’re pretty much the only songs I know by heart.”
As host, Josh spoke with most of the guests individually throughout the night. Aside from introducing the Pastor for the blessing, he had not addressed the community as a whole though.
“But before I get into those, I also need to apologize to all of you. As I’ve met and spoken with many of you over these last weeks and months, I realized something. Basically, I discovered just how much of a fool I was when we moved here. I was so afraid for my daughter’s safety and well being that I shut all of you out. What’s tragic about it is that it took a national emergency for me to realize what special people we have in this group of residents. My only regret is that, had I let all of you in sooner, my family might have been able to heal faster. You have been extremely kind and generous in not only your words and prayers, but in your actions as well. From the bottom of my heart, I just want to say thank you.
“I’d also like to acknowledge my daughters efforts in organizing this event tonight. Without them, we’d all just be sitting at home watching TV wondering what to do on a Saturday night. Well, that and getting ready for deer season.”
The second comment drew some laughter from the audience.
Josh grabbed a guitar from the stand and took a seat on the stool at center stage. Once he was situated he said, “During the first Gulf War, while we were sitting out there in the desert waiting for orders, one of my NCO’s taught me how to play this thing. When I was hospitalized some years later, the doctors suggested that I pick it up again as part of my physical therapy. Now, I don’t play it as much as I should, and I might be a little rusty, but I’ve got three songs for you tonight. This first song is by a gentleman named Garrett Hedlund. He was an actor of some note not too long ago. Anyway, he did some singing and this song was on the soundtrack. It’s actually quite fitting. I hope you like it. This is Timing is Everything.”
Josh then began to strum the guitar to collect his bearings on the instrument and progressed into the song. Katherine grabbed a friend’s cell phone and started recording. The girls knew that he could play, but they had never known the origin. Regardless, they thought he had given it up when he stopped trying to teach them.
As Josh worked his way through his song choice, Evan took the opportunity to ask the Sheriff, “So what’s the background on Josh’s comment about being injured? I’ve been working for him for over five years and he never mentioned anything like that to me.”
“What do you mean?” Jim responded.
“What do I... seriously? We’re going to play this game?”
The lawman pondered an appropriate response when Josh abruptly changed the fifth verse of the song to reflect how he and Samantha had met. The refrains were rewritten to, “You jumped out of the plane to get out of the flames, Cause you were gonna die, And as I held your hand.”
“Well I’ll be,” the Sheriff remarked. “The man’s in love.”
The remainder went unchanged until he finished the song. The crowd’s applause provided Jim with even more of a respite from answering Evan’s question.
When the applause died down, Josh introduced the second song.
“I’d like to dedicate this next song to my daughters. It’s a Darius Rucker song titled It Won’t Be Like This For Long. I heard this song many years ago while I was on my way to work. While I listened to the lyrics it made me think about when my oldest was born. We had prepared the room, bought the crib, clothes, and what not. We had read all of the books about becoming parents too. What we hadn’t anticipated were the complications during the delivery. Layla spent a few days in the NICU for observation and the three of us were inundated with nurses and doctors 24/7 while she was in there. As a result, we didn’t have to do anything. There was always someone there doing it for us. When we got her home though, I carried her into the house in her little car seat bucket contraption and set her on our bed. I then turned to my wife at the time and said, ‘Now what?’”
Laughter emanated from the crowd at the comment.
“Thankfully, the second one was a breeze. Anyway, this song reminds me of the day we brought both girls home and the dreams and aspirations I still have for each. I hope you like it.”
Jim began to admire Josh’s abilities on the stage and addressed Evan without turning t
o look at him. “That man up there survived for over three months as a POW in a Serbian camp being tortured until he complied with their requests.”
“What the hell!” Evan answered. “He never said anything about that. What did they want him to do? Why didn’t they just do it themselves?”
Continuing to keep his focus on Josh, Jim said, “The Serbs said that a soldier under Josh’s command had abused a local village girl. They over ran the base and abducted Josh, the soldier in question, and a handful of French commandos that had been visiting the area for the USO show that night. They then held a mock trial of some kind and handed down a sentence. Josh, as his commanding officer, was tasked with carrying it out.”
“How is he still sane after that?” Evan asked.
“I’m not entirely convinced he is. He spent close to three years in a couple Veterans Hospitals receiving therapy; physical and mental. When his daughters were abducted though, he snapped. The head doctors said he regressed back into a ‘dissociative state’.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means he has no recollection of the punishment he inflicted. The PTSD basically shut everything down and allowed him to carry out the sentence, again. It’s not that surprising, given the similar nature of the crimes,” the Sheriff answered.”
“What did they want him to do?” Evan asked again.
Josh had just finished his second song and the applause again interrupted the conversation. Undeterred, Jim leaned into Evan’s ear and said one word, “Castration.”
Evan was taken aback and recoiled. “How do you know all of this?” he asked.
“I pulled the court transcripts. It’s all there in black and white.”
As the applause died down, the men’s and women’s choirs from earlier in the night began climbing the stairs and taking positions behind Josh. Katherine kept the camera trained on her father.
When Rome Stumbles Page 26