(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  and give me joy today.

  Prophet Muhammad,

  Peace be upon him.

  And though Azadeh had great faith in this prayer, she had come to believe that there had to be something more. So she closed her eyes again and boldly added other words to the prayer, words of her own, words that had not been taught.

  “Allah, my God,” she began in a quiet voice, “In my heart I realize I don’t deserve what You have given to me. You have given me life. Yet I am a weak and unworthy child. You gave me a mother who wanted me, though I don’t remember her face. You gave me a father who loved me so much that he put aside everything that he cared about in order to take care of me. You gave me health and a strong body, and the opportunity to be here in this life.

  “And while You have given me disappointments and heartaches, I accept them as well. I accept all of your gifts, both the good and the ill. Show me Your will, God, and I will follow Your way.”

  With those words, Azadeh took a deep breath. Standing, she moved to her tent flap to look out on the refugee camp, one of the most empty and lonely places in the world, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the harsh sunlight.

  EIGHT

  Camp Freedom, North of Baghdad, Iraq

  The HH-60G Pave Hawks landed in formation, four helicopters in a right echelon position, each maintaining a position five feet above and to the right of their leader as they descended through the semidarkness. The sand blew before them as their enormous blades stirred the air, sending the dirt—fine as talcum powder—up and over the helicopters in a vertical whirlpool of sand. The pilots landed quickly through the blowing dust, barely able to see. When the helicopters touched down, the landing pistons hardly compressed for the helicopters had spent all of their fuel and most of their ammunition as well. The pilots nosed their helicopters forward and taxied across the corrugated steel that had been placed over the uneven terrain, moving toward the load-up area.

  Dawn was ready to break, and the sky was in the transition from deep black to dark gray. Pulling onto the loading tarmac, the helicopters came to a stop. As they did, the soldiers opened the cargo doors and began to spill out, thankful as always to be on the ground. The men wore full battle gear: desert camouflage battle-dress uniforms, flak jackets, Kevlar® helmets, and brown leather boots. Each soldier also wore multiple web belts and a small pack containing ammunition, rations, water, smoke grenades, radios, miniature GPS receivers, grenades, cigarettes, lip balm, night vision goggles—all the essential elements of modern war.

  A hot breeze blew up from the west desert, the air uncomfortable, brittle and dry. It had been a cold night but it would be a hot day.

  As the soldiers, all Delta Special Forces with subdued unit patches on their shoulders, piled out of the helicopters, it was clear from the way they walked that they were exhausted. Sweaty and covered with grime, most had spent the night on their bellies, crawling through the dirt, spider’s webs, and rat droppings that covered the cement floors of an old weapons storage complex that had recently been taken over by insurgents again. When the battle was over and the bodies identified, the Deltas hadn’t been surprised to find not only Iraqi insurgents, but Iranians, Syrians, Kuwaitis, and Chechens as well.

  Once the United States had pulled most of their forces out of Iraq, things had quickly started to fall apart.

  With only a few units left behind, the U.S. Army had their hands full. Dangerously full. As to their Iraqi counterparts, without the ability to gather their own intelligence or air assets to support their missions, with strained logistics and having been infiltrated by insurgents, they were simply overwhelmed. Too many bad guys. Too few good guys who believed in a national identity. Leadership that was weak and corrupt. The Iraqi military was simply unprepared to handle the chaos that was thrown in their path.

  That is why Sam and his fellow Deltas had found themselves tasked to stay in the country after the raid in Iran. In doing so, they accepted many of the same counter-terrorism operations they had started doing more than ten years before. The only difference now was that they were severely outnumbered. Only the Deltas and a few Army Rangers went out on operational missions, the vast majority of the other U.S. forces being committed to doing nothing more than protecting the 10,000 civilians who worked for the U.S. government inside the Green Zone, which made it a losing proposition. Homegrown insurgents were gaining strength once again, and they were not alone. As the dead bodies testified, there were also imports from other nations who were determined to keep the Iraqis down.

  Sam knew that, at the end of the day, it all came down to this: Did the Iraqis want their liberty as much as those who hated freedom wanted to keep it from them?

  *******

  The horizon turned quickly to a silvery hue from the dust and smoke that hung in the air. Sam, sitting on the right-hand door of the first helicopter, dropped to the tarmac the moment his pilot brought the helicopter to a stop. He was dirty and tired, maybe more than any of his men, for he had spent almost six hours in a crouching position, hidden in a dark ditch, covering their movements as they crawled and shot their way through the old storage compound. The black camouflage on his face was smeared with perspiration. Combat was work, the hardest work in the world, and the cool night temperatures in Iraq weren’t enough to have kept him from sweating like a pig.

  Dropping from the HH-60’s open door, Sam led his team away from the helicopters, and then circled his fingers, telling them to gather around him. The eleven-man squad assembled as he took off his helmet and pulled out the foam earplugs he had stuffed in his ears. A few of the other soldiers, the more experienced ones, took off their helmets to pull out their earplugs as well. The inside of the Blackhawks averaged one hundred twenty decibels, and Sam didn’t intend to lose his hearing—not from flying, anyway. Maybe from shooting his M4; maybe from firing off RPGs, or maybe from being too close to incoming artillery shells, but certainly not from sitting like a sardine in the back of a very noisy flying machine.

  As the men gathered around him, the helicopters lifted and turned toward the refueling area, flying away from the well-organized tents and portable buildings of Camp Freedom.

  Sam waited until the sound of the helicopter rotors and turbine engines had faded away, and then turned to his men. “It was a good night,” he said, congratulating his team. “We killed a bunch of bad guys and didn’t lose anyone. Thirteen to zero. Not a bad soccer score. More, though, it was important for us to take the safety of the compound away from them. But listen now, we’ve got another mission tonight. Brief at 2200. Get some sleep and be ready. We’ll rally for team dinner at 2100. The cook promised steak and potatoes. That will give you something to dream about. Now go get some rest.”

  He paused, his men standing with stooped shoulders around him. “Any questions?” he concluded. The group was silent, tired but happy, and very ready for sleep. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Sam stuck out his hand, and his team gathered in a tight circle, placing their dirty hands upon his. “Wolfman!” they cried together, yelling their unit’s call sign, then turned and split up, heading for the enlisted hooches and tents. Showers and chow could wait; they were too exhausted now. In five minutes, most of them would be asleep on their cots, their weapons carefully secured but their faces still dirty, some gloves still on their hands, their flak vests on the floor. Two hours from now, a few would wake and head for the showers—a base-camp luxury that had to be taken advantage of—get something to eat, then hit the sack again. But most would sleep straight through until late afternoon, when the sun started dipping and the temperature started to fall.

  Sam watched his men separate, wiping a stream of black sweat from his eyes, then turned to follow, head low, helmet under his arm, weapon slung across his shoulder, his flak vest open at the chest. The sun was just half an orb above the horizon, but it seemed he could already feel its heat. Amazing how quickly the desert transformed from cold night to hot day.

/>   Sam had walked only ten steps when he saw his commander moving toward him with a deliberate stride. The major looked determined and stared directly at him. For a moment Sam pretended not to see him; he was tired, irritated and he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t like the major. The two rarely saw eye to eye.

  Then the image of the murdered children in the Iranian village flashed again through his mind. How many reports and affidavits had he been required to fill out, detailing the gruesome attack at Agha Jari Deh? He suspected his major had another report or statement for him to sign. He turned away and kept walking.

  The thought of the massacre churned the juices in his gut. He thought of it too often. He wanted to leave it behind. He wanted to never think of it again. But everything around him seemed to remind him somehow: a small hand, a buddy’s letter from his son, a local young girl in her white dress standing on a street corner and staring at him—too many things brought back the dark memory. And the continual rehashing of the mission, what went right, what went wrong, who were the killers, why had they done what they did, it all amounted to nothing but dark memories. He was growing more bitter at having to rehash it again and again.

  He thought of the girl, her dark eyes and long hair, exquisitely beautiful, even in her grief. He thought of her reaching out to her father, a charred corpse. He wanted to forget her, wipe the memory away. But he knew that he wouldn’t. It was the price he would pay. All soldiers paid a price for their service by the thoughts that remained in their heads. A few of the memories were good. Some were evil, dark and painful. They had to live with them all. That was just the way it was.

  But this one . . . this one was different from anything before. Why couldn’t he keep her out of his mind?

  Sam glanced at his commander, and then lowered his eyes.

  “Brighton,” the major called out, and Sam reluctantly turned to face him. The major, long and lanky, a West Point graduate, walked quickly toward him, an uncomfortable look on his face.

  “What’s up, boss?” Sam asked after saluting wearily.

  “You got a telephone call,” the major answered after returning the salute.

  Sam looked surprised. “I hope it’s not your little sister again,” he said dryly. “I’ve told her a thousand times not to call me at work.”

  The major didn’t smile. His little sister, the new Miss Virginia, had become a hot topic among the men in his squad, and he was growing a little weary of their constant jokes. “In your dreams, Sammy boy,” he slapped Sam on the back, “and over my dead body. Now come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You have a phone call. Quick. He’s been holding.”

  The two men started to walk. “Who is it?” Sam asked, though he suspected that he already knew.

  “The White House,” the major answered.

  Sam shook his head. His dad on the phone.

  His father, an Air Force two-star general, was on special assignment from the Pentagon to the National Security Staff. He worked at the White House, directly for the president, acting as special counsel on National Security affairs. It was one of the most coveted jobs in the military, but Sam also knew that the weight of the assignment was crushing him down. His father had aged fifteen years in the past twenty-four months, the pressure squeezing the life out of him like the juice from an orange.

  His mind raced, trying to think of a reason that his father might call. Would he call with good news? Probably not. His gut tightened up.

  The major quickened his step toward the Operations Center. “Pick it up,” he said. “He’s been on hold for five minutes already.” Sam recognized the strain in the major’s voice. He had grown familiar with the sound, and he doubled his pace. But his boss deferred to him, walking at his side instead of leading the way. Sam knew it was unnerving to the major whenever the White House called. Truth was, it was unnerving to the regiment and battalion commanders as well—it was unnerving to everyone from the chief of staff down. But there was nothing he could do about it. His father was who he was. Sam didn’t say anything as the major walked nervously at his side.

  Although he had never talked about his father, never so much as mentioned his name, it was impossible for the men in his unit not to know, and Sam knew how stressful it was for the major to have the son of a two-star general in his command, the son of the special counsel to the president, no less. At best case it was a zero sum game for the major: Everything went perfectly, Sam stayed healthy, and no one said anything. But if Sam got wounded or killed, or the unit didn’t perform in an exceptional way, who would answer the hard questions that would come slamming down? Who was going to call the White House to tell the old man? Because of this, Sam knew the major would happily ship him out, send the source of his problems to the next unit down the line. And Sam understood it. He would have felt the same way.

  The irony was that Sam was the best soldier in the unit, courageous, faithful, always ready to go, always willing to put his neck on the line. Which was exactly the problem. Sam acted as if he had no fear. He acted like there were angels protecting him every day. He wasn’t stupid, but he was brave, almost brazenly so, and his boss often scolded him for having to be in the middle of the fight.

  “Geez, man, can’t you ever stay out of the line of fire?!” his major had once yelled at him.

  Sam looked up from examining a bullet hole in his shirt. The shell had shredded the loose material directly under his arm, leaving an entry and exit hole two inches from his chest.

  “Do you always have to be in the very thick of the fight?!” the major yelled again.

  Sam had shaken his head, pushing his leather-gloved finger through the hole near his flak vest. “Wow, that was close.” He looked up and smiled.

  “Can’t you just once stay at camp and take your turn guarding the perimeter like everyone else?”

  “Hey, baby, that’s not why I’m here,” was all Sam replied.

  So it bothered Sam to have the major walking at his side, almost half a step behind him, as if Sam should lead the way.

  Moving into the Operations Center, the unit’s executive officer, a young major with a ridiculously thin mustache, was holding the satellite phone, which he thrust toward Sam as if it might explode. Then he turned away quickly, pretending to work through a pile of papers on his desk. Sam noticed his regiment commander, a thick lieutenant colonel, standing by his office door. The major walked toward the lieutenant colonel but neither one of them said anything, though they tried not to make it obvious that they wanted to hear.

  Sam turned his back to his commanders. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

  “Hi, Sam, how are you?” his father’s voice echoed through the satellite phone.

  “Good, Dad. Fine. What’s going on?”

  There was a short pause, which Sam immediately noticed, and his chest tightened again. “Things OK, Dad? Mom OK? Luke and Ammon?”

  “They’re all good, Sam . . . .”

  Sam considered the other possibilities. He thought of his biological parents, two social misfits who constantly struggled along. “Did the old man get knifed in another bar fight?” he asked. “The ol’ lady call for more money? Tell them to bite it, Dad, you don’t owe them anything.”

  “No, Sam, none of that. Really, everything is fine. I was just calling to, you know . . . say hello, see how you are.”

  Sam didn’t believe it. He had already recognized the anger in his father’s voice.

  There was another moment of silence. “I understand you just got in from an operation?” the general then said.

  “Yes sir,” Sam replied. He knew this wasn’t the reason the general had called, but he had no choice but to wait until his father got to the point.

  “It went OK, I hope?”

  “You know how it is over here, Dad. You take one step forward, you hit a land mine and get blown a couple steps back. But tonight was pretty good. We got a couple of the bad guys and took back some of their ground. And none of my guys were hurt, whic
h is all I could ask.”

  “You’re all right then . . . .”

  Sam was growing frustrated. “Dad, you really didn’t call me to talk about the mission, did you?” he said. “I go out every night. You never call. Now, what’s going on?”

  Sam heard the sound of rustling paper, then the soft squeak of his father’s office chair, indicating he had stood up. “Sammy, you had an op a couple days ago,” his father said in a quiet voice. “A mission into western Iran.”

  Sam bit his lip. “We probably ought not to talk about this right now.”

  “We need to, Sam.”

  “It was a coded mission, Dad. If you really want to discuss it, I need to get to a secure telephone.” An image of the massacre shot again through his head. “But Dad, I’d really rather not talk about it, unless we really have to.”

  “Sam, listen to me, OK. I know about the mission. I’m the guy who sent your unit there. And I don’t need you to tell me about it. I already know everything. But there’s something you need to know. Something you’re not going to like.”

  Sam sighed bitterly. What could be worse than what he had seen? “Whatever it is, Dad, I think I can handle it,” he said.

  Major General Neil S. Brighton stood in his White House office, a cramped inner room stuffed with classified folders, locking file cabinets, a small desk, and two blue leather chairs. He ran a hand through his thick hair and paced, the phone at his ear, while staring angrily at the front page of the Washington Post.

  The photograph was grainy and blurred, but heart-wrenchingly powerful. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but not one of them had to be true, and this photograph was painfully deceiving. A dead child, a smear of blood on his chest, a dried trickle of red running from his shoulder and down the underside of his arm to drip peacefully off his fingertips and onto the ground. A anguished woman crying while holding her son. Smoke and black vapor filled the entire background; it looked as if an entire village was in flames. Two U.S. soldiers stood side-by-side, looking past the carnage, one of them smoking a fresh cigarette. Their eyes were dull and deadly, as if there was no feeling at all. Captain Samuel Brighton was in the center of the photograph, rubbing his hands on his side of his face. The Washingon Post’s headline, in 20-point Stilson Display Bold typeface, read, “U.S. Soldiers Accused of Iranian Atrocities—Pentagon Denies Secret War in Iran.”