Soldier Boy

by Glen Carter

  * * * * *

  29° 3’ 56.7828’’ N

  46° 24’ 22.5000’’ E

  0200 hours

  The Blackhawk helicopters swooped low and fast, unmistakable in the whine of mighty turboshaft engines and the whump of titanium rotors slicing through the desert night.

  The intercom aboard Hawk One sparked to life. “Flight lead. Check.”

  “Your seven o’clock, buddy,” Hawk Two replied.

  The cockpits were dark, and with their night-vision goggles, the pilots appeared as alien invaders. The lead checked his outboard shoulder. Satisfied, he nudged the cyclic, and both choppers banked steeply over Iraqi territory.

  The radios were silent, which was standard operational procedure. Like nap-of-the-earth tactics and the occasional prayer. The deadly airships were invisible to enemy radar, with its ground-to-air missiles, though the shoulder-fired variant could also make quick work of an Allied attack helicopter. With a load of luck, maybe even an RPG. For that reason, both ships maintained enough wiggle room for split-second evasive manoeuvres.

  A warning light flickered on the engine cluster. The pilot tweaked the altitude. Just a few feet more to keep the swirling grit from a thousand well-oiled parts. He gazed into the night sky. Somewhere up there an HC-130 flew command and control duties. It bristled with special radar and suites of classified technology. That aircraft was in direct contact with the Pentagon, where mission planners were waiting to inform their political bosses that the American soldiers had been rescued and would not become television trophies for Saddam Hussein. Generals, under the threat of courts martial, were told that could not happen, and the mission had been pulled together with shocking military efficiency. Satellites had been slaved, lethal troops mustered, and CIA assets buried deep within the Iraqi regime were laid upon for critical intelligence.

  Each Blackhawk carried four CSAR personnel, who also wore NVGs and were equipped with M4 assault rifles, nine-millimetre Berettas, and assorted explosives.

  “Four minutes out.”

  Aboard both CSAR helicopters, weapons were un-safetied and goggles were lowered. A thunderous bark erupted from blackened faces.

  Rangers lead the way!

  A few moments were spent in steely concentration. No one was arrogant enough to believe everyone would be going home. Not this night. Satellites showed the outpost to be heavily defended, though the Rangers had the elements of superior training and surprise.

  The choppers settled gently on ground effect.

  “Four, three . . .”

  The doors aboard Hawk One and Hawk Two slid open, revealing a patchwork of buildings on an eerie moonless terrain.

  Helicopter skids kissed the earth. American boots pounded. The Rangers crouched low in a charge toward the compound, and tracers lit up the night.

  * * * * *

  It was Rutter’s turn, and the ape hovered over him with a fist held high. He braced for the blow, sickened by the dried blood at his feet. Suddenly, an explosion rumbled through the walls of the colonel’s little torture chamber, followed by the crack of gunfire.

  The ape pulled his sidearm and placed it at Rutter’s head. Cocked and ready for Al-Saadi’s command. The colonel shook his head, snatched his own sidearm, and ran to the door.

  The ape followed. Then they were gone.

  Rutter couldn’t believe he was still alive. He went to work on the rope at his wrists. Back and forth, twisting, pulling, cutting his skin. Sweat loosened the fibres, and then, with all his strength, he tugged a hand free. He breathed deeply and stumbled to his feet. At the door, he stopped. Listening to the bullets and shouting and the whump-whump of exploding grenades. Rutter ducked through the door and faced a hallway that stretched away into smoke and darkness and concussive flashes. There was another corridor on his left. He rushed that way.

  Bare light bulbs burned overhead. Each one cast stingy light on a metal door. Rutter stopped at one of them, squinted through the slat. Empty. He moved to a second door and cursed. In seconds, he came to the end of the hallway. Silently, he peered around the corner, at a soldier standing a few feet away. Facing the sound of the battle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like some dog salivating for the command to attack. Rutter jerked back, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and considered what to do.

  The fight was getting closer. In mere moments, American soldiers would be thumping in. Rutter stole another look at the lone guard. Standing there with his weapon ready and oblivious to the threat behind him. There was a door. The man was guarding it for a reason. Then came pounding on metal. Americans shouting on the other side, confirming what Rutter already suspected. He could hunker down and wait for the Rangers. Instead, he ducked low and drove headlong into the man’s back. With a sickening crack, the soldier collapsed to the floor. Rutter was on top of him, fists flying, his knuckles cracking against the soldier’s head. The man stopped moving. Rutter gasped for air, surprised at how good it felt. He focused on a boy, not a man, with a face that had barely seen a razor.

  With time and opportunity slipping away, Rutter picked up the enemy’s rifle and grabbed the door latch.

  7

  Harbour Rock

  A black hearse lumbered through the cemetery gate and stopped within a few yards of the freshly dug grave. A dozen or so vehicles followed behind in the fog, and once they stopped, doors came slowly open and mourners stepped to the ground as if choreographed on some grim, wordless stage. The tailgate of the hearse was pulled wide, and a casket of mahogany and brass was solemnly carried to its cradle. All of this was accomplished with none of the patriotic rituals normally performed for a dead Marine.

  The widow was too numb to have cared. She wanted nothing more than to bury her husband, to set him at eternal rest. The military be damned, with their patronizing graveyard theatre. Their booming rifle salutes and stomping boots. Sarah Vanderson stood fast, a few feet from the edge of the grave. Sobbing behind a veil of black lace.

  The priest began. “Kallum was our gift, given by God and returned now to His house. We remember him in the flesh, we celebrate everything he was . . .”

  There was a wail from the back of the crowd, and then another. Shoulders tightened. A nose blared like a trumpet.

  It startled Sarah.

  Kallum’s mother pulled her closer. Whispered, “Aggie McPharlane’s got the biggest beak in Harbour Rock. Like a horn section.”

  Sarah stared straight ahead.

  “Do we need to sit, dear?” Diana said.

  She shook her head.

  The priest continued, his eyes on Sarah alone. “We find it hard to believe anything will ever be the same with Kallum gone. His loving wife and parents will find it hardest, but today, all of us share some measure of hope, that grief will one day fade. It’s the price we pay for our wonderful memories. The vibrant, compassionate, and loving Kallum who graced our lives and our hearts. Into God’s arms we now deliver him.”

  Diana wept. Kallum’s father embraced them both.

  Sarah didn’t know how long they stood like that. When she looked up next, the crowd was pulling apart. Hands reached for her. Words seemed from another dimension. She walked slowly to Kallum’s casket. Placed a hand at the spot where his heart lay still. Fantasizing that her life force might somehow start it beating. She whispered her goodbye, but it was impossible to turn her back. Someone walked over, took her elbow, and gently guided her away.

  Eventually they made their way to the car and out of the cemetery. Flags flapped at half-mast outside a dozen homes along the way. Ten minutes later, they were home. Sarah sat in a chair in the front room. A cup of tea was placed next to her. Diana was off, then, to her guests, with a promise to check back.

  They hovered, but few approached, leaving her to mind her tears. Sarah suffered their sorrow and wanted to scream at them to stop, beca
use the pity only deepened her excruciating grief. If only she could get out. Shed her black clothes and run as fast as she could, away from what was happening. Back in time, into the arms of her dead husband.

  Aggie McPharlane knelt before her, a hand on her knee. “When Harold passed, I thought I’d die. A beautiful woman like you. Before long, life will resume. Time runs its course, dragging you through the worst of things and out the other side.”

  Sarah stared at her, expressionless. She rubbed the soft fabric of her blouse, her only respite at that horrible moment. She was untethered, tumbling through a black, limitless space and so very, very broken. Please go away.

  Thankfully, Diana walked over. Tapped Aggie on the shoulder. Aggie stood and was gone.

  Diana was holding up well, even though she was in the middle of her own nightmare. What would she have done without her? Sarah wanted to tell her everything would be okay. They’d both come out the “other side.” But how could that be true? How many days had it been since the knock came at her door? The two blank-faced soldiers, with their duty to inform.

  “We’re so sorry.”

  It had taken the two of them to hold her up. Was she alone? Could they call anyone? There was Diana, but of course she was to be their next duty to inform. Two days later, on a runway tarmac. The big military cargo jet rolled to a stop, carrying four aluminum caskets. One was unloaded. Then, in a quiet hangar, Sarah was granted a few moments to sit next to her husband, and in the presence of a Marine guard, she had pressed her cheek against the cold metal and hummed quietly to her soldier boy. When the humming stopped, she stood, doing everything she could to stay off the concrete. “Thank you.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Kallum’s father had demanded to see his son’s body, and with Diana and Sarah already in the car, the officer in charge had reluctantly agreed. Later, on the drive home, the sorrow in his face was heartbreaking.

  “Pleman?”

  “Not now.”

  After a few hours in the Doody home, the food was eaten and people drifted away. Some of the women stayed to help with the cleanup.

  Sarah joined them.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Sarah grabbed a dishtowel and went to work.

  They finished at midnight, and she sat with Kallum’s parents for a cup of hot tea. They begged her to spend the night, though she gently declined, and Kallum’s father drove her home. He didn’t stop talking along the way, and Sarah listened without a word.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, thickly. “You don’t need to hear me going on.”

  “Kallum knew how much you loved him,” said Sarah, meaning it. She reached over to hug him, breathed in the remnants of tobacco smoke and whiskey. He was a good man. Sarah had seen so much of him in his son. She wanted to tell him, but the last thing he needed was another reminder of what he’d lost. A month later, Diana would find Kallum’s father dead in his workshop, still clutching his chest, and for a long time after, Sarah regretted not thanking him for the beautiful qualities in his son.

  Sarah pulled open the door and walked to the front of the house. She turned to watch the car disappear down the driveway. She unlocked the door and stepped into the massive dark foyer. It was deathly quiet, except for the thumping of her heart. Was this going to be her life now? The pitiful widow who was never again right. Sarah kicked off her shoes and ran to the top of the stairs.

  She dropped to her knees and sobbed.

  * * * * *

  The widow woke, barely remembering how she’d made it to the guest house. She was still dressed, sprawled atop the bedclothes. The window was open, and curtains fluttered on a salty breeze. Music played a few hundred feet out on the water. A fishing boat was passing. Normally she’d run to the door and wave. Kallum would hang out of the wheelhouse and give his silly salute. His father would blast the horn a couple of times and they’d disappear around the point, and then Sarah would jump back into bed and bury her face in his pillow. After lying there a moment, she leapt from the bed and slammed shut the window. Later, in the shower, the hot water stung the puffy skin around her eyes. She lathered up and rinsed, then towelled dry, and took forever to dress.

  Now, standing motionless at the closet door, with half a dozen empty boxes on the floor behind her. “Don’t be one of those women,” Kallum had demanded. “Never able to shed the stink of their bloody dead husbands.”

  “Kallum!”

  “Promise me.” He was smiling, but she frightfully realized how serious he was.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring you, nothin’. Aggie McPharlane still sets a dinner plate for her dead mister. Still irons his church clothes. Screw that, Sarah. You promise me.”

  Then she had promised.

  She flung the closet door wide and walked in. The scent of him was overpowering. His favourite cologne. It was on everything. She brought a hand to her face, soaking it in tears.

  Screw that, Sarah. You promise me.

  She grabbed hold of a single item. It was a T-shirt from some rock concert they’d gone to. She carried it to the bedroom and, like laying down a holy vestment, placed it into one of the boxes.

  It took an hour to accomplish everything. She taped the boxes shut and dragged them one by one to the dock. She made a phone call, and a while later a speedboat pulled up. With hardly a word, two men took the boxes and stowed them at the bow. They nodded their respect and motored away.

  She returned to the closet and stood quietly before the empty racks, feeling not a whit of fulfillment for the promise kept. A little later, Diana stopped by with some leftovers. Salads and a plate full of wraps. Sarah surprised herself with the amount she ate. She watched Diana pouring the iced tea and wondered whether the red would ever fade from her eyes. Her lawyer had called to express his condolences and to remind Sarah about some papers she needed to sign. He said a deadline couldn’t be ignored. Since the accident that killed her parents, the demands on her time were enormous. She now controlled entire corporations that were required to keep a dozen government agencies satisfied. There were trust funds and directorships on the boards of companies she was clueless about. Even what they did to make money. Kallum had been there for her in spades. What would she have done without him? First there was the funeral for her parents. Kallum had handled it all. Then there was her father’s businesses and the like. Kallum had offered to jump in, even with Mystic Blue demanding all his time. Sarah had admired his need to make his own way, without her money. Ironically, she now owned his assets, including the schooner, which she would love and nurture as he had.

  “Please don’t be a stranger, Sarah.” It was Diana, placing a hand on hers. “You’re family.”

  Sarah was touched, and it required all her strength not to start blubbering again. Everyone was tired of crying, so she simply nodded. They talked for a while, and there were actually a few laughs. Then Diana said goodbye. “Come by the house tomorrow. There are some things I want you to have.”

  The rest of the day was a blur. At midnight and in the company of a full moon, Sarah walked the long path to the guest house. Standing on the deck, she pulled her wrap tight against a cool sea breeze. They had stood at this very spot on the night before he left. Kallum was drunk. He was always funniest then. He’d sing to her in his horrible voice and dance alone like a silly fool, spinning and dipping and loving the way he could be himself with her.

  “You’ve got real talent, Mister Doody.”

  “A talent for catching a beautiful woman.”

  “It definitely wasn’t your dancing.”

  A moment later, stripping off his shirt, he swept her into his arms. “Other talents, too, mon amour.”

  Sarah had held him tight. Buried her face into him. Playfully tickled his neck with her tongue.

  “Speaking of talent,” he said in his deep
voice. He carried her into the guest house and placed her on the bed. Slowly he undressed her, pausing occasionally to caress her beautiful body. Moonlight spilled in, radiant against her skin. When she was completely naked, Kallum stood like a rock at the foot of the bed. “Jesus, I’m a lucky man.”

  Sarah giggled. “The feeling is mutual.”

  He kneeled slowly onto the bed, his warm lips unrelenting as he moved along her body.

  Sarah moaned.

  His mouth found her, then. Lips gently parted, his tongue flicking and tasting her wetness.

  Her fingers tugged hard, a handful of his hair, pulling him against her. The scruff of his beard, prickly against her thighs. Rhythmic, delicious, the searing fantasy of only him. Then he was inside her. Softly at first, sweetly, then deeper, stronger, the full length of him, thrusting. Kallum whispered the things that always touched her so deeply. Words soaked in his love. Fingernails dug into the muscles of his back. The release so torturously close, Sarah clenched against the scream lodged in her throat. The wave was a distant roar. Sucking everything from her, leaving her bare, so wonderfully vulnerable in his strong arms. “Kallum,” she moaned, sinking beneath a swell of unfathomable desire. Fingers tore at satin sheets. Losing herself, she locked legs around him, gasping at moist, warm air.

  Standing there on the deck of their little guest house, Sarah’s heart pounded. She tingled. How could she be feeling such desire after burying her husband only hours ago? Guiltily, she wept.