A security guard shouted at me to raise my hands and pointed his rifle at me threateningly. Shocked, I thrust my hands in the air as a second guard approached me cautiously, his black eyes narrowed with distrust.
Then a female security guard in a black hijab was summoned and proceeded to pat me down roughly, feeling around my waistband, armpits, thighs, the under-wiring of my bra and backs of my legs.
When there was nothing to find, the woman stepped back, staring at me unsmilingly.
Then they forced my hands into another scanner. I thought at first that they were checking my fingerprints, but they weren’t.
Again, the scanner beeped, and the rifles swung towards me. By now, I was sweating, looking guilty as hell, and watching the clock tick down toward the time my flight was boarding.
“I have to catch a flight,” I said, my voice shaking.
“One minute.”
“It’s important.”
“One minute.”
The guards muttered to each other, then one of them stepped forward and swabbed the palms of my hands.
“We look for bomb-making chemicals,” he explained curtly.
I didn’t know what to say. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut. If the worst came to the worst, I could use my connections at the New York Times to get me out of here.
A careful search was made of my bag and shoes. The lining was cut out of my coat, the seams minutely examined.
I had seven minutes to catch my flight.
Despite the air conditioning, sweat dripped into my eyes, making them sting, my t-shirt was soaked and my hands shook.
And then they found something, their voices louder and excitable, and suddenly my travel-size hand lotion was seized and tossed onto the table. More swabs were taken, and the guards relaxed as they read the results.
I could have cried with relief when an unsmiling guard told me that some of the chemicals in the lotion, probably the glycerin, mimicked bomb-making equipment.
How many miles had I traveled with that in my bag?
I didn’t know whether to be relieved, amused, or furious, but when I was permitted to leave, I didn’t bother to argue. I scooped up my torn jacket, bag and shoes, and sprinted in my socks across the terminal to my gate, arriving just as the last passenger was boarding.
Gasping for breath, still trembling, hot and sweaty, I settled into my seat next to a man in a jalabiyyah robe and headscarf. He certainly wasn’t happy to see me or to be seated next to a woman who was also a foreigner, and complained loudly to one of the air stewards until he was moved to another seat.
I was too relieved I’d made the flight to care.
Now, I had the unbearable task of waiting for news of Jack: twenty hours of traveling ahead of me with two stops before I reached San Diego. The Turkish Airways flight had a stop-over at Istanbul and I also changed planes in Los Angeles.
The engines rolled like thunder and I was ordered to turn off my phone. I hoped that there would be wifi once we were in the air. I hoped for a lot of things.
Jackson
Ten hours earlier . . .
Jack sat at his desk, glancing at his phone every few minutes, willing it to ring, willing Maggie to call. He was aware that his behavior was both amusing and annoying the guys in his platoon, and he’d had to endure a lot of cracks about being pussy-whipped. Not that he cared. He told them that they were all a bunch of damned losers and jealous as hell. Which was half true.
The men who’d been with him in Afghanistan all admired Maggie’s bravery and the fact that she hadn’t crumbled or cried when they’d been tasked to extract her from a life-threatening situation. They appreciated even more that she’d come to thank them personally for saving her life. The fact that they thought she was hot also gave Jack brownie points, although he’d threatened them with immediate pain followed by punishment duties if they mentioned her tits or ass again.
At the time, naturally, there had been a lot of grumbling about dumb reporters being where they shouldn’t be and expecting a bunch of grunts to save their asses, but it was mostly pretty good-tempered.
Seeing their Sergeant (now Gunnery Sergeant) fall head over heels in love with her was an added bonus. But they all agreed he was definitely pussy-whipped.
Jack sighed, unenthusiastically punching his keyboard with two fingers and willing the pile of paperwork to self-combust. He hadn’t joined the Marines to be a paper-pusher. Unfortunately, the higher up he was promoted, the more paperwork seemed to be involved. He’d known long ago that he’d made the right decision not to apply for officer training school—he’d have drowned in paper by now.
He decided it must be some sort of hubris that had gotten him hitched to a lady journalist—someone who made their living with words and reams of paper.
Jack frowned. He wasn’t hitched to Maggie, not in the legally binding sense of marriage, but he’d certainly been thinking about it a lot.
He’d planned to pop the question in Paris, but when he’d impulsively asked her about having kids, she’d made it pretty clear that it wasn’t on her agenda. Jack had made a tactical retreat and kept the ring that he’d bought with his last month’s wages in his pocket.
Not a man usually given to self-doubt, Jack had begun second-guessing Maggie’s every phone call, text and email.
She said she loved him, but then so had Emmy. He found himself wondering with surprising bitterness whether Maggie would turn out to be one of those women who loved the uniform, who loved the idea of having a Marine for a boyfriend, but when faced with long months apart, decided that a man on civvy street was a safer bet.
Maggie had never seemed like that—it was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place—that and her bravery, the way her dark eyes flashed when she was angry, the passion hidden behind the professional appearance. It seemed inconceivable that he’d misread her, but ever since Paris, a dark cloud of doubt had hung over him and consequently over their relationship.
Now she wasn’t even answering her damn phone and he’d left a text message hours ago.
He’d never wished his judgement was unsound before, but he’d woken up with a bad feeling in his gut. His gut was rarely wrong.
The temperature was in the high sixties, but the humidity was increasing and the air zinged with electricity, thunder threatening in the distance.
Droplets of sweat beaded his forehead in the stuffy office, and he stared with distaste at the mountain of paperwork still to climb.
Morning PT had been the highlight of his day so far. He’d hoped to speak with Maggie, but there’d been only silence stretching dully throughout the whole day. It was nine in the evening in Cairo—surely she was back from her assignment by now?
He poked his phone again, glaring at it moodily when there was still no word from his woman. The screen dimmed and he frowned as he realized that the battery life was down to five percent. Damn thing was always running out of juice. He really needed to get a new cell phone, one whose battery life was longer than a PT session. Searching for the charger in the desk drawer, he cursed furiously when he couldn’t find it, then remembered he’d left it in his room after using it the night before.
Edgy and miserable, Jack forced himself to focus on form-filling and filing.
Two minutes later, he yawned, stretching his tanned arms above his head and deciding a stroll around the base in the winter sunshine and an early lunch would improve his outlook. And he’d pick up his charger. Nothing to do with hoping to hear from Maggie. Of course not.
Suddenly, a too familiar, too ugly noise tore the air . . . ak-ak-ak . . . ak-ak-ak . . . the distinctive, unmistakable sound of a Kalashnikov. Without thinking, pure instinct driving his movements, Jack threw himself face down on the concrete floor as the echo of exploding bullets sang close by.
His brain could barely compute hearing an enemy weapon fired on home turf, although his body had recognized it instantly and responded.
The concrete was hard and cool as he listened
to the relentless clatter of bullets, stunned.
“Christ, it’s on auto mode,” he whispered. “About four hundred yards away. Shit, that’s the main gate!”
Keeping his head down, he sprinted to the locked metal weapons room where he kept his rifles and sidearm. His fingers hovered lovingly over his M40 sniper rifle, but it would be less useful in close quarters. Instead, he snatched up the M4 carbine, loaded in a magazine and put another four in his pocket. I still miss my M16, he thought irrelevantly.
He slapped on his OTV outer tactical vest and helmet before he ran toward the noise. By now he could hear fire being returned and the wail of an alarm.
Then there was a pause of maybe a minute before he heard more AK47 shots from a different direction. He already knew what that meant: the enemy was mobile and on the move.
Jack changed direction and ran toward the gunfire.
He was close now and he sucked in his breath when he saw the body of a young Private, blood pouring from a chest wound, arms flung open as his sightless eyes stared at the massing clouds.
Jack swore softly and even though he knew the kid was dead, he knelt down and pressed two fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse. Nothing.
He locked down his emotions, training taking over.
Moving cautiously now, using every inch of cover, he eased forward.
Then he saw the enemy: a man in green fatigues and dark glasses, jumping from a Marine-issue M1163 light strike vehicle and strolling across the baking tarmac of the parade ground.
“Halt! Lower your weapon!” yelled Jack.
The AK47 swung toward him, the muzzle looming largely.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He squeezed off three rounds, watching with cool professionalism as the enemy’s weapon jerked, emptying a bloom of bullets in his direction.
Jack turned to take cover, slipped in blood and crashed to his knees.
Maggie
I couldn’t sleep during the long flight from Cairo. After ten years as a journalist, I’d learned to catnap anywhere, but this time my brain whirred and spun as I searched every news website, trying desperately to find out if Jack was okay. But the news was grim and gave me no comfort.
Logically, I knew the odds weren’t bad—tens of thousands of Marines were stationed at Camp Pendleton, but my stubborn heart feared the worst as well as desperately hoping for the best.
There were now four confirmed dead and multiple wounded mentioned in the news reports, but as with standard reporting practice, no names had been circulated to the Press until the families had been informed.
I had horrified visions of a Casualty Notification Officer waiting on the porch at Evelyn’s house, a folded flag in his hands. I tried to assess how much time had passed because I knew it was a standing rule that the family had to be informed within four hours. That window was long gone, but still no names were being released.
What did that mean?
As I finally staggered off the plane at San Diego International Airport, dry eyes scratchy in the winter sunshine, I switched on my phone and immediately dialed Jack’s number. Once again, it rang and rang and rang. When I still couldn’t reach him, I was desperate enough to call his mother. I punched in Evelyn’s number, but the line went to voicemail, and I left an incoherent message, begging her to call me back.
I hurried over to the car rental desk but had to wait twenty agonizing minutes while the clerk slowly tapped on her keyboard, yawning and taking sips of coffee, telling me happily that all the midsize and larger cars had already been taken by journalists flying into town, and that she’d try to find me a compact.
Fuming, but refusing to lose my temper, I drank a cup of coffee from a machine and waited while she filled in form after form, until she finally took my credit card and handed over the keys to a tiny Toyota.
I wouldn’t have cared if it had two wheels, as long as it had an engine. I flung my bag onto the back seat, set up GPS on my phone and headed north.
The muggy heat was oppressive after the air conditioned airport. I gripped the steering wheel, pushing the speed limit as I sped up the I-5. I nearly swerved into the concrete divider when my phone rang.
“Evelyn! Thank God! Is there any news?”
Her softly modulated voice was strained.
“No, darlin’. Jackson isn’t answering his phone and I can’t get through to anyone on the base. I even called his friend, Gray, hoping he might be able to help. He promised to call all their mutual friends, but he says the base is on lockdown, and so far, nothing. I’m so sorry not to be able to tell you more. It must be awful for you being so far away. What time is it in Egypt?”
“I’m not in Egypt, I’m in San Diego.”
“Excuse me?”
“I flew out as soon as I heard the news. I’m on my way to Camp Pendleton now. I should be there in thirty minutes.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath and then her voice cracked as she struggled to hold in tears.
“You’ll find out for me, Maggie? You’ll tell me that my boy is going to be okay?”
“I will, Evelyn, I promise.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. God bless you.”
As the call ended, I accelerated past a BMW, the line on the speedometer touching a hundred.
I only took my foot off the accelerator when I saw a sign for Camp Pendleton, and only then because I was following a convoy of three news vans.
Camp Pendleton was built on a wide strip of coast by the mouth of the Santa Margarita River. Beyond the base stretched dunes and bluffs, sage scrub and chaparral. With seventeen miles of coast and over two-hundred square miles, the place was massive.
A hot wind blew off the ocean and black clouds rumbled ominously, reflecting my mood.
I parked the Toyota at the side of the road and clipped my Press badge to my jacket. A small crowd of outside broadcast journalists were standing around making notes, or speaking on their cell phones. Several were giving live on-camera reports. A short distance away a news chopper hovered well outside the base’s no-fly zone.
“What’s the latest?” I asked a woman whose perfect makeup told me she was a TV journalist. “Have they announced the names yet?”
“Nope,” she said, glancing appraisingly at my wrinkled clothes. “The whole base is still on lockdown because of the bomb.”
Blood drained from my face and I felt icy cold.
“What bomb? I haven’t heard anything about that—I’ve been on a plane for the last twenty hours.”
She raised her eyebrows and flipped open her notebook to check her facts, although I suspected she knew them off by heart.
“The suspect killed two Marines on duty at each gate, smashed through the barriers in a military vehicle—we’re not sure what type yet, or whether the vehicle was stolen or belonged to the suspect. He then drove around the base, killing two more Marines and wounding a dozen. Three are in a serious condition with life-threatening injuries and . . .” she paused. “Are you okay, honey? You’re awful pale.”
I blinked back tears as I gritted my teeth. Breaking down wouldn’t help anyone. But her unexpected kindness had pushed me to the edge.
“I . . . my boyfriend is here. I can’t get through to him.”
Her eyes widened with concern, and she took my arm gently.
“Why don’t you sit in our van for a moment, it’s cooler in there. I’ll get you some water. Where have you traveled from?”
I sat on the passenger seat of her team’s Outside Broadcast truck and gratefully gulped down some water.
“I’m with the New York Times,” I said once I’d cleared the dust from my throat and swallowed the lump that was constricting it. “I’m stationed in Cairo, but when I heard and couldn’t get through . . . I had to come . . . I had to.”
She smiled sympathetically and patted my arm, her forehead creased with concern.
“All I can tell you is that there was a report that the suspect’s vehicle had some sort of improvised device attached. There weren’t any e
xplosions, but there’s sure been a lot of movement. Should I go on?”
I nodded so quickly I must have looked like my head was on a spring.
“Yes, please! God, please!”
“So, one of the Marines took out the suspect, killed him. But when they went to check his vehicle, they saw it was filled with explosives, possibly some sort of fertilizer and God knows what else. We were moved back to here at that point. The bomb disposal team arrived in minutes from somewhere else on the base. It was several hours before the device was rendered safe, but they’re checking the whole base to see if the terrorist, whoever he was, had time to plant any other devices. There’s a lot of base to check. That’s why they’re still on lockdown, and that’s why we’re all waiting out here like bumps on a log. And now you know everything we do.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“The New York Times, huh? Do you know Lee Venzi? Her husband was a Marine.”
“Yes! She’s a friend of mine. Where do you know her from?”
“I did a piece on her husband and his charity work. We met then. Lovely couple.”
She eyed me thoughtfully.
“How about I interview you? It would make a nice companion piece, the worried girlfriend who’s flown halfway around the world. It’s kind of romantic—our viewers would love that. And it might persuade the authorities to give you info on your man,” she added craftily.
She certainly knew which buttons to press, but I couldn’t blame her for that.
“Maybe later.”
“Come on. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do. And it might help. Besides, if you can’t get through on your cell phone, it would be a great way of letting him know that you’re here. They’re gonna be watching the news in the base, see how it’s being played out, and if we’ve found any new information.”
It seemed unlikely that Jack was going to have time to watch the news, but it was worth a try. Tired and worried, I gave in.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
She brightened immediately.
“Great!”
Battle Scars Page 17