Night Hush
Page 11
“Just take your time,” the lawyer said, crossing her legs. “Take us through the events of August 10 and 11.”
Heather pushed back against the pillows propping her up, trying to get comfortable. This debriefing would be much easier if she were properly dressed, she reflected. But no, she wore a hospital gown and fuzzy pink socks. She sighed. Where to start?
“Well, I was in Eshma, as you know. They were desperate for Arabic speakers after the bombings. I was there for about two weeks.” She drew her knees up to her chest and ran her palms over them. “I was in a market plaza grabbing some lunch. Wearing a full burkha, as requested by the mayor when relief workers started arriving on-site. I sat under a tree and read my book while I ate.
“Three men were already at table close by. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but they were quarreling. Angry. The man in charge was . . . was the man who questioned . . .” Call it what it was, Langstrom. “Tortured me. While I was being held, to find out if I really knew anything.”
She focused on the water pitcher by her bed. Anything was better than seeing their pitying expressions.
“What was his name?” Jay Spicer asked. His foot tap-tap-tapped against the floor.
“I never found out. The soldiers just called him sayyed. Sir.”
“Can you describe him?” asked one of the Secret Service agents. Brian something. He gripped a stubby pencil as he prepared to jot down notes.
“Yes.” She would never forget him. Never. “Big. Broad shoulders. Six-two, maybe? Definitely five or six inches taller than most Arab men. Swarthy. Strong nose with just a slight hook. Short hair with a bit of gray at the temples, but I doubt he was any older than forty.”
The lawyer tapped her pen onto her yellow legal pad. “What happened then, Lieutenant?”
“I called my company commander, who was in Eshma with me. I asked him to get us in to see Sa’id al-Jabr, the Eshma chief of police. I wanted to see if the men I saw were known criminals.”
“Were they?” Jay Spicer asked. Now his knee bounced. The man seemed incapable of sitting still.
“Sa’id al-Jabr claimed he didn’t know them. I could tell he was hiding something, though. He didn’t seem concerned when I tried to warn him about the possibility of another attack, like the one at the Ubadah Government Center.” That had turned out to be her last day of freedom.
Her battalion commander shifted his weight. Unlike the others, who sat or leaned on various surfaces, he stood with legs shoulder-width apart and arms at his sides. “At this point, Captain Bernoulli contacted me and gave me a full report.”
The lawyer looked up from her notes. “And Captain Bernoulli is . . . ?”
“My company commander,” Heather said. “Was. He died in the convoy attack.” Her throat tightened. She grabbed the pitcher and poured herself some water to cover the sudden rush of emotion.
Jay Spicer gave her a reassuring nod. His knee finally stilled. “Colonel Neal passed that report on to me.” He gestured to the battalion commander, glancing to make sure the lawyer understood. “We followed up on that, Lieutenant. Sa’id al-Jabr got his position through political connections. If he has ties to the Kongra-Gel, we couldn’t find it.”
“We don’t believe at this point the convoy attack had anything to do with the Eshma police,” added the FBI legal attaché, “or the mayor’s office. We think it was a target of opportunity.”
Brian of the Secret Service looked up at that. “Sorry, what? There’s no way that was coincidence.”
“I didn’t say coincidence,” the attaché said. “I said opportunity.”
The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Neal, turned more fully to face Brian. “He means that the men Lieutenant Langstrom saw acted on impulse to ambush the convoy.”
Brian’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. “And took her? Only her? Lieutenant, were you the only woman in the convoy?”
Heather put a hand to her aching head. “I think so. Maybe. I honestly don’t remember.”
“So they were looking for whoever wore the burkha, I guess,” Brian muttered, scribbling something into his notebook.
Jay Spicer scratched his cheek, then just left his fingers where they were, as though he’d forgotten what he was doing. “Hate to ask you this, Lieutenant,” he said. He looked at the floor, then ran a finger under his lip. “You said ‘questioned.’ The man who questioned you. What did he ask?”
Heather froze. She so didn’t want to go there.
“Lieutenant?” This time it was her commander, his tone calm but authoritative.
She took a deep breath. “He wanted to know why I was in Eshma. Something about a lab. Who I’d told about the Kongra-Gel attack. I didn’t know anything.”
“There will not be an attack,” Colonel Neal. “Bomber planes destroyed the missile they had on-site. They no longer have the ability to attack us.”
“I’ll have you write everything out in more detail,” the lawyer said. “We’re just trying to get the basics here.”
“What happened after your visit to the Eshma police?” Jay Spicer asked.
She began to breathe again. “Captain Bernoulli decided we should head back here, to al-Zadr. We’d done everything we could in Eshma. A convoy was leaving the next morning. He wrangled us a ride on it.” She rotated her head, trying to alleviate some of the tension in her neck. “The trucks were empty. They’d brought medical supplies, food, and water to Eshma.”
The next part would be tough. Heather forced herself to continue.
“The convoy consisted of an empty flatbed truck and two deuce-and-a-halfs.” She glanced at the Secret Service agent. “That’s a two-and-a-half-ton truck. It’s a cargo-slash-personnel transport. Two wooden benches run the length of the truck bed, one on either side, butting up against a heavy canvas canopy. Looks kind of like a modern-day covered wagon.”
Brian nodded and gestured for her to continue.
“We also had the required armored Humvees front and rear, with infantrymen to guard the convoy. Armor plating reinforced the trucks, and all of us wore flak jackets and Kevlar helmets. We were armed.” She was stalling, and everyone in the room knew it. Heather cleared her throat.
“We’d been on the road for about forty minutes when the convoy slowed. I was in the back of a deuce-and-a-half and could see the turret gunner in the trailing Humvee start to yell and point. There was an explosion—it had to have been a roadside bomb. Next thing I knew, the truck was practically upside down in a ditch.” Heather had been slammed against the metal siding hard enough to see stars. A heavy body had smashed into her. Cries of surprise and fear around her had turned to groans of pain.
“RPGs exploded in and around the convoy . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Brian interrupted. “RPGs? Rocket-propelled grenades?”
“Yes. There was a lot of confusion, yelling, gunfire.” She had struggled to lift the dead weight off her before she saw who it was. The young corpsman’s face had been a bloody mess, his eyes open and staring. “I got free of the truck, then I could see maybe two dozen Arab men coming down the hillside, firing at us. I had my sidearm, so I returned fire.”
“What were the others doing?” her commander asked.
“We were all fighting, sir. But there were too many of them. We were overrun.”
“You surrendered?” Distaste colored the commander’s tone.
“Yes, sir. We had no choice.” She smoothed the blanket over her legs. “The leader—the sayyed from the camp—grabbed me. I fought, of course.” Her fist had smashed his nose. She had the satisfaction of seeing his blood spurt before he growled and hit her alongside the head with a meaty fist. “I went down.”
She crushed her empty paper cup in a fist. “Next thing I remember, I was in a prison cell in a terrorist training camp.”
August 29. 11:30 A.M.
Base Hospital, al-Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan
“I’M FINE,” HEATHER said, for the four-thousandth time. Dr. McGrath merely smiled, drat him. “Look, the bruises are fading. The infection in my shoulder is practically gone. I’m eating, and I’m hydrated. Why can’t I go home?”
Dr. McGrath checked the tubes and made a minor adjustment. “I’m concerned about a lot more than your bruises, Lieutenant. Between the surgery, infection, the high fever, and the concussion, I feel we still need to keep you under observation. Add to that the interviews and statements you’re giving, I’m not willing to risk a relapse. It’s taking more out of you than you realize.”
She didn’t want to admit it, but the debriefing two days ago had exhausted her. Since then, she’d been moved to a private room on the medical-surgical floor, but access to her had been restricted by the base Public Affairs Office. They coached her before each public statement and interview, and wrote press releases on her behalf. She was more than happy to let them take the lead. The sooner they were done with that nonsense, the better. Dr. McGrath supervised it closely, but he was right; it tired her.
“I’m keeping you here for another few days, at least. If you had a roommate or someone who could monitor you, I might be persuaded to release you early.” He waited, kindly and patient, and Heather gave a tiny groan.
“You know I don’t.”
“Then ask one of your visitors to bring you some books or magazines to help pass the time. Don’t think I don’t know what will happen. As soon as I send you home, you’ll be pushing to go back to work. They will get along without you for a few weeks.”
Heather gaped at him. “A few weeks? What am I supposed to do for a few weeks?”
The doctor snorted a laugh. “Rest. Recuperate. Rest some more. Sleep. Watch a soap opera. And then rest again.”
As he left, he turned sideways to avoid a figure leaning against the doorjamb.
Jace.
Once again, the room shrank with his presence. He was all broad shoulders and hard planes and strength. His short hair was curly; she itched to run her fingers through it, to discover if it was soft or wiry. She realized she’d been hoping that he would come, waiting, no matter how foolish the pipe dream was. He glanced her way and caught her gaze trailing over him. His smile held both knowledge and promise.
And that was the problem.
A woman who wanted a career in the Army had to hold herself to the highest standard. And that meant keeping her social life separate from the job. Keeping personal details personal, so nothing could be used against her. Not sharing, not dating, not making friends with the men with whom she worked. She’d learned that the hard way at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, just before she’d come to Azakistan. By dating the brigade’s logistics officer, she’d opened herself up to smirks and leers. She hadn’t realized until far too late that the louse had spread and embellished the details of their liaison. Taking her for the kind of woman who earned promotions on her back, the brigade commander promised her a glowing performance review in exchange for special favors. She’d managed to extricate herself, but it had taught her an important lesson. Never again would anyone be able to sneer that she’d gotten where she was on her knees. She could and would do it on her own, without help from anybody. Vowing then and there to eliminate even the slightest shred of overlap with her personal life, she threw herself into her career and requested deployment to Iraq or Afghanistan. The Army sent her here instead.
Straight into a situation that made her want to throw all her preventative measures out the door. It wasn’t fair that men like Jace could smile like that. She dropped her gaze to the plastic-wrapped bundle he carried, avoiding his eyes.
Jace stepped over to her hospital bed and handed her the flowers.
“Thank you. They’re lovely.” Heather settled the bouquet into her arms. Her room was, in fact, littered with vases of blooms. The al-Zadr base command, members of her unit, the news media, her coworkers, people she didn’t even know. Flowers had poured in. She’d sent most of them to other wards. The truth was, with all the hoopla, she’d barely had a moment to herself. But somehow these flowers were prettier and smelled sweeter than all the rest.
Good grief, Heather. Get a grip.
Jace glanced at the tubes still in her arms with a concerned frown. “So, how are you?”
Heather glowered. “Well enough to go home, but Dr. McTorture won’t release me unless I have a chaperone.”
Jace grinned. It completely transformed his face, making him look younger and verging on carefree. Heather caught her jaw dropping and snapped it shut, but she couldn’t stop the flush that heated her face.
“Bored, huh?” he said.
Shrugging, Heather bent her head to sniff the flowers. The medley of wildflowers smelled heavenly. “I haven’t really had time to be bored. The media rigmarole is a nightmare. I’m as famous as Lady Gaga, so they keep telling me. I’ve been to press conferences, meetings, debriefings. And these newspapers and magazines keep calling for interviews. They’re relentless.”
Jace pulled the visitor chair as close as the hospital bed would allow. “You’re a hero. A captured female soldier who not only managed to escape, but also gave the Azakistani Air Force enough information that they bombed the terrorist stronghold where they kept you.”
Heather laughed, shaking her head at the same time. “And we both know what a bunch of baloney that is. I did nothing of the sort. That was pure politics.”
“Yeah.” Jace glanced at her and smiled. “But it gave the Azakistanis a decisive victory and wiped out a terrorist training camp. It mollified the Americans who wanted retaliation for the attack on your convoy, and Washington can point to it as progress in the War on Terror. A win all around.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
Jace chuckled. “It’ll pass. Some politician will be caught cheating on his wife, or another Wall Street company will ask for bailout money, or there’ll be a safety recall on power scooters. Give it a week. The sharks will move on.”
Heather folded the blanket between her fingers, then smoothed it out. “Look . . . I never really got the chance to thank you. For saving me. Saving my life. Because whatever the media says, we both know I’d never have made it without you.”
“Mace will be crushed.”
“I meant all of you, of course.” Laughing, Heather glanced up at him. And couldn’t tear her eyes away. His warm gaze moved over her features, and in his eyes she caught the glimmer of the banked desire that had been burning inside her for days. Her smile faded, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. She couldn’t mistake the heat. She caught herself shifting toward him and managed to stop herself, just barely. Frowning, she stared determinedly out the window. Still, she knew it was too late; he had seen the longing in her eyes.
He rose abruptly, putting the width of the room between them. Two seconds later, he returned to the blue plastic chair, perching on the edge of it. “Heather . . .”
She shifted the wildflowers, intending to set them on the table next to her bed. The long stems and wrapping paper tangled in her IV, flipping the bouquet over and sending it sliding toward the edge of the bed. They both reached for the flowers, hands meeting on the plastic. Faces mere inches apart. She froze, eyes widening. Moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
His gaze zeroed in on that small gesture, and Heather’s will to resist stuttered along with her heart. Slowly, Jace took the flowers from her unresisting fingers and leaned over her, bracing one hand beside her head and the other near her shoulder. For a moment, he simply stared at her, taking in each nuance of her expression. He seemed to see straight through her skin to what she thought, what she felt. And what she wanted. She might regret it later, but right now, in this moment, what she wanted was Jace.
Ja
ce tilted his head toward the ceiling, groaning and closing his eyes. “Christ,” he muttered. “I can’t.”
Heather pulled her knees in to her chest, smoothing the blanket over them. Her heart was pounding overtime, and she wanted to jump out of bed and into his arms. Not good.
You don’t date soldiers, Heather. Remember?
Jace captured her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. On top of the bandages. “You’re still stiff and sore. You’re still on pain meds.” He cleared his throat. “And . . . that’s ignoring the other . . . injuries.”
Ah.
But he kept going. “And there’s the whole Become-Attached-to-My-Rescuer thing.”
Heather had to laugh. “Is that what this is?”
Jace scratched his nose, looking uncertain. “Well . . . emotions can flare while on a mission. And then, when things settle down . . .” He toyed with her fingers. “You are one tough lady. I admire the hell out of you. And once you heal . . .” There it was again, the heat in his eyes. “But not until you heal, and . . . have time to process what happened. And, you know, get help.”
“Jace,” she said softly. “I wasn’t raped.”
His eyes flared with relief. “Thank God. I was . . . I wasn’t tiptoeing around it. Well, I was, but not because . . .” He scrubbed both hands down his face. “I can’t even imagine what it might be like for a woman, held prisoner and tortured. Because you were tortured. I saw the evidence.”
She turned to look out the window. “Yes. I was slapped around and burned and humiliated. But I wasn’t raped.” She shivered. “I would have been if I hadn’t escaped. That man . . .” She stopped, embarrassed by the rush of tears. The hospital psychologist had warned her she would be hypersensitive for a while. She took a few deep breaths. “You saved me from that. And I’m grateful. But don’t think it’s any different for a woman to be captured than a man. You’re subject to the same things.”
“Maybe. But I’ve been trained to handle it.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “No one is trained to handle it. You find out what you can endure. I’ve done Survival, Escape, Resistance, and Evasion training—SERE—and I know you go beyond what you think you can bear. And you also find your breaking point. Because everyone has one. Everyone.”