Jaime Richards.
Holy shit.
His voice remained calm and detached, but he added a tone of reassurance as he spoke quietly. “Most of my team will not know who you are, because your situation has been kept close hold. But my CG is going to want to see you ASAP. Climb in my Humvee. We have a long trip to Anaconda.”
“Sergeant Major!” yelled his driver as Jaime tried unsuccessfully to open her door. They weren’t the same Humvees they’d had when she disappeared. “Checkmate is asking for our status.”
“Let me handle it,” DeCamp called to his driver as he pushed past Jaime and popped open her door. “And bring our passenger your Kevlar.”
As the young driver handed Jaime a helmet and helped her get buckled in, DeCamp was spitting orders over the radio, first to the rest of his own convoy. “Outlaw One-One, this is Outlaw Seven.”
“Outlaw One-One,” came the reply.
“I need fuel status on all Victors. Change of mission. We head to Balad.”
“Does this have anything to do with your blond-haired passenger?” was the response from Outlaw One-One.
“Don’t ask,” growled DeCamp into his microphone. “Just get the convoy ready. We pull out in 5 Mikes.”
And the command sergeant major did something else that he very rarely did on the road.
He grinned.
February 23, 2006, 5:15 p.m.
Commanding General’s Office,
5th Corps Support Command Headquarters
Balad, Iraq
* * *
Brigadier General Elizabeth Culver had spent the better part of an hour trying to wade through unread e-mails. As Commanding General of the 5th Corps Support Command she was allowed unlimited space in her in-box, which was not necessarily a good thing. There were times when she had thousands of e-mails waiting for her attention.
But today she didn’t mind. Anything to keep her occupied while waiting for her personal security detachment to return from their mission south of Baghdad. Earlier that day she had received a cryptic message from her command sergeant major via the mobile tracking system. It had been a direct send for her only and stated simply: “Jaime Richards found. Returning to HQ.”
Had someone discovered the woman’s body? Culver wondered. Of course Richards was dead; they all knew that was the most likely outcome… the only outcome that made sense after this amount of time. Although Culver faced so many deaths in a war zone, it never got easier.
And this wasn’t an ordinary situation. It was going to have to be handled.
Culver stood up from her desk and walked around it to stare at the wide-screen television hanging above a large mahogany conference table. She was a slim five-eight with light brown hair that was slightly graying at the temples. The general was wearing the new Army combat uniform with a digital pattern and carried a 9mm sidearm strapped in a black holster on her right hip. She unconsciously snapped and unsnapped the safety catch on the holster as she observed the CNN Headline News ticker scroll silently on the screen.
Jaime Richards’s disappearance and death had been classified Top Secret, because of extraordinary circumstances that even the general didn’t fully understand. News of the missing officer had been successfully kept out of the public eye. Now, on Culver’s watch, was it going to break wide open?
At that moment Command Sergeant Major DeCamp appeared in her doorway. He carried his helmet and had not bothered to remove any of his body armor or other protective gear—not even his Wiley goggles. He looked tired and needed a shower and shave—and yet there was a strange glint in his eye. She nodded him into the room. Before this got any further, she needed to know where they’d found the body and how they’d made the identification.
But rather than entering the general’s office, he said, “Ma’am, I found her. Or better yet, she found us.”
As the general struggled to process what he meant, the sergeant major stepped aside. He pulled a woman in a green tunic into the doorway with him.
“Ma’am, I would like for you to meet Chaplain Jaime Richards.”
“You’re freakin’ kiddin’ me!” burst out of Culver’s mouth as she stared, dumbfounded, at the young woman. Culver quickly regained her composure and stepped forward, offering her hand to Jaime and saying, “Chaplain Richards, I’m Liz Culver.”
With a firm handshake the general drew Jaime into the room as her sergeant major disappeared, closing the door behind him.
General Culver placed her left hand on Jaime’s shoulder and gave her a searching look. “How are you?” She didn’t let go of the hand or shoulder but continued to fix her gaze as if willing her to respond more deeply than the typical “I’m fine.”
“Physically I feel pretty good. Emotionally I’m not sure. I really haven’t had a chance to process everything that’s happened.”
Culver motioned for Jaime to sit down at the table and sat also. She ran her hands back through her hair as she sat down on the edge of her seat, leaning her elbows on the conference table.
Chaplain Richards looked tan and healthy. Her eyes were alert, and she seemed fully engaged with the current situation. No point in beating around the bush.
“Where have you been for the past three years?”
“I’m not sure. In fact, it doesn’t seem like three years. I remember being kidnapped in Babylon. I think I remember being beaten and left for dead along a dirt road somewhere. The rest is sort of a hazy blur until I ‘woke up’ again about a week ago. I was living with a family of goat herders somewhere just across the border in Iran.”
“That’s incredible! How did you find your way back?”
“A cousin of my host family smuggled me across the border and arranged transportation to the highway. This seemed the best way to get me back to my people without bringing notice or harm down on my host family.”
“Do you think you could locate where you were on a map?”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure I want to try. I don’t know how I got there, but these people took me in and protected me. I don’t want to return the favor by bringing trouble down on them.”
Culver ran a hand back through her hair again and relaxed into her chair. “Abe Derry was a War College classmate of mine, and when he heard I was bringing the COSCOM on this rotation to Iraq, he told me to keep an eye out for you,” she said, referring to the man who had been the commander of Jaime’s unit when she had been kidnapped. “I didn’t want to burst his bubble with my assumption that you were most likely dead. But he never gave up hope for your return.” She shook her head, chuckled, then slapped the table. “But here you are! The question, of course, is what now?”
The one-star general stared at the chaplain. What would she ever have expected if she had been told that Jaime Richards would return? She’d never met the woman, had only seen her I.D. photo. With everything Culver had been told and had thought about the Jaime Richards situation, nothing had prepared her for the vibrant woman who now sat before her.
“First order of business is to make sure you have no lasting effects from this ordeal. I’m going to have one of my captains get you settled over at the theater hospital. They’ll want to do an initial checkup while I find out what other requirements we must meet before sending you to Landstuhl. You’ve been missing for three years, and needless to say, there’s a certain repatriation protocol we’ve got to follow.” The general held her hand to her head, as if willing some deeply buried information to surface. “Certainly there are CID interviews, intelligence debriefings, and who knows what else. But for the time being, try to relax.”
There was a knock at the door and the general’s aide stuck his head in the door. “Ma’am, you have the BUA in 5 minutes.”
“Mike, I’m skipping the battle update. I need to speak on a secure line with the corps commander as soon as we can get through. Then call Lieutenant Colonel Grindstaff and ask him to send over one of the female captains from his office for an escort officer.” She thought for a moment, then continued, “And go
dig up a PT uniform for our guest so she doesn’t have to walk around in this costume.”
A physical training uniform consisted of shorts and a gray Army T-shirt, which would allow Jaime to blend in without being identified.
General Culver stood, smiling, and Jaime followed suit.
The general shook her head again at the unexpected turn of events. “Welcome back to civilization!” she said, putting one arm around the chaplain’s shoulder.
Culver didn’t see the wry smile on Jaime’s face at her use of the term “civilization.”
February 23, 2006, 11:38 p.m.
U.S. Air Force C-17 Globemaster, airspace above Iraq
* * *
Jaime unlatched her seat belt and removed her Kevlar and body armor. The crew chief, clad in a gray-green jumpsuit, had just indicated it was safe to move around the Air Force C-17.
Taking off from Balad Airfield was an adventure, because the threat of surface-to-air missiles from insurgents made combat landings and takeoffs necessary. This meant the airplane would initially maintain a steep rate of climb and make quick turns and the passengers and crew would be required to wear full protective gear until a safe altitude was reached.
Except for the flight deck itself, the bulk of this plane’s airframe was dedicated to a massive cargo hold that had been converted into a flying hospital. Tonight’s destination was Ramstein Air Base in Germany. The plane was currently filled with wounded and ill service members bound for Landstuhl Regional Medical Center for further evaluation and stabilization and then follow-on flight to the United States. During the wild ride that was takeoff, even the ambulatory injured soldiers and Marines had been strapped down on cots, which were linked together and secured to the floor of the cargo bay.
Along the wall opposite the chaplain was an assembly of metal scaffolding that had been erected for insertion of litters, giving it a bunk-bed effect. Some of the more seriously wounded patients were strapped in there. One of those patients seemed to be the main focus of attention of a flight nurse and medical technician who were busy trying to make him comfortable.
Jaime wrapped her body armor around her helmet and put it on the floor next to her seat, which was fixed to the outer wall of the cargo hold. The woman next to her also removed her protective gear, which had been layered over a crisply starched linen shirt and highly creased Dockers. She had introduced herself as Ms. Kay Clarke from the State Department earlier that evening when she swooped into the Air Force Theater Hospital to collect the chaplain.
State Department. Jaime hadn’t expected that. She knew she faced a physical examination before she left Balad, as well as inquiries by an intelligence officer. Even less pleasant, Jaime was sure, would have been her chat with CID, the criminal investigation division, who would need to make sure she hadn’t done anything illegal, like go AWOL or join the insurgency.
But none of those people had made it to her because she’d been co-opted by the woman beside her. Not that it had been an easy feat to accomplish.
Kay Clarke was about five and a half feet tall, medium build, athletic, with short brown hair. She had shown up at the patient administration department of the Air Force Theater Hospital wielding State Department credentials and high-level orders to escort Jaime immediately to Germany. The doctor in charge of Jaime’s case had no intention of letting her go. There were many tests to be run, and protocol demanded the S2 and CID interviews before she be moved anywhere. Ms. Clarke had replied that all would be handled at Landstuhl.
The doctor assigned to Jaime, an Air Force major, flatly refused to comply with the request. He finally called on the Hospital Commander to back him up. When the commander, Colonel Resnick, showed up, Kay Clarke went toe-to-toe with him, not backing down for a moment. Observing the exchange and the woman’s unflappable manner in handling these officers, Jaime couldn’t help but think, This woman is like a pit bull with lip gloss!
Ms. Clarke and the commander disappeared down the hall. While waiting for their return, Jaime had marveled that after more than three years of operations at this location the hospital complex had not been upgraded from an interconnected series of tents pitched over concrete pads. But it was obvious from the constant flow of patients, translators, unit liaisons, hospital staff, and even Iraqi families that this complex of tents was a vital nerve center for medical treatment in Iraq.
A short while later Ms. Clarke and the commander reappeared. Colonel Resnick pulled Jaime’s doctor aside and said a few things the major obviously did not want to hear. At the same time, the woman had walked to Jaime and said, “Come on; let’s go.” And they had left to board the C-17 in which they were now flying to Ramstein.
Jaime was ready to handle whatever was thrown at her during her repatriation. But someone from the State Department with orders high level enough to snatch her from the Army—this was a curveball. It was possible this was a new trajectory, one she wasn’t supposed to be on. But obviously, she couldn’t bolt. In fact, she couldn’t do anything to call attention to herself.
Kay Clarke must have read her thoughts. She was looking straight ahead when she said in a voice loud enough to be heard only by the chaplain, “Jaime, relax. I’m your third and final guide for this reentry.”
Jaime laughed, relieved, and shook her head. She should have guessed.
The flurry of activity around the critically wounded soldier across from Jaime had ceased. Falling into her old pattern, Jaime stood to go talk with him. Recognizing her purpose, Ms. Clarke put a restraining hand to Jaime’s arm.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to mingle. We don’t want to draw attention to you.”
“I’m incognito in this PT uniform. Besides, I am a chaplain. It’s why I’m here.” And she continued across the cargo bay to visit with the patient.
A couple of IV bags were attached to the metal bar above his litter. One arm, lying on top of the blue-flowered flannel blanket covering him, was heavily bandaged. She looked in his eyes, could see he was in a lot of pain, but he smiled.
“Who you with?” she asked.
“101st. FOB Speicher.” “FOB,” or “Forward Operating Base,” was the term given the numerous camps spread all over the country. Speicher was located in northern Iraq, vicinity of Tikrit, and home base for the 101st Airborne Division.
“Oh, a Screaming Eagle?” She smiled.
“Air Assault!” he responded.
And that is how it started. For the next 15 minutes she just let him talk. He told her about his family, his girlfriend, and the “band of brothers” he had left behind. Then, when he spoke of his Humvee crew, he broke down. He had been the turret gunner and had taken the worst of the IED blast in his legs. The driver had walked away unharmed, but the TC in the right front seat had been killed.
“I should have seen that bomb along the road. I should have fired it up. But I was looking the other way.”
Saying nothing, she gripped his good hand in both of hers while he cried. Then they quietly prayed together. After that she returned to her seat and buckled in. For the first time since her return, even though she was flying through the night sky she felt she had her feet on the ground.
Ms. Clarke nodded, then turned her attention back to a notebook where she was furiously scribbling comments. Jaime, now completely exhausted, leaned back to collapse for the remainder of the flight.
February 23, 2006, 11:45 p.m.
Commanding General’s Office,
5th Corps Support Command Headquarters
Balad, Iraq
* * *
“Abe, what the hell is going on here?” Brigadier General Culver had managed to reach Abe Derry by secure line to his office in the Pentagon. “I have a hospital commander foaming at the mouth because a former MIA has been jerked out of his grasp without following the repatriation protocol. I’ve got to admit, I’m baffled as well. Sure, she looks good, but she has been gone for three years! Do you have any G2 on this?”
“Liz, if I had anything to tell you, I would,�
�� was Derry’s reply. “I don’t know much except someone with a lot of pull wanted her kept under wraps and expedited through the system. I assume, with your position and clearance, you have seen the files about her disappearance?”
“Yes, I was read on when I took command here.”
“Then you know we were ordered to keep the situation quiet. Now senior leadership is adamant that her return not be publicized. I think they want Chaplain Richards somewhere they can control access to her. I guess we have to trust that the interviews and tests required will all be handled appropriately.”
“Well, it really makes me curious about this woman. How well did you know her? She was so calm, healthy, so balanced, for someone who was just picked up along the Iraqi roadside!” Which translated politely: Obviously there’s more going on here than I’ve been privy to.
“That’s my Jaime!” Liz could hear him smile even across the phone line. All of which translated, politely: I’m not concerned, and you don’t need to be. You’re also not learning anything else on this phone call.
“You’re a big help!” she threw back at him, chuckling at his reaction.
They talked for a few more minutes, comparing notes about the difference between his deployment in 2003 and her current tour.
Finally, Abe said, “Liz, I hear good things about your work downrange. You’ve built up a great rep here in the building. Keep it up, but be safe, OK?”
“Thanks, my friend. And lift a cold one for me, will you? This ‘near-beer’ shit doesn’t quite cut it!”
He laughed hard at that, said his final good-byes, and hung up.
Yes, what I wouldn’t give right now for a real beer. And she turned back to her computer and the endless string of e-mail.
Friday
February 24, 2006, 4:30 p.m.
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center
Landstuhl, Germany
Beyond Eden Page 3