by Ronie Kendig
Crouching from the nearly tangible frost of Death, Hawk leaned away. “You’re right.” He held out his hands to placate time’s master. “Please, I . . .” What could he say? He was wrong. Constant was right—his attempt to play God and rewrite the lives of these men had failed miserably. Inadequacy, an old foe from high school days, rushed in.
This isn’t your battle.
“Very good. Now.” Constant flicked his long digits and immediately the death chill evaporated. Warmth returned to Hawk’s soul as Constant adjusted the slender tie around his neck. “Now, if you’d be a good soldier in uniform and keep your mouth closed and take orders, we can get on with this.”
Hawk ignored the gibe.
“Now, where was I before you, yet again, so rudely interrupted me?” Constant looked down and frowned.
Sarcasm would’ve been Hawk’s first response, but he had none of that left. Only desperation. Desperate hope to make this right. Desperate need to save these men. “Gentleman. You were reminding me how you’re a gentleman.”
Constant’s eyes brightened. “Ah yes.” He tapped his cane against Hawk’s chest. “Good man. Thank you. Now, since I am a gentleman, I do not take back what I give, no matter how poorly the recipient has treated me; then I—”
“Seriously?” Hawk’s rapid-fire pulse slowed.
Brow knotted, Constant glowered.
“Right. Sorry.” Hawk shoved contrite over his action-first mantra. “Please go on.” Was it too much to hope he’d have the remaining hours?
Again, Constant held out his hand. “My watch, Haytham. Return it to me.”
Tugging the item from his pants pocket, Hawk hesitated. The full weight of oppression and failure closed in around him as the shadow of Death trickled over the piece. “It didn’t . . . I failed.”
“Then perhaps no mistakes were made originally. Is it possible you did all you could do, that you did the right thing last time, letting the boy live?”
“No way!” His head felt rigged to blow. The air grew heavy and thick. Hawk stared at the silver piece in his palm. He could do this—save them—or at least swing things in their favor somehow. A few more hours . . . a chance to redeem . . . “I need more time.”
“Afraid not.” Constant snatched the watch. “Ours is not to steal from others, but to make the most of what we have.” He thumped the piece against Hawk’s temple. “That’s for stealing it from me.” He huffed and secured the watch on a chain that hung from a breast pocket of his pin-striped suit.
Shoulders squared, he pinned Hawk with an infamous Constant glare. “Now, please. Don’t annoy me again. I can revoke this agreement at any point. In fact, Mr. D. was less than pleased that I gave you the chance at all.” With a dark smile, he gave a fake shudder. “Should’ve seen that showdown.” The smile grew. “I won, naturally. Or you’d be—” he lifted his eyebrows and indicated the hard-packed earth—“buried six feet under. Wow. This foxhole makes a perfect grave, doesn’t it?”
“No!”
Another cocked head and arched eyebrow. “You have time, Haytham. But not supernatural powers.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you can move a rock from point A in one stream to point B in another, but suspending their lives, altering them . . .” Constant shrugged. “You’re playing hopscotch in the garden of Time, Haytham. And the garden doesn’t belong to you.”
“Meaning?”
“Some things you can control; others you cannot.”
Hawk stilled, curious over the implication. Thomas Constant seemed to be hinting at something profound. Truth seemed to feather-brush against his mind.
Thunk!
Hawk blinked and rubbed his temple where, once again, Time had thumped the watch. “What was that for?”
Mischief danced in the blue eyes. “To help that thought get dislodged from the ambiguity.” He chuckled. “And of course, for stealing my watch.” He gave a two-finger salute, then waved. “Two hours, Haytham. Make them count.”
* * *
He’d lain there so still, so lifeless.
Abda dare not move as he stared at Hawk, who lay in one position for a very long time. Had a bullet hit him? What if his heart stopped working, like Moor’s plaar?
But his eyes were open.
Heart thudding louder than the sound of gunshots, Abda waved a hand before Hawk’s eyes. Nothing. No blink. No grunt.
“Hawk?” he whispered as he pulled himself forward to see into the man’s eyes. Even with the different-colored paint on the American soldier’s face, Abda could tell the man was a good man. He’d seen that in the way Hawk had treated him.
Maybe Hawk was just intensely focused. Even Plaar would ignore him at times when there was something very important. Abda looked out over the valley, the land he’d known all his life. The rocky parts, the grass, the small lake glistening in the distance.
A shadow moved over the lake. A cloud—
His gaze rose to the starlit sky. No, no clouds.
When he glanced at the lake once more, his heart was afraid. Though he saw something like a shadow dance on the waters, there was nothing there. A chill shuddered through Abda’s body.
Cradling his box under his left arm, he scooted closer to Hawk. Hand on the man’s shoulder—well, on his vest, really—Abda searched the man’s face and eyes for signs of life. How could he possibly be alive and not moving? Wouldn’t he tell Abda to get down? Shove him aside?
“Hawk?” With a heavy thump of his heart, Abda shook his new friend. “Hawk?”
What if he was dead . . . but not dead?
What does that mean?
Though he did not want to, he let his gaze wander to the lake. The air seemed lighter—no shadow! Abda let out a nervous laugh. As he looked back to Hawk, his breath shoved into the back of throat—there! The shadow. So close to the main road.
Panic shook him, like the day the Sand Spider grabbed Abda’s tunic and lifted him off the floor, angry over something Abda did not understand.
He clapped his hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “Hawk.” Spit clogged in his throat. He coughed.
“Sh!” Hawk’s boss hissed.
Again, Abda shook his friend. “Hawk. What is wrong?”
Hawk jolted. “Augh!”
“Ahh!”
Hawk threw his arm up.
Abda tumbled back, his chest pounding at the alarm, but two strong hands caught him. What was wrong with Hawk? He acted like Abda had just woken him.
A bunch of hissed words shot their way.
Though Abda’s eyes burned, he refused to cry.
Eyes wild and wide, Hawk stared at him. “What . . . what were you doing?” His Pashto rose and fell unevenly.
“You . . . you weren’t awake.” Abda was glad when Hawk’s grip loosened on his arms. “I got scared. There was some . . . thing in the field. And you weren’t . . . Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”
“I’m sorry.” He patted Abda on the chest. “We . . . we need to get you back to your home, yes?”
Abda nodded fast. “Yes, my moor.” And then he wouldn’t be scared anymore. He sniffled back the stinging in his eyes. “She always worries about me, especially when it’s dark.”
Hawk placed a hand on Abda’s cheek. “You’re very good to take care of your mom so well. Your father must be very proud.”
“Do you . . . do you have a son?”
His hand lowered to Abda’s shoulder. “No kids of my own. But . . . I said before that I had a sister. What I didn’t say was that I also have a brother about your age.”
Incredible! Imagine being the brother of an American soldier like this man. Such honor!
“Hey.” Hawk looked around to the others and spoke to them in English. Though Abda had learned some English from the soldiers, he couldn’t use the language the way they did. He recognized two words: . . . kid . . . box . . .
Abda held tighter to his treasure box. Surely they were not going to take it away from him. But then, the one opposite Hawk rolled ont
o his back, reached into a pocket on his pants, and tugged something free. He held it out.
Abda frowned and looked at Hawk. What did the soldier want him to do with it?
“For your box,” Hawk said in Pashto.
He spun back toward the man, then looked at the small flashlight. “For me?” It felt like a blanket, warmed by a fire, draped over his shoulders, when the soldier nodded.
Afraid the man would jerk it away and laugh, Abda slowly reached for it. When his hands closed around the metal, he pushed his gaze to the soldier. “Thank you.”
The man smiled.
“Here,” another said.
Abda froze when he saw the candy bar. They were so sweet and good, better than cashews. He accepted it with a nod and thanks. As he placed the two items in the box, he heard the others talking. They passed him a cord bracelet, a packet of Army food, and other things. His box was as full as his heart. Abda could barely close it when he turned to Hawk, who crouched by the edge of the foxhole.
“I can’t believe it,” he said with a laugh. “So many things. I will need another box.”
Hawk reached into his side pocket and pulled out a thin device. Abda had seen other soldiers with those things, and long wires going up into their ears. Hawk plucked the wires out—and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.
Hawk went very still. Not as still as when he looked dead.
Abda lifted the paper, surprised to find a pretty woman. “She is your wife?”
A half smile teased Hawk’s mouth. “No.” He took the picture back.
“Why not? She’s pretty.”
The smile grew big. “Yeah, she is.”
“You should marry her and have children. A son, like me!”
Though he smiled, Hawk didn’t look happy.
“What is wrong? Do you love her?”
Hawk swallowed. “Yeah . . .”
“Hey.” Hawk’s boss looked mad. “Move. Now.”
“Come on,” Hawk said as he crawled out of the hole and motioned Abda to come with him.
He clambered out and followed the soldier with all his gear and weapon. They scooted around the edge of the hill, past Delaram and the other sheep. Crouching behind a tree, Hawk paused and pointed to the homes. “You live there?”
Abda nodded. “Yes, and the Sand Spider is still there.”
“Well, here.” Hawk tugged out wires from his pocket, plugged them into the device, then pressed a button and spoke into it.
What was he saying? Abda couldn’t quite tell because he’d spoken so softly.
Hawk placed the tips of the wires in Abda’s ears and then showed him how to turn it on. Music flowed through the wires. Loud, thumping music. With a swipe of his finger, Hawk changed the song. A softer one.
Then one more move and he heard this: “Abda, you will always be my friend. Proverbs 16:32 says, ‘Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.’ Remember to have self-control, friend.”
Abda looked up at the soldier. “Really? We are friends?”
On a knee, Hawk caught him by the shoulders. “Abda, listen.” His eyes looked back and forth over Abda’s face. “I . . .” He sighed. Squeezed Abda’s shoulders. “Do you believe in God?”
“Allah? Yes.”
That didn’t seem to be the answer Hawk wanted. “We are friends, yes?”
“Yes, I like that very much.”
“I need you to promise me one thing.”
“I will try.”
“Do not tell anyone about us, Abda. No matter what they ask you, I need you to tell them that the only thing you saw on that hill was your sheep.”
“Delaram—her name is Delaram.”
Hawk gave a quick smile. “Remember you told me your cousin was killed?”
Sad and a bit scared at why Hawk would mention that, Abda nodded.
“Well, I had a very bad sort of dream where you went back and told your parents of me and my team—”
“Oh no. I wouldn’t!”
“In my dream, you did. And your parents told some very bad people, who hunted my team down and used a grenade to kill us.”
Abda put his hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “Friends do not kill friends. Right?”
Sadness played on Hawk’s face. “Right. Just remember, if you tell your moor and plaar that the other soldiers and I are up there, I will have to watch all my other friends, the same ones who gave you gifts—” he tapped the treasure box—“die. The man you call the Sand Spider will order men to kill us.”
A little taller and a little angry, Abda stood straight. “I will not tell him. I promise, Hawk.”
“Please.” Hawk’s grip was tight, and it hurt, but he noticed and let go. “I don’t want to die, Abda. And I don’t want my friends to die.”
“I will not say anything, Haytham. You are my friend, and I do not want to see any more friends die.” He sighed. “It makes my heart sad.”
“Thank you, friend.”
“Will I see you again?”
Hand on Abda’s head, Hawk smiled. “It would be nice—when there is no more war.” He rumpled his hair. “If you are tempted to tell anyone of us, play the message I recorded. Remember, we are friends. You and me. America and Afghanistan.”
11
Power had shifted. No longer did it rest in his hands, namely in the form of Constant’s watch. Watching through the scope of his M4 as the kid scrambled back to his home left Hawk with a profound sense of affirmation. Which left him confused. Shouldn’t he feel like a failure? His plan hadn’t worked. The fact that the boy scrabbled toward the safety of his home right now was proof positive.
But peace existed now where none had before. Only anger. So much that it had consumed him. All too well, he recalled yelling at Ash . . . seeing the pain as his words gouged through her heart. He’d just wanted her to move on. Hated that all she was—her sweetness, her beauty, her stubbornness, even—reminded him of what would’ve been had the team not died, had he not lost his hand . . . and his soul.
“You should marry her and have children. A son, like me!”
A son . . . now that would’ve been something. But it was too late.
Hold up. His thoughts sped around the time travel thing. When the seven hours were up, would he land back in that hospital? Would he relive the next thirty years?
Irony at its best, since he’d hoped to skip those years with all their pain and heartache. But what had Thomas said? A gift of time? Yeah . . . that was just it. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around Ashley’s picture.
Darkness overpowered his ability to see Abda once he slipped between two buildings, descending deeper into the village. Hawk lost sight of his small frame with just a yard or two separating the boy from his family.
C’mon, he mentally nudged Abda as he traced the reticle over the shadows and buildings. He’d have to get back to the team, to cover. God, keep Abda safe—and his mouth closed. It felt like a selfish prayer, but then . . . weren’t a lot of prayers? All Hawk knew was that he wanted his team to survive this daunting night. He scurried back to the team and dropped into the hole.
Yes, power had shifted—straight out of his hands and into those of a seven-year-old boy. Could he convince Stratham to move out? Relocate? A lot had gone wrong. Maybe he could use that as a bargaining tool. “Things are crazy,” Hawk mumbled.
“No kidding,” Mack said.
A second later, Jensen and Jacobie returned, hustling into the trench.
“What’s the word?” Stratham asked as he angled his body around to look at the two men.
“Unknown,” Jensen said. “We saw forms moving, but we couldn’t make them out.”
“Count?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen fighters. Not convinced they pose a threat to us. Their movements seemed intentional. They weren’t on a killing spree.”
“Tell him.”
“Shut it.”
Stratham eased up, but not enough to put his head in the l
ine of fire should they be seen. “What? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Jensen said as he speared Jacobie with a fierce look.
“Bull.” Stratham pointed to Jacobie. “Talk.”
“I saw something. I can’t be sure because it was dark, and by the time I swung to search for it, the glint was gone.”
“Glint?”
Jacobie nodded. “Yes, sir. A glint—like from a pair of binoculars.”
Stratham looked to Hawk, then back to Jacobie. “Binoculars?”
With a backhanded swat, Jensen grunted. “See? I told him to keep it to himself.”
“No,” Hawk said. “What if there’s another team out there?”
“That’s some leap, Hawk.” Stratham’s words held chiding, but the man’s expression spoke louder. He thought it plausible too. “But . . . it could happen. And if that’s the case, we need to be careful, not kill each other in friendly fire. If they don’t know we’re here . . .”
“What do we do?” Mack asked as the others listened but kept watch, took note of the surroundings and details.
This was it. The chance to change things. To get the team out of here before the mission went south and took six lives with it. Thank you, God. Abda would be safe, the team would live, and Hawk could die in peace—and maybe, in one piece. With all his parts attached.
Man, the idea of seeing these guys, their ugly mugs, in a year, five—for the rest of his life—jolted him with elation.
He seized the chance to steer this. “We move,” Hawk said. “Take up a better position that enables us to see north and south.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Stratham snapped. “That would put us in the floor of the valley. We’d get trampled with any and all foot and vehicle traffic, not to mention putting us at an extreme disadvantage—”
“But we’re at a disadvantage here.” Blood whooshed through Hawk’s temples. “Already we’ve got reports of freedom fighters, and now maybe another spec ops team?”
“Our orders were to dig in, observe, and report.”
“Those orders didn’t anticipate the appearance of that kid.”
Mack nodded. “Hawk is right. We need to do something.”
“No.” Stratham nearly growled that answer. “We have less than an hour before extraction. We stay. We get the job done, and we go home.” He looked around at the others. “Clear?”