“Yep,” replied David. “We’re sending in coalition forces to intercept them—air and ground.”
Alton nodded. He understood how the C2 unit functioned. They moved the pieces on the chess board, and other people accomplished the real work.
Across the room, an air support officer could be heard shouting into a phone, “No, send in all three Apaches. We need air support from every direction but north.” A low rumble heralding distant explosions reverberated through the building. The battle had begun.
Now that their current mission was accomplished, Alton’s squad gathered around his desk, as did David Dunlow and a few soldiers from Captain Graham’s Alpha Squad.
Captain Graham sauntered over. “I guess you think you’re hot shit now.”
Alton suppressed a frown. He wondered why cracking the code wasn’t Graham’s job, if the man was so proficient. “I did the job I was assigned to do. I don’t see what other choice I had.”
“Nice accent, farm boy” sneered Graham, apparently noticing the lilting cadence of Alton’s southern-Georgia dialect, a mild Southern drawl. “I have a degree from Indiana, one of the best cryptography schools in the nation. What’d you major in? Tobacco farming?” Several of Graham’s soldiers snickered.
“Cryptology, like yourself.”
“What school—Podunk State?” scoffed Graham.
“MIT.”
The smile faded a bit from Graham’s face. “Your credentials might have impressed the grunts out in the field, but they don’t mean jack shit here. I’m next in line for promotion, so just keep your head down…and out of my way. Are we clear on that, champ?”
Alton stared the man squarely in the face. “Captain Graham, I report to General Mooreland. I follow his orders, not yours. I’m sure the general expects you and me to work in tandem to fulfill our joint mission in support of C2. My team and I will fully support you in your mission, and if I am not receiving reciprocal support from your team, I assure you the general will hear of it. Are you clear on that, Captain?”
Graham’s face had turned a progressively darker shade of red as Alton spoke. He took a sarcastic tone in his reply. “Whatever you say, Captain Blackwell. Just do your job, and let me worry about doing mine.” He stormed back to his own desk and collapsed into his chair.
Captain Dunlow leaned over. “You tell ‘em, Captain.”
“Our mission is more important than his promotion,” said Alton, shaking his head. “Every day, people’s lives ride on the proficiency with which we perform our job. If we miss a single, key Al-Qaeda message, soldiers or civilians could die.”
As if in somber confirmation of Alton’s statement, another round of low rumbles penetrated the building, marking the ongoing mosque battle.
That evening, Alton pondered the first few hours in his new job. The environment of his new role might be more sterile, but he could not deny its importance. As before, the lives of soldiers and civilians alike would often depend on his expertise and judgment.
Nonetheless, a veil of unreality continued to cloud Alton’s post-injury experiences, and he wondered if his mind would ever fully grasp the change in his circumstances. Only time would reveal the truth.
CHAPTER 8
Durham, North Carolina
Jeffrey Finch gazed at his computer monitor, scanning the results of recent tests. The dark wood paneling of his office complimented the Brazilian-cherry desk on which the monitor rested.
Following a quiet knock, a blond, middle-aged man with thick glasses cracked the door and peered through. “Have a minute?”
“Sure, Phil,” replied Finch. “Come on in. Have a seat.”
Finch’s colleague entered and dropped into an overstuffed armchair. “I haven’t seen you since you’ve been back to work. How’s Sean?”
Finch smiled with the relief experienced only by the parent of a child who has faced death yet recovered. “Much better, thanks.” He reflected silently for a moment, swiveling his plush, leather chair from side to side. “I tell you what, Phil, it was touch and go for a while there. For the first week, we really didn’t know if he was going to pull through. He probably wouldn’t have been so close if I had flushed the wound first—”
“Jeffrey,” interjected Phil softly, “as a parent, I understand the inclination to blame yourself, but you acted admirably. You disinfected and bandaged the wound, right? Had you not done that, a secondary inflection could have finished him off, considering the weakened state he was in. You also took the animal’s carcass with you so it could be diagnosed and the rabies confirmed.”
“I suppose,” said Finch.
“Plus,” continued Phil, gesturing with his hands, “how many people know how to treat a rabies bite in the first place? You did a lot more than the average person would have done.”
“I’m just glad it had a happy ending. I’d never wish this on any parent.”
“Of course not. Thank goodness you can put it behind you.”
“I can, but what about other parents…other families?”
“What do you mean?”
Finch leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve done a little research. Human rabies infections are rare here in the US, but there are thousands of cases around the world every year, almost all of which end in death for the bite victim since an infected person doesn’t know he has the disease until it’s too late to administer treatments. And the existing vaccines suck. They require a series of shots and still don’t guarantee immunization.” The intensity of his voice increased. “We work for a pharmaceutical company, right? I think there’s a market for a better vaccine, one with full immunological properties, maybe even one that could be administered to wild animal populations via an aerosol. Our recent research on treatments for other viral infections—the West Nile virus, for example—gives us a leg up on creating a better rabies vaccine without having to spend extravagantly on development.”
“But even if we developed a new rabies vaccine, could we turn a profit on it?” asked Phil. “How many customers would we realistically have?”
“I think we could make a profit. It’s an immunization, after all. It doesn’t matter how many people actually contract rabies. What counts is how many doses we sell to prevent it. If we could truly develop a better, more effective vaccine, we could sell millions of doses to the third-world countries where the disease is most prevalent.”
Phil nodded. “I can see why you’re director of R&D.”
Finch regarded his friend with a feeling of determination. “Thanks. It’s not just about the bottom line, though. Third-world or not, no parent should have to experience what I went through. And if I have anything to do with it, they won’t.”
One Month Later
CHAPTER 9
Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan
Alton continued to visit Major Laughton, his counselor. By calling on his sense of family responsibility, she eventually encouraged Alton to pull himself out of the worst of his depression. Thus it was that in tending to his family during their desperate years following his parents’ divorce, Alton had inadvertently created the means of his own salvation from the spiral of dark thoughts that had gripped him since his injury.
At the one-month mark of Alton’s assignment to the C2 unit, he tapped on the door of Colonel Parks’ office.
“Enter,” came the reply from inside. Alton hobbled into the office.
“How are you, Captain?” asked the colonel.
Alton tipped his head sideways and shrugged. “As well as can be expected, sir.”
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here. I have something for you.” The colonel removed a medal from a small case. It contained a gold bas relief of George Washington’s profile on a dark background.
“Your Purple Heart,” said Colonel Parks. “As you requested, I’m awarding this to you via a private ceremony rather than during a unit formation.” The Colonel saluted. After Alton returned the gesture, Colonel Parks passed the medal and box to him.
; “Colonel,” said Alton without additional preamble. “You told me my eventual assignment would be based on the degree of my recovery.”
“That’s right. And…?”
“Sir, we both know I’m probably not going to be cleared to return to the field,” said Alton, glancing with chagrin at his leg. “And while my new job provides some opportunity to apply my cryptographic training, it’s a far cry from the camaraderie and hands-on experience I had out there. In the field, the decisions are life and death for me and my unit.” He thought of the promotion-minded Captain Graham. “And decisions there are based on what’s best for the mission, not a person’s career.”
Alton straightened up as best he could in the crutches. “Sir, I’d like to formally request a medical discharge from the Army.”
The colonel was silent for a moment, wearing a resigned expression. “If you’re sure that’s what you want. Do you want to wait until the physical evaluation board has rendered its final decision?”
“Can I do that?”
“Sure. I can run the paperwork through the whole process. Until I approve the board’s recommendation, nothing will happen. You pass the board, I toss the paperwork. You…,” the colonel paused, then continued in a softer voice. “You fail the board, I can have you on your way state-side in a month.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d like to pursue that option.”
“Will do. By the way…I’m hearing nothing but stellar reports on the quality of your work. General Mooreland is impressed. We all are. If you change your mind, we can always you use here.”
Alton nodded and slowly exited the office.
One Month Later
CHAPTER 10
Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan
Thanks to a consistent and rigorous physical-therapy regimen, Alton was able to trade in his crutches for a cane just as he approached the two-month mark in his new role.
Alton’s emotional progress was less noteworthy. In his new job, he quietly proved his proficiency, yet emotionally, he still felt unmoored and adrift. He worked mechanically, vacantly, not for himself, but for those at home who depended on him. Alton’s impaired mobility and ever-present listlessness combined to limit his circle of acquaintances. He enjoyed the company of the wise-cracking Captain Dunlow yet couldn’t bring himself to reach out to him for a deeper friendship. His heart was still too heavy for such an effort.
Nine weeks into his new job, Alton had just hobbled to his desk to begin the workday when a terrific explosion rocked the bazaar located just outside the front entrance of Camp Eggers’s security wall. Outside Delta building, multiple sirens began to wail.
“Holy shit!” yelled Sergeant Decker. “What was that?” Nearly all the soldiers throughout the large, open room reflexively rose from their seats.
“IED, probably,” said Alton, flashing back to his field-command role. “A homemade bomb.”
Within two minutes, General Mooreland’s voice boomed over the camp’s PA system. “A bomb has been detonated in the local bazaar across the street. We don’t know if more bombs are planted or if this was a diversion in advance of an offensive strike. All infantry will invoke security protocol echo: report to your defensive positions immediately. All medics and MPs are ordered to assist with civilian casualties in the bazaar. The mess hall will be used as a triage area for civilians injured in the blast. All other personnel are to remain at their posts and await further orders.”
Minutes later, General Mooreland approached the Signal section. “Captain Blackwell, how heavy is enemy messaging traffic right now?”
Alton checked his screen. “Minimal, sir.”
“We don’t need two signal squads just sitting here. Take your men to the cafeteria and assist with the triage efforts.”
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Alton, who turned to his soldiers and cried, “Let’s move!”
His men left at a rapid pace. Alton hobbled after them as best he could, but, due to his injury, quickly fell behind. To reach the mess hall, he had to pass through a large courtyard located just inside the camp’s main entrance.
The wide doors to the entrance had been swung open, and the devastation in the bazaar was clearly visible. Burning fragments of vendor carts formed dismal mounds, like so many funeral pyres. Smoke billowed from the mounds and from the main building which housed the bazaar’s permanent stores, creating an ominously dark environment that contrasted strangely with the day’s brilliant sunshine.
Alton’s attention was riveted, however, on the people. In a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, dozens of men, women, and children lay sprawled on the ground. A few seemed beyond help, but most of them were alive, albeit bloody and disheveled. Some cried and writhed on the ground, while others quietly moaned. Scratched and bloodied shoppers pushed through the burning rubble, apparently searching for loved ones.
Without consciously deciding, Alton turned and headed for the scene of devastation. As he passed through the camp doors and into the bazaar, the heavy odor of smoke filled his nostrils. He shuddered as he also recognized the sickly-sweet aroma of blood. While he walked, more soldiers emerged from the camp to render aid.
Alton came upon a young girl of perhaps eleven or twelve years. The shockwave and debris seemed to have injured the entire left side of her body, and she groaned softly as she lay in a small pool of blood on the dusty street. No one was tending to her. Alton had no way of knowing whether she had been in the market alone or had been accompanied by others who now lay among the dead and wounded around her. He blinked rapidly as a gust of wind blew dark smoke from a nearby blaze into his eyes.
Without thinking, Alton scooped up the child and, as gently as possible, laid her over his right shoulder, thereby bearing most of her weight on his good leg. She looked to be about the same age as Ruth. While Alton’s youngest sister shared his fair complexion, she possessed the same gangly limbs as the girl he now carried.
Alton hobbled as best he could back inside the camp walls. Despite his cane, the pain in his leg increased with each step. He tried shifting the girl’s weight, but nothing seemed to help. Once inside the camp doors, he stopped momentarily, gasping for breath. Not much further…just a little further. Early beads of sweat had transformed into rivulets which now poured down his face and chest. After a seeming eternity, he reached the mess hall. He approached the impromptu triage area and carefully placed the child on the floor.
“Medic!” called Alton. The ring of steel in his voice summoned a wide-eyed specialist within moments. Alton sensed the young soldier was on the verge of panic.
“Specialist Jensen,” said Alton, reading the man’s nametag, “I want you to assess this civilian for injuries. Show me the proper order of treatment for her.” Alton hoped his command would invoke the emergency treatment procedures drilled into Army medics over their countless hours of training.
The medic swallowed and examined the child. After confirming her airway was clear and her breathing and heartbeat functioned reasonably well, he slowly peeled back her bloody and tattered clothing. He stifled a gasp as he revealed a gaping wound on her left arm and further abrasions on her neck, torso, and left leg. The medic removed a large sterile bandage from a paper wrapper and applied it over the arm wound. Alton held the bandage in place while Jensen tightened it sufficiently to stop the flow of blood. Another medic arrived, and the two started a saline IV drip, transferred the patient to a stretcher, and moved her to a row of cots which had been set up on the far side of the room for patients whose triage and initial treatment were complete.
Alton leaned against a nearby wall. Exhausted, he slid down the wall until he sat on the floor. Sweat continued to pour down his face, and he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his injured leg. After waiting for his heart to slow its frenetic pace, he pulled himself up, intending to return to the bazaar and assist the remaining wounded. He realized he would have to seek out a smaller child, if there were any left. It was the only way he would have the physical strength to return. He grabbed his cane
and began to make his way out of the mess hall.
A female soldier with a man’s singed arm draped over her shoulder passed by Alton. Both soldier and victim were covered in grime. A medic met them and lowered the man to the floor to begin a medical assessment.
The female soldier turned back to retrieve more injured. As she overtook Alton, she must have observed his limp and the girl’s blood on his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” snapped Alton, wondering why the solider was worrying about him when wounded civilians continued to stream into the building. Realizing his anger was ill-founded, Alton immediately regretted the remark. The almost blinding pain in his throbbing leg was getter the better of him. He turned to apologize, “I’m sorry, it’s kind of you to ask—”
At that moment, the medic returned and asked the female soldier to assist with a stretcher. She smiled at Alton briefly as she turned to help but had no time to speak.
Alton tightened his grip on the cane and plodded forward. Dr. Dunwoody, who had been treating Alton’s physical injuries since his arrival at Camp Eggers, intercepted him at the mess-hall door.
“Captain Blackwell, where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
“To the bazaar—,” began Alton.
“Like hell you are. It’ll be a miracle if you haven’t already torn your sutures. Sit down over there,” she said, pointing to a table in the middle of the room. Several other soldiers and wounded civilians were already resting there. “That’s an order, Captain.” She swept past him to treat the multitude of wounded civilians.
Alton couldn’t find it in his heart to begrudge the doctor. As he lowered himself onto a chair at the indicated table, he doubted he would have had sufficient strength to travel to the bazaar and back, with or without a victim in arms. He admitted that sometimes, all the motivation in the world can’t change life’s reality—that he would have to learn to accept his new limitations.
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