Honor Courage Commitment

by Jordan Danzig

  “Some.”

  “Did you not take a pill before bed?” I should have said something. Keeping her voice soft, she said, “Do you have them with you?”

  He placed the vial on the table in front of her. She shook out a pill and offered it to him. “Please take one now.” He let her take his hand and place the capsule in the palm. He fumbled the tablet into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of orange juice. She encouraged him to eat something. He managed to down several pieces of toast and by the end of the meal some color had returned to his face and his hands no longer trembled.

  “Are your bags ready?” Zanna asked. He nodded. “Give me your key card and I’ll get them when I fetch mine.” He silently handed over his card. Normal service resumed now, I see. But Zanna smiled to herself knowing he was no longer in so much pain.

  Exiting the elevator on their floor, she bumped into Julie Schwarz.

  “How’s he doing?” Julie asked.

  “Better . . . now.”

  “I see the way you look at him. You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” Her hand brushed Zanna’s arm.

  Zanna blinked back the tears. “I’m not even a blip on his radar.”

  Julie stepped into the elevator but held the door open. “He is what he is, Zanna. You won’t be able to change him.” A guest entered the elevator and Julie released the doors. “However, I have a feeling you understand that type of man.”

  Zanna fumbled with her keycard in the slot, mad at herself for welling up at Julie’s words. But she’s right, I am falling for him.

  * * *

  Watching a sluggish Rivera settle into his seat and close his eyes, Zanna hoped the trip hadn’t taken too much out of him. To accept that pill this morning, he had to be in unspeakable pain.

  When the pre-flight drinks arrived, Zanna selected one for herself and declined on Rivera’s behalf. The attendant offered a pillow and blanket, along with a complimentary eyeshade and earplugs. She promptly returned with the items, but Zanna didn’t have the heart to disturb Rivera, so just gently laid the blanket over him.

  While he slept peacefully throughout the flight, Zanna busied herself with designing new work-out schedules for him. Somewhere over the Midwest of America, it occurred to her that she would have to reimburse either the Corps or the Navy for her travel and accommodation expenses. Bugger, that’s going to put a heavy dent in my already battered credit card.

  18

  Back at the FOB, the Marines’ vehicles peeled away from Washington’s and parked next to a group of ATVs and motorbikes near their huts. The men jumped out and stood around discussing the IED. Amanda attempted a less ambitious dismount and would have landed on her knees if Angel hadn’t reached out to steady her.

  “You look beat,” he said. “Give me a moment and I’ll walk you back to your hooch.” He disappeared inside his own accommodation.

  Groaning with fatigue and relief, Amanda took off her flak jacket and helmet and let them fall into the dirt at her feet. She tugged at her blouse, but it stuck resolutely to her damp skin.

  Angel returned and picked up Amanda’s flak jacket, helmet, and backpack. He was now down to his desert boots, cammie trousers, and green t-shirt; stripped of all of his gear apart from the pistol on his right hip and the rifle over his shoulder.

  Strolling back to her hut, they chatted about the days events, especially the heat and the dust.

  “How can you go out in all that gear, carrying all that kit in this heat, day after day and not go crazy, not to mention pass out? It was unbearably hot for me in the vest. You must’ve been melting with all your extras.”

  “You learn to embrace the suck.”

  “Do what?” She laughed. They had jargon for every occasion.

  “Embrace the suck sums up unpleasant duty. It means, ‘Yeah, it’s bad, but we chose this life so you have two choices; deal with it or quit’—and quitting isn’t an option for Marines. The dust is a real pain in the ass, though. It gets into everything. Eyes, teeth, socks, underwear . . . and beyond. It jams weapons, laptops, MP3 players.”

  Amanda wasn’t paying close attention to what he was saying because she was fantasizing about how, if he wasn’t carrying all her equipment, she’d be holding his hand as they walked. They reached the side of her B-hut. Angel dropped Amanda’s belongings in the dust and placed his hands at arm’s length against the wall on either side of her head. She basked in the latent power of his charismatic presence. He leaned in, stared into her eyes, and then let his gaze wander over her face—and below—and back to her eyes. Her heart pounded furiously, Go on . . . go on.

  He moved in closer. “Te deseo,” he whispered.

  She stifled a moan. He moved his right hand and trailed the back of his fingers down her cheek and across her lips. Her tongue gently played with them as they slid past. His fingers continued their journey down under her chin. She tilted her head back as she felt the warmth creeping into her body.

  “Yes, oh, yes.” Her words were barely audible and more like a sigh.

  His lips brushed hers with a delicious tenderness. She imagined running her fingers through his somewhat shaggy hair, but she couldn’t make herself move. She closed her eyes—and felt him draw away from her. She opened her eyes as he slammed his hand into the wall beside her head.

  “He’s right, I can’t do this!” He pushed himself off the wall and walked around the end of the building.

  “Angel? Angel!” Amanda ran after him, but when she rounded the corner, he was nowhere to be seen. He’d vanished among the rows of huts. She turned around and in the failing light, bumped into someone. She muttered an apology to the man.

  In a cold voice, he said, “I don’t like girls who play hard to get.”

  “What?” Amanda wrapped her arms around her body and attempted to sidestep him.

  He blocked her progress. “If he couldn’t do it for you, let’s see if I can turn you on. Be a shame to waste the opportunity.”

  Her heart beat faster and her breathing quickened. There was no sign of anyone nearby. She backed away until she came up against the side of a building. He casually placed his hands on the wall either side of her head in exactly the same way Angel had. With Angel’s hands in that position, she felt safe and protected. With these hands, she was vulnerable and threatened. He moved in closer, mimicking Angel again. Her mind raced. This man smelled rancid; of BO, stale cigarettes, and diesel. He ran his index finger down her cheek in a parody of Angel’s tender touch. She moved her head in an attempt to dislodge his finger. Get off me! Her heart rate went up another gear and waves of nausea swept through her. He didn’t stop at her chin; he carried on to her neck and down the front of her blouse until he got to the button on her jeans. No. No. No. No! He undid it and moved on to the zipper. She squirmed and kicked out at him. He responded by pushing his knee in her groin and pinning her to the wall. She drew a breath in preparation for a scream.

  He clamped an oily hand over her mouth. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” He fumbled one-handed with his own trousers.

  Amanda screwed her eyes shut in an attempt to fight back the tears. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry and adding fuel to his power trip. Her heart jumped around like a wild animal trying to escape capture. She placed her hands against the man’s chest in a last ditch effort of defense. His body tensed under her hands.

  The threat came again. This time, although delivered in a soft drawl, it dripped with bone-chilling menace. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

  Amanda’s eyes sprang open. Mason was standing behind her assailant, holding a knife to the man’s throat; the blade so sharp it had already drawn blood just by touching the skin.

  “I oughta finish you off right here,” he whispered into the man’s ear. He pressed the knife a little deeper and the trickle turned to a rivulet.

  Amanda ducked out from under the man’s arm and stood alongside Mason. She hesitantly placed her hand on his arm. “Don’t do anything stupid,
Mason. He’s not worth it.”

  “You think I should just let him go so he can do it to some other girl sometime?”

  “Take him to the MPs.”

  Her attacker sneered. “Nothing happened. It would be your word against mine. They’d just put it down to a misunderstanding.”

  Mason slackened his grip slightly and the man tried to pull away. Mason spun with him, grabbing and twisting the man’s wrist up behind his back. “You move, I’ll break it,” Mason murmured.

  “I’ll get you court-martialed for this, you sick mutha!”

  Mason sent the man sprawling in the dust. “It would be your word against mine. They’d just put it down to a misunderstanding,” he said, with a sly grin. “I know who you are and if I ever hear your name in connection with anything other than work . . . .”

  A couple of inquisitive heads appeared around the side of the building, drawn by the man’s shouts. When Mason bent over and wiped his knife on the man’s shirt, they withdrew. Mason watched impassively while the man inched away, supporting his sprained wrist against his chest.

  “Are you OK, ma’am?” Mason asked.

  “Amanda, please,” she replied. “A little shaken . . . and if you hadn’t happened along—”

  “I was on my way to the showers and saw him behaving in an ungentlemanly fashion. Thought I oughta check it out.” He picked up Amanda’s belongings and escorted her to her door.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He rubbed at an eyebrow. “Nothing I can’t handle, but don’t say anything about this to Angel, he might decide to take it further.”

  She opened the door to her accommodation, then turned around to grasp one of Mason’s hands in both of hers. “Thank you, Mason.”

  He placed his free hand over hers. “You can call me Mace.”

  * * *

  Relaxing after a shower during the window allotted the female staff, Amanda replayed the evening’s events in her head. Her smile faded when she thought about how Angel had pulled away—but why? The feelings she was experiencing for him left her confused. Yes, he was very good-looking and had a superb body, but he just was not her type. She hated herself for even thinking it, but if he had been a British squaddie from Liverpool, she would never have given him the time of day. Why did giving him an American West Coast accent, softly inflected with Spanish undertones make so much of a difference? She shook out her curls, chuckling that Angel could probably recite the phonebook and have women melt at his feet. She shuddered to think what her mother would say about it all. She raked a comb through her wet hair to keep her mind from dwelling on the attempted assault. She fast-forwarded to Mace’s arrival—giving herself a little hug at being given permission to call him by his nickname. What did he mean when he said not to say anything to Angel and that he might take it further? Was he worried Angel might tear a strip off him for roughing the man up? Her hand froze in mid-comb when it occurred to her that Mace probably meant Angel would have finished the job himself.

  * * *

  The next morning, Amanda finally experienced the Forward Surgical Team in action when a wounded Marine was brought in by helicopter. He’d suffered a gunshot wound to the thigh, resulting in a shattered femur, severed femoral artery, and severe tissue trauma. The bleeding had been brought under control by a tourniquet and when the patient was wheeled into triage, he was immediately surrounded by the medical staff.

  Even though she wanted to help, there was a clear system in operation so Amanda made sure to stay out of everyone’s way. Wallace took charge but asked that Gant perform the surgery once the wound had been assessed. On his way to the OR, Gant asked Amanda if she’d like to observe on the basis that she would then have seen a patient less than an hour from point of injury, through the FST and onward to the Role 3 hospital at Kandahar . . . and possibly even MEDEVAC with him on to the Level 4 facility at Landstuhl.

  Although a Critical Care Nurse, Amanda had never been involved with the actual surgery of patients. She was used to handing them over from the ER or receiving them in the Recovery Room. The opportunity to observe surgery in this situation was not one to pass up.

  Once the severed artery had been dealt with and the wound debrided, Gant attached an external fixator to the broken femur, all the time giving a running commentary to the surgical team around him.

  After surgery, Gant said they were leaving in just over an hour, he was going to grab a quick shower and they should RV back here in forty-five minutes ready to go.

  While repacking her ruck, Amanda suffered a pang of conscience about keeping Angel’s sunglasses so went looking for him. Approaching his hut, she saw a group of men, none of whom she recognized. Three were doing various exercises; push-ups, crunches, and one was performing pull-ups on the homemade frame. Two men were sitting at the plastic garden table, cleaning stripped down weapons. One of the seated men was bare-chested, the other was wearing a tan flight suit, zipped open to the waist.

  The older, bare-chested man had a remarkable tattoo of a rattlesnake on his left arm. It started at his wrist with the tail; the rattle part wrapped around it like a bracelet. It then slowly twisted its way up his arm onto his shoulder, where the head, mouth gaping, fangs poised, was ready to strike.

  She approached the table and the one in the flight suit stood and closed the zip. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he said in a pleasant tone, with none of Mason’s initial suspicion.

  “I was looking for Gunnery Sergeant Torres.”

  The other men stopped their physical exercise and were now regarding her with blatant interest.

  “Who?”

  Oh, not this again. “Angel Torres.”

  “Any of you guys know an Angel Torres?” The question was met with shrugs and head shakes from the men.

  Amanda folded her arms. “He and Mason, along with O’Malley, Lowell, Kraus, and Patterson—all of whom, you’ve also probably never heard of—provided force protection for Captain Washington and myself yesterday.”

  “So . . . you’re Amanda,” the man said with a laugh. When she nodded, the men moved closer, which made her cheeks burn from all the attention focused on her.

  “Apologies for the little joke. I’m Captain Venneford.” He shook her hand in the confident but polite manner that only the self-assured possess. “Angel’s not here. Can I pass on a message?”

  “No, but would you return these to him for me, please.” She patted her pockets. Venneford waited expectantly. Amanda babbled. “Sunglasses. His sunglasses. He loaned them to me when we went to the village and I want to return—” The smirks appearing on the guys’ faces caused her to dry up.

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Snake with a laugh.

  A man stuck his head out of the second hut and called to the captain, “Yo, sir, Angel is asking for you.”

  Venneford excused himself and went into the hut.

  “I thought he said Angel wasn’t here,” Amanda said, in a tone that bordered on petulant.

  Snake’s mouth twitched. “He’s not. He’s asking to speak to the captain on the radio.” He held up the barrel of his rifle and squinted down it in the direction of an incoming Chinook helicopter. “You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  Amanda pursed her lips. They don’t mince their words these boys, do they? “Please tell Angel I stopped by, and that it was nice meeting him. I’ll be gone back to the UK when you chaps get back from here.” Nice? Nice! How stupid does that sound? God, I wish I could say goodbye in person.

  Snake reached for a rag without looking at her. “Copy that. ”

  19

  Zanna clutched her forehead “Arrggh, Amanda, you haven’t stopped talking about this amazing Angel since you got back.”