Gant and the other man slowly looked up from their drinks. Gant nodded to the chair next to him.
The second man frowned. “Something you need?”
“I won’t stay,” she said. “I’m sure you gentlemen would appreciate some time to yourselves.” She told him about Washington’s mission and requested his permission to be included.
Gant leaned back in his chair, hands behind his neck and looked past her to where Washington was standing. She visibly straightened under Gant’s scrutiny. She advanced toward the table and detailed the mission. When she finished, Gant sat up and addressed Amanda.
“I can see you’re eager to accompany Captain Washington again, but I want you to stay close to her and follow her orders. Is that clear?”
Amanda struggled to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Yes, sir,” she said, without any trace of impudence.
The second man said he would sort out the paperwork after another cup of coffee, which Amanda took as a none-too-subtle hint to leave them alone.
* * *
The next morning, Amanda stepped out of the mess tent after a hearty breakfast and shivered against the icy blast. Some Marines inside were talking of snow by nightfall and the overcast sky promised to fulfill that forecast. She zipped up her jacket, picked up her gear, and headed for the small convoy. The reality of going outside the wire again began to sink in and she longed for Angel to be there, but having no-nonsense Captain Washington in charge helped quell the jitters.
Washington told Amanda to ride with the senior NCO, a Marine sergeant. He was joking with some U.S. soldiers about what he and his platoon were going to do when they got back home in just under two months. From the snippet Amanda overheard, it was going to mostly involve procreation and alcohol. He introduced himself as Sergeant Davies and instructed Amanda to ‘quit lollygagging, get suited and booted and ride shotgun’. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
“He means stop idling, put your flak and kevlar on, and get in the passenger seat,” another Marine said before he and their Afghan interpreter got in the back seats.
Washington signaled they were moving out. She spoke to someone through the open door of the vehicle ahead of Amanda. A cigarette butt arced over Washington’s head and the door slammed. She strode to the lead vehicle and they got underway.
On arrival at the village after another seemingly interminable bumpy ride, Amanda was struck by how different it was from the first one she visited. Shopkeepers tended stalls in front of what looked like small adobe lock-up garages with tin roofs, selling everything from dried fruit, spices, and fresh meat to live animals.
Washington and the Marine sergeant, along with their respective interpreters got out of the vehicles to go speak with a group of waiting elders. After a short conversation, Washington waved for the rest of the party to follow. Dismounting the vehicle, Amanda’s attention was drawn to a couple of women, enveloped in sky blue burkhas, standing next to a stall selling hand woven rugs. She didn’t have any Afghan money, but she hoped there would be an opportunity to browse the stalls after the clinic. On the opposite side of the street, two more shrouded women turned toward Amanda. Even though she couldn’t see their eyes, the judgment was palpable. I wonder where the children are? She wound her scarf around her exposed face as she had seen Washington do on approaching the elders.
The women at the rug stall stepped away from each other.
“RPG!” Davies yelled. “Engage and take cover!”
The vehicle she’d recently exited was engulfed in a fiery explosion. Amanda’s instinct screamed at her to run, but her legs refused to react. In front of her, Davies sank to his knees, then toppled sideways. Washington pulled her behind the mud wall of the nearest compound. Right on their heels, Washington’s interpreter also sought shelter there.
Amanda’s heart pumped so fast she thought it would go into arrest. She clutched at Washington’s arm. “Tonya, what is it? What’s happening?”
Shaking her off, Washington went for her pistol, but before she could get the safety off, the interpreter chopped at her wrist and sent the gun flying. He recovered the weapon and trained it on the women. Amanda cowered. Washington swore at her former interpreter. Two further explosions shook the ground. The sporadic shooting dwindled to a few single shots—and then silence.
A voice called out in accented but educated English, “You may come out now, ladies.”
Amanda raised her head to Washington with a puzzled frown. “Who the bloody hell is that?”
Washington helped a shaky Amanda to her feet. “Let’s go find out.”
In the village square, Sergeant Davies lay dead. A seriously wounded Marine lay next to him, guarded by a rifle-toting tribesman. By his side stood a tall Afghan with a neatly trimmed beard.
Washington knelt and examined the injured man. “He needs urgent medical attention.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have the facilities,” the insurgent said.
“You can call for a CASEVAC on the radio,” Washington said.
“That isn’t an option.” He took the pistol from Washington’s interpreter, put it to the wounded man’s forehead and pulled the trigger. “The radio is unserviceable.”
Amanda’s stomach heaved and her knees gave way. She propped herself on her hands and threw up.
“Where are the others?” Washington asked. “Have you killed them all too?”
He instructed the women to remove their body armor and helmets. Amanda followed Washington’s lead and made no attempt to comply.
“Either remove it voluntarily, or I will have it removed,” he said with a thin smile.
Washington nodded to Amanda and they obeyed. At any other time, Amanda would have welcomed the relief brought from shedding the heavy gear. Now, feeling naked under the hard gaze of the men around her, she folded her arms across her chest.
The insurgent raised his voice. “OK, American, you are the only one left. All your friends are dead and I know you have no more ammunition. Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head.”
The reply came from behind a building some way down the street. “Screw you, you goat-tampering raghead!”
The insurgent’s eyes narrowed. “Infidel, if you are not out in the street, with your hands on your head in five seconds, I will shoot one of the women.” He waited for a moment, then grabbed Amanda by her hair. She flailed at his hand, but he twisted it violently, dragging her into the Marine’s line of sight, and forcing her to her knees.
“One . . . two . . . three.”
Amanda’s heart went into overdrive and her vision contracted to a pinpoint surrounded by a white haze. She forced herself to breathe slower. This is not happening . . . this is not happening. Her head swam when adrenaline flooded her system and the blood drained from her extremities as her body naturally began to prepare itself to fight, to flee—or to die.
“Four.”
A shout came from down the street. “Wait!”
“Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head.” The interpreter pressed the gun to the side of Amanda’s head.
She screwed her eyes shut and jammed her hands into her armpits with her shoulders hunched up into her neck. She fought an overwhelming urge to pee. She shook, and her flesh crawled. Hearing something breaking, Amanda opened her eyes and raised her head. The Marine threw out the smashed pieces of his rifle.
“Now, you,” the insurgent said. “Hands on your head.”
The Marine stepped out into the open, his arms at his sides. In his right hand, he held a vicious-looking knife. With his left hand, he calmly removed his sunglasses, hooked them into the webbing that covered his flak jacket, then wiped a trail of blood out of his left eye.
The insurgent still held the pistol to Amanda’s head. “You have a knife. I have a gun.” He leered at the Marine. “As you say, the dice are heavily loaded in my favor.”
Amanda looked straight at the Marine. Do what you think is right.
He swiped again at the blood running into his eye, then opened the fingers of his right hand and let the knife fall. The insurgent instructed him to remove his tactical vest and helmet. Without haste, and keeping his gaze on Amanda, the Marine pulled the quick release cord on the front of his vest. O’Malley had told her—only half-joking—that he would not have pulled Angel’s ripcord had he known he was going to live. It was a fiddly, time-consuming task to rethread the damn thing again.
Finally, the Marine removed his helmet and dropped it, continuing to stare at Amanda.
Behind the body armor, kevlar, and sunglasses, he was just an anonymous, hardened, infantry Marine. Stripped down to his combat shirt, Amanda blanched at how much younger than her he appeared.
The insurgent once more directed the Marine to place his hands on his head, but he still did not obey. The leader signaled another man to assist the recalcitrant Marine. This man accomplished the order with no resistance from the prisoner, who still stared at Amanda, blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to prevent the blood from running into his eye. Amanda tried the same tactic to stem her tears, to no avail.
The insurgent lowered his gun and offered his hand to help Amanda to her feet. She ignored him and struggled to rise on her own. Once standing, she turned her attention back to the Marine. He stood head bowed.
The gunman strode over and stood directly behind the Marine.
Amanda’s heart starting racing again. Now, what?
The insurgent leaned forward and spoke into the Marine’s ear. When he did not respond, the insurgent raised his voice. “I said, on your knees, kafir.” The Marine remained motionless. The Afghan kicked him in the back of his legs. The prisoner buckled and went down on one knee. The man placed his pistol at the nape of the Marine’s neck.
Amanda screamed. “No! Stop it! Please, stop it. Stop.” Sobs choked her voice.
A slow smile spread across the Afghan’s face. “You’re right, we can have a little fun with this one.” He instructed one of his men to tie the Marine’s hands behind his back.
He took a zip tie from the flak vest lying in the dirt. He also put on the sunglasses, to the amusement of his comrades.
While his hands were being bound, the Marine lifted his head to look at Amanda again. He was pistol-whipped across the face for his impudence. Amanda’s hands went to her mouth when she caught the look in his eyes as a sack was pulled over his head. The men leading him away continued to roughhouse him as they did so.
35
The team left on Thanksgiving Day, almost two weeks ago, and were away doing . . . whatever it was they did. Zanna had seen Amanda off with a promise of a Christmas shopping spree together on her return. She and Gant had been gone three days and were due back in another three. Gant gave Zanna the option of going home to England for a week over Christmas. She decided against it, saying she felt some of the patients at The Hacienda could do with a little extra support at this time.
She still thought about Rivera in quiet moments, like now. How was his leg holding up? What was he doing? Prior to his recent departure, the last time she’d encountered him, he’d been coming out of an on base deli as she was going in. And she still had no control over her heart’s reaction to that lopsided grin when, juggling a breakfast bagel and a large coffee, he held the door for her. I can’t believe how much of that stuff they drink! How would the Corps ever function without the gallons of coffee consumed in a day?
“Yo, Earth to Zanna.” Abadie waved a hand in front of her daydreaming face. “Raul is looking for you. Said to meet him in the garden. He’s got a little present for you.”
Zanna clapped her hands. “Oh, no. He didn’t get me a kitteh. I told him not to get me a kitteh.”
“Huh?” Abadie scratched his head. “It’s not a kitten. I don’t—”
She punched his arm playfully. “I know, I’m just ‘joshing’ witchu.”
He groaned and walked away.
Zanna called after him. “Sorry, Josh. And thanks.”
Gant did not allow extravagant presents or gifts of cash from the patients and their relatives but he turned a blind eye to small tokens of appreciation. Those gifts usually came with notes expressing heartfelt thanks for all the care and attention received during the sometimes lengthy stays.
Zanna found Raul sitting on a low wall surrounding a raised flower bed. He was lighting a cigarette.
“Heard you wanted to see me,” she said.
He took a long drag and lazily exhaling the smoke, pointed to the picnic table a few feet away. On it sat a simple, shiny red box, about four inches square, tied up with thin, curly-tailed gold ribbons. A small white card with only her name, written in a neat script, was propped against it. She picked up the box and rattled it. Heavy for its size.
“Is this from you?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“For returning your PT gear in a better condition than you lent it to me?”
“Yeah, sure. But it’s not from me.”
Zanna untied the ribbons and removed the lid. There, on a bed of black shredded tissue paper, was a Purple Heart. She removed it, put the box down on the table and examined the medal, weighing it in her hand. On the purple ribbon the medal was suspended from were two small stars. On the back of the medal was a raised heart with the words, ‘FOR MILITARY MERIT’. Zanna’s chest tightened and she slowly sank down onto the table bench. “It’s his, isn’t it?” She turned the medal over again. “Why are there two stars on the ribbon?”
“A Gold Star is added for each subsequent award of the Purple Heart. That latest one was his third.” He laughed. “You know what he said when I congratulated him on getting his Silver Star? ‘I guess this just proves I was smart enough to think of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive’.”
Zanna smiled. So Rivera. “Do you think he saw us that day?”
Raul scratched behind his ear. “You probably didn’t put the box back in the right place.”
She chuckled. “No, I think I know what it was. He went to sleep holding those rank insignia. When he woke up, they were on the bedside table.” She frowned. “Is this some kind of joke that I’m not getting?”
Raul joined her at the table and picked up the box. “Hey, there’s something else in here,” he said, handing it back to her. He took the lid and began playing with it, twirling it in his hands, and then placed it top down on the table.
Zanna removed the shredded paper. Underneath was a soft leather pouch. She carefully loosened the drawstrings and withdrew a white gold bangle. Around the outside, it was decorated with ten faux screw heads and two real ones. Zanna gingerly moved it around in her hands. “It’s fabulous,” she whispered.
“¡Híjole!” Raul exclaimed. “My girlfriend saw that in the window of an antique store in Oceanside a couple of months ago and was blown away by it. I was kinda relieved when it disappeared from sale a coupla weeks back.”
Zanna took a closer look at the inside of the bangle. Along with some serial numbers and hallmarks was the maker’s name: Cartier.
“What else does it say?” Raul craned his neck. “That inscription wasn’t there when my girlfriend looked at it.”
“‘Honor. Courage. Commitment’. What a beautiful sentiment,” she said, her eyes prickling.
Raul’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Honor, Courage, and Commitment are the absolute foundation of a Marine’s character. They are the Three Core Values of the Marines.” He cleared his throat. “‘Honor’ means a Marine must never lie, never cheat, never steal. His personal integrity must be beyond reproach. He can never bring The Corps into disrepute through his own actions. ‘Courage’ is honor in action. It means keeping to the moral high standard whatever anyone else is doing. It means he can look himself in the mirror each morning and smile at what he sees looking back at him. ‘Commitment’ is the total dedication to Corps and Country. A Marine will never give up, never give in, never accept second best. Excellence is the only goal.” He wiped at the corner of his eye w
ith his thumb. “I think he’s telling you, you have those traits too.”
Honor Courage Commitment Page 29