Patriot

by A S Bond

  “A huge opportunity for British manufacturing and a huge vote of confidence in the British people’s commitment to our freedom from the politics of terrorism and corruption.”

  “Turn it off.” Brooke looked away. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Can I ask you something?” said Dex, looking at Scott.

  “Sure.”

  “How on earth did you get the Royal Navy to come get us like that?”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal. Like I said, they were already in the area and I was able - through a friend - to make them an offer. They plucked you out of the North Atlantic, and in return we picked up their kidnapped reporter. She was being held in a part of Afghanistan patrolled by U.S. Marines, so it was part of their job, too. Plus, it was a good deal; our guys got several high-ranking Taliban leaders when they stormed that compound.”

  “Quid pro quo? Cute,” Dex said. “Everyone’s happy.”

  “Hardly.” Scott started to laugh. “Vernon’s fucking furious about Johnson using Waring manage the information supply and influence decision-making at the agency. He thinks it makes him look like a fool.”

  “He is a fool,” Brooke said. “Everyone knows that. Waring wasn’t implicated, though?”

  “No, he was just looking out for Peter Waring, as usual. He was severely reprimanded, of course, and his career is over.”

  “Where did they send him?”

  “Wyoming, I think...”

  “Fish and Wildlife?”

  “Yep.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” They both laughed

  “What’s going to happen to you?” Dex asked Scott.

  “Would you believe they’ve promoted me?” Scott shrugged “More to do with my boss retiring due to ill health, but...that’s D.C. for you.” He got up, and swallowed the last of his beer. “I’m sorry guys, but I’ve got to go. Gail and Mike are expecting me for dinner.”

  “How is Mike?” Brooke felt guilty for not having asked sooner. She knew Mike slightly from the years she and Scott had been together.

  “He’ll be okay. He’s home now, with Gail and the kids. The CIA is giving him early retirement and a full pension on medical grounds, so at least they won’t have any money worries.”

  “Send him my best wishes.”

  “I will.” Scott paused, then sat down again and took her hands in his. He looked at her seriously for a moment.

  “And I should apologise to you.”

  “What for?”

  “For getting you into this mess in the first place and almost getting you killed. I’m sorry.”

  “Scott - .” Brooke looked from him to Dex and smiled. “It really is okay.”

  Epilogue

  Daisy woke up with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn’t just from the drugs. Her eyelids were matted together, but she could make out a small room, plain and clean, the bottom of a metal bed - her own, she assumed - and a stand holding up the drip in her arm. She turned her head slightly. Slats of sun cut through the blinds and patterned the floor

  She closed her eyes, but then she opened them again. Behind her eyelids lurked images of her incarceration in a mud-walled compound. The squalor and hunger were easier to bear than the sense of being abandoned; the fear that she might never be rescued, and would die there, alone, forgotten. The nightmares of being beheaded weren’t as bad as that fear.

  Would she ever be able to get past that, deal with those memories? Daisy wondered in a detached sort of way. She was pretty robust; there wasn’t much she hadn’t witnessed in the past twenty five years of reporting from the front line. But this had been different, personal. She remembered Saul.

  “Ohhh.” The groan must have been out loud, because a nurse in military uniform appeared in the doorway. Seeing Daisy was awake, the nurse came over and checked her vitals, then the drip.

  “Wher - “ Daisy tried to speak, but her throat was dry and swollen and she choked on the words.

  “Here.” The nurse gently raised Daisy’s head and fed her some ice chips from a plastic cup. The woman’s voice had an American accent, Daisy noticed. The ice melted and cut a welcome cool path down her throat. Daisy tried again, and this time she managed to croak

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the medical facility at a U.S. Air Force base in Germany,” the nurse said briskly. “Do you not remember flying in here?”

  Daisy frowned.

  “You’re our celebrity guest. Not everyone gets individual attention from a whole bunch of U.S. Navy SEALs.”

  “They rescued me?”

  “Oh yes. You’ll be able to watch the footage later, if it doesn’t come back to you,” the nurse said with a smile.

  Daisy struggled to sit up. “I’d like to thank them.”

  “That won’t be necessary. And you need your rest.”

  “I’m fine.” Then Daisy looked at the nurse. “I am fine, aren’t I?” Nothing seemed to be broken, her brain was getting more alert with every minute, and an image of fish and chips suddenly floated across Daisy’s mind’s eye. How long had she been in here?

  The nurse smiled. “Yes, you are. Malnourished, dehydrated, exhausted, but fine. Your government will be flying you home in a day or two. You’re quite the heroine.”

  With that, she left Daisy alone who, despite her best efforts, fell asleep once again. But it was a dreamless sleep, as far as she could recall when she woke up several hours later. No nightmares. Maybe they would come later.

  She lay back, thinking. The recent past was too hard, so she thought about the future instead. What would she do once she was flown home? There was no one waiting for her, apart from a married brother in Manchester, and her colleagues at Television Centre. Should she go back to work? The prospect had little appeal, which took her, a workaholic, by surprise. She rolled her head into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. Those men on the patrol didn’t have futures to think about.

  It was still light outside, but twilight; lamps were being switched on in the reception area outside her room. People were moving about and she could smell food. She realized she was really hungry.

  Fumbling slightly, Daisy pressed the button for a nurse, and a different woman appeared within seconds. This nurse was also American, a large black woman - statuesque was the word that came to mind - with a strong Southern accent and a big smile. Her strong arms soon had Daisy sitting up in bed with a small bowl of warm water and a sponge to clean her face, and a promise of dinner on its way.

  A few minutes later, the nurse, who Daisy learned was named Angelica, returned with a bowl of soup and a roll.

  “Doctor’s orders; you must take it easy at first,” she said. She placed them on a tray in front of Daisy, who dipped a spoon into the hot liquid and sipped. It was chicken, she guessed. And probably the best thing she had ever tasted. She devoured it, tearing at the roll with weak fingers.

  When Angelica came to take away the tray, Daisy asked,

  “Does this hospital take all U.S. medical evacuations from Afghanistan?” The question surprised her, as much as it did Angelica.

  “Most all, Ma’am. We have a full surgical team here. Those needing follow-up treatment then get shipped back stateside. We take other ISAF country’s casualties too, it depends. Why do you ask?”

  “If I give you a name, could you tell me if the person is here...or if they are even alive?”

  The next morning, Daisy combed her hair, looking in the mirror at her thin face, the black circles around her eyes and the dulled shine of her once honey-gold hair. She had aged, but her hair never had. Until now.

  “Are we ready?” Angelica entered the room, seeming to fill it with positive energy. Daisy smiled.

  “Thank you so much for doing this.”

  “No problem. Can you slide across into the chair?”

  “I think...so.” Daisy sat back as Angelica wheeled her through the reception area, then out into a long, glass-sided hallway. The light was bright, but Daisy peered out
across a large grassy area (Grass! She never thought she would miss that!) towards a collection of low, drab modern buildings and a scattering of people in uniform.

  Her eyes moved back to a set of double doors, which glided open as Angelica wheeled her through another reception area. This one also had a series of doors leading off it into private rooms, just like Daisy’s own. Another uniformed nurse greeted them and took her wheelchair from Angelica, who stood back, a smile on her face. The new nurse pushed Daisy towards a door, and then stepped in front of her to open it. Daisy glimpsed the end of the bed; made up but empty. The patient was clearly up and about. The nurse murmured to the room’s occupant, just outside Daisy’s line of sight, so she leant forward to catch the words.

  “Sergeant Wills, there’s someone here who would very much like to see you.”

  END

  About The Author

  A.S. Bond is the pen name of Alexandra Pratt, an internationally acclaimed travel writer and journalist. As the author of seven books, Alexandra’s own adventures have taken her around the word, from the cloud forests of Central America to D.C.’s corridors of power. Alexandra is married and lives in England.

  Read more about Brooke Kinley at www.brookekinleyadventures.com or follow A.S Bond on Twitter @brookekinleyadv