Her mother slid over, closer. “Hannah, don’t get your hopes up. Colonel Whalin saw the picture. It… it looked like your father.”
“But they’re doing a rescue, right?” She was on her feet, unable to contain the feelings welling within her. The gloves were only partway on her hands, and now she pushed her fingers hard back into them. No matter what, now, the gloves would stay. She lowered herself so her eyes were at the same level as her mother’s. “A rescue, Mother, don’t you see. The insurgents could’ve sent a bad picture. We won’t know until they get all of the men out.”
“I don’t think it’s smart to—”
“Please … ” Hannah stood and touched her mother’s shoulder with one red-gloved hand. “Give me this, Mother. I have to believe.”
It was a truth she clung to the remainder of the day and through the night, when images of his capture and mistreatment threatened to suffocate her. Instead she prayed, just the way she’d done in Buddy Bingo’s car.
Believing God could hear her, and that even now her father might still be alive. Believing it as though her next breath depended on it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The cell where they had him locked was more of a cage, a four-by-four box with metal bars. Twice a day they opened the door, jerked him onto the floor outside the cell, blindfolded him, and took him outside. He could tell because of the wind and sand, and because of the sun that shone through even the thick cloth over his eyes.
It was the middle of the night, and near as Mike could tell, he’d been a prisoner for nearly a week.
The initial blows from his captors had knocked him out, but only for a few minutes. He came to as they were shoving him into the cell, and even then he pretended to be unconscious. Peering through swollen eyes he could see he was alone with his captors, no sign of the Rangers or his gunner. The moment he moved, the insurgents were on him, grabbing him from the cell, placing him in crude handcuffs and chaining him to a table. The questions came like machine-gun fire, in a sort of broken English that was common among the people of Iraq.
“What you name?”
Mike had set his jaw and spit out the information. He was allowed to tell his name, rank, and serial number. Nothing else.
In a matter of seconds, the questions got harder. “What you mission?”
The air in the room was stifling hot, dank and suffocating. There were no windows, and Mike had the feeling they were underground. He remained silent and looked away from the man who asked the question.
A chorus of angry shouts came at him in Iraqi. The man asking the questions took a step closer, grabbed Mike’s chin, and jerked his face forward again. “You watch me,” he said, his breath hot and stale. “Understand?”
Mike had no choice, not with his hands tied. He glared at his captor, studying him. His hair was longer than the others, and a scar ran across his right cheek.
“I ask again.” His lips curled in a sneer. “What you mission?”
Whatever the consequence, Mike would never answer such a question. He’d given the insurgents all the information they would ever receive from him. He jerked hard enough so his chin broke free from the man’s grip, and he was able to turn his head sharply left once more.
This time the man slapped him, sending his head forward with a jolt. He spit at Mike and when the men be hind him chuckled, he shouted something in Iraqi at them. Then he looked at Mike once more. “I say tell me you mission.”
The session had lasted for what felt like an hour. When they saw they could get no more information from him, the insurgents took turns kicking him. Finally the leader unchained him and pulled him to his feet. “You finished,” he shouted at Mike. Then he yanked off every patch on Mike’s flight suit. He leaned in so his nose was touching Mike’s. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You dead soldier.”
The man’s tone had left no doubt. Mike closed his eyes, but instead of imagining the bullet that would certainly slice through him any moment, he put himself in another place—the place he’d put himself for the past eleven years. On Pismo Beach with Hannah at his side, the smell of salt water filling his senses, the sun hot on his back as they worked on a sandcastle.
He could hear her little-girl laughter, feel her hand on his arm as she clamored for his attention every few minutes. “Look, Daddy… a new shell!” or “See, Daddy … it has a door now!”
But the bullet never came.
Instead, the leader grabbed his arm and shoved him onto the floor. “Crawl, soldier!”
And Mike did. He shuffled forward on his knees and when he was near the cell door, the man kicked him hard enough to send him crashing into the backside of the metal bars. The man locked the door, shouted something Mike didn’t understand, and then the group of them left him alone.
Mike hadn’t taken a full breath until they were gone. He was handcuffed, but he brought his fingers to his face and covered his eyes, unable to believe they’d let him live.
That was six days ago. The men—with different ones acting as the leader—had repeated the questioning every few hours since then, always with death threats. Once they showed him a photo of a headless corpse, and the leader from the first day gave him an evil smile. “That will be you, soldier. Soon.”
Mike still believed it was true, but after surviving the first day, he began to do something he hadn’t done in years. He began to pray. Back at the base, Stoker was praying for him. He had no doubts. He might as well pray for himself. The confinement was tight and cramped and lonely, and if nothing else, praying gave him someone to talk to. He believed in God, believed there was a purpose to life and the people who came and left from it.
At least that’s the way he saw it that first night. But trapped in the cell, his body cramping from the heat and lack of water, certain that death was hours away, talking to God became a life rope, a desperate cry from the depths of darkness. And all because he wanted the one thing he’d wanted since he’d enlisted.
The chance to see Hannah again.
Mike brought his cuffed hands to the cell bars and gripped them. He could hear the scurrying of a mouse— or what he figured were mice, but what might’ve also been cockroaches. The sound had been constant since they locked him up. But now, no matter how hard he tried to peer into the darkness, he couldn’t see a thing. Nothing.
“God… I know You can see me, even here.” He whispered the prayer out loud this time. Hearing his own voice on occasion helped him stay focused. Because even though the situation seemed dismal, he had to believe he was getting out, that his captors would forget him outside one of these times or leave him at the interrogating table unwatched. Something so that he could get away.
He tried again. “I know You’re here, God. Talk to me, be with me.” He tightened his grip on the bars. “Get me out of here. Please. Let me find Hannah.”
No audible voice answered him in return, but something strange happened. The scurrying in the background stopped. It stopped for the next few minutes, and there was only the sound of his heartbeat. He relaxed his hands some. “God?”
He waited another few minutes and still the silence remained, and something more. A sense of peace, a knowledge that he wasn’t in control but that God certainly was. No other way to explain it. He settled back onto the floor of the cage and leaned against the bars.
Whether he was there for ten minutes or two hours, he couldn’t tell, but suddenly there was a shattering sound and the rapid explosion of gunfire. Before he could process what was happening, the room filled with light and three Army Rangers tore into it.
“Identify yourself,” one of them shouted.
“Captain Mike Meade, U.S. Army.”
“You’re alive!” The lead Ranger snapped the lock on the small cell. “We have to move fast.”
“I’ll keep up.” Mike could barely breathe. He was being rescued? Was that what was happening? Or was he dreaming, barely holding onto his sanity?
“There’s no time.” The first Ranger helped him out of the ce
ll. “You all right?”
He ducked until he was clear of the bars, and then stood up. “Fine.” Questions could come later. “Let’s go.”
They raced across the dirt floor and up a flight of stairs. As they were running another round of shouts rang out, followed by a quick string of bullets. Mike’s heart pounded in his throat, but he had no time to think, no time to analyze whether it was all a dream or not.
When they reached the outside, he tore around the corner, close behind the Rangers. The loud pulsing of a helicopter made it impossible to hear anything. Where were the others, his gunner and the Rangers who’d been on his chopper? From the corner of his eye he saw bodies on the ground and for half a second he turned to look. The insurgents—it must have been them. All dead. His men must’ve already been rescued. Mike gulped, faced straight ahead again, and picked up his pace.
“Hurry!” One of the Rangers shouted above the sound of the helicopter.
Mike moved faster, keeping up with the soldiers even though his muscles were cramping, his lungs burning inside his chest. He had barely moved in a week. Now he was running on adrenaline, step after step, closer to escape. God… is this real? Did You hear me?
He blinked and gave a few shakes of his head. Whatever it was, he had to keep moving. Four more steps, five, six, and there she was. Hannah, standing in front of him, twirling in her first princess nightgown. “You’re my best friend, Daddy. Right?”
“Faster, move it!” The Ranger’s voice snapped him to attention.
Mike pushed his feet through the sand, one after the other, again and again. Ahead of him, an Army helicopter hovered over the roof of the building, not far from the place where he had attempted to hover a week earlier. A rope dangled from an open door, and the first Ranger grabbed it and shimmied up. Mike was next, but he didn’t need help. He was in the chopper in record time, his sides heaving.
“I’ll contact Colonel Whalin,” one of the rangers said to another.
And only then did Mike know one thing without a doubt.
He wasn’t dreaming.
The chopper flew to Baghdad International Airport and after an hour of debriefing with military personnel in a private area, Colonel Whalin entered the room. He stopped short when he saw Mike. His steps slowed, and their eyes locked.
When his commander reached him, Mike stood at attention. “Sir, the mission … ” Emotions that Mike hadn’t known before swelled in his chest. Where are my men? He coughed, working the words free. “The mission failed.”
“Yes, Meade.” Colonel Whalin’s eyes were steely, but they glistened. “At ease.”
Mike exhaled and let himself fall against a wall. They’d fed him and given him a sports drink to help hydrate him faster. But still he felt weak, overwhelmed. “I’m … sorry, sir.”
“Meade, it wasn’t your fault.” The colonel looked Mike straight in the eyes. “You’ve gotta believe that.”
He didn’t want to ask the next question. “The others? They must’ve gotten out first?”
“No.” An angry sigh came from the colonel. He raked his hand across the back of his head and let out an angry sigh. “Meade, I don’t know how to tell you this.”
Somewhere above his ankles, Mike felt himself begin to tremble. No… It can’t be… “They did get out, sir.” He searched his commander’s face. “Tell me they got out.”
Colonel Whalin pursed his lips, stared up at the ceiling, and gave a quick few shakes of his head. When he looked at Mike, there was no mistaking this time. His eyes were full of unshed tears. “We lost them all, Meade. All of them. Insurgents shot them before they ever made it into the building.” He cursed under his breath. “It was a setup, Meade. A bad tip. No one should’ve made it out alive.”
Mike felt faint, his head dizzy. They were gone? All the men on the mission? Why would their captors kill everyone but him? Then slowly it began to make sense. He was in charge; he had the information they wanted. The insurgents would’ve viewed the others as … dispensable.
He bent at his waist and gripped his knees. His breathing was different, more shallow. He couldn’t get enough air no matter what he tried. Deep breaths, he told himself. Slow, deep breaths. He craned his neck back and looked at the colonel again. “I should’ve died with them, sir. The way it ended … it isn’t right.”
“You’re wrong, Meade.” Colonel Whalin searched Mike’s face. “You followed orders.”
“Sir?” Mike blinked. His head was still cloudy, his mind unclear. He could see his team in the chopper as they crossed enemy lines, CJ at his side, the gunner and the Rangers ready for action. Now they were gone, all of them. He blinked the memory back. “What orders, sir?”
“My orders, Meade. I told you to come back alive.”
The colonel coughed, but his chin quivered. “You did what I asked.”
Mike’s throat was too thick to speak. There was nothing more to say, nothing he could add. The reasons weren’t clear, they’d never be clear, but he was here, alive. His commander was right.
The debriefing lasted another few hours. When they were finished, Colonel Whalin lit a Camel and lifted a piece of paper from the desk in the room. “We have a plan for you, Meade. We’re getting you home as quick as possible.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mike gripped his knees and tried to make sense of everything that was happening. His copilot was dead, the gunner, the Rangers, everyone else on the chopper. But here he was getting special treatment, a quicker trip back to the U.S. Probably so he could be home for Christmas. As if he might have any reason to be home.
Colonel Whalin was going on about the trip home, explaining that he would be placed on a C-130 Hercules cargo plane for a five-hour flight to Ramstein Air Base in Frankfurt, Germany. From there he’d fly on a C-17, a bigger cargo aircraft, back to the States.
“I pulled some strings.” The colonel’s face was still shadowed by the seriousness of the situation. “You got a nonstop to Andrews Air Force Base.”
“Andrews?” That airport was more than a day’s drive from his post. “I’m flying to Maryland?”
The colonel took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s Christmas, Meade.” The smoke eased out between his words as he spoke. “I figured you’d want to be with your daughter.”
It took several heartbeats before he could fully process the statement. His daughter? Hannah? What would Colonel Whalin know about her? He rubbed the back of his head and stood, gripping the edge of the desk. “Colonel, I haven’t seen my daughter in eleven years.”
“You said you were expecting her call?” The colonel cocked his head, curious. “That’s the same daughter, right?”
Mike breathed out. He hadn’t told anyone in the service about Hannah, not ever. “I have one daughter, sir. Her mother took her from me when I enlisted. I haven’t heard from her or seen her since.”
The colonel leaned forward and slammed his elbows on the desk. “How’d you know she might call?”
“A video. It’s a long story.” This time Mike’s heart stopped. “Wait… she called?” He straightened, his mouth open. By the time his heart kicked in he found his voice again. “Hannah called? At your office?”
“She lives in the outskirts of Washington, D.C. I have all the information.” For the first time that day, the colonel smiled.
“That’s why I’m flying to Andrews, sir?”
“Now you’re getting it, Meade. I thought you’d like to spend Christmas with your daughter. The way the flights worked out, you should be there Christmas Eve.”
Mike felt something strange and unfamiliar, a bursting in his heart, a giddiness that spread through him, along his limbs all the way to his hands and feet. Hannah had called? She’d talked with his commander? How was it even possible? Hours earlier he was locked in a cage, death raging around him, and now here he was. Every dream he’d ever had, about to come true.
He closed his eyes. God… You did this, didn’t You?
In light of the future that lay ahead of him, the h
orror of the past week faded a little. And suddenly he realized what he was feeling, the amazing sensation making its way through him. It was something he hadn’t felt for years.
Pure, uninhibited joy.
EPILOGUE
Hannah still wore the gloves.
She had nothing if she didn’t have hope, and somehow the red gloves reminded her she could still pray, still believe. It was Christmas Eve, and she hadn’t moved too far from the phone all day. Her mother had given up. She was busy in the office making calls to Sweden. Whenever she passed by, she would pat Hannah on the shoulder and give her a sad smile, as if to say everything would be okay, the sorrow would pass in time.
Hannah would only shake her head. “Mother, don’t look at me like that. He’s okay, I can feel it. I won’t quit believing that until he comes home.”
Her mother would hesitate and move on to some other order of business. There was always an order of business, and for her the order of finding Mike Meade was over.
But it wasn’t over. Hannah refused to believe it. She’d prayed, and Buddy Bingo had told her that God heard everything. And if God had heard her, then somehow she’d get to see her dad again, right?
Hannah walked into the front room and stared out the window. It was snowing again, the way it had been all day. The fireplace was alive, the flames dancing merrily, unaware of the trouble her father was in. She moved closer and turned one of the chairs so it faced the fire.
What else had Buddy said? That miracles weren’t a given?
That idea was the one she couldn’t allow to take root, because then she’d have to believe it was possible—after not knowing about him for so many years, now he might really be gone.
She sat down and faced the fire. “God … where is he?”
Her cheeks were cold, and she lifted her gloved hands to her face. The question floated in the air like the clouds outside. In the flames she could see him, his face the way it looked in the picture, the way it looked in her long ago memories. She was still thinking about him, still remembering, when she heard a knock at the door.
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