Panicked, I turned to run for help. Colliding with one of the figures, I reflexively closed my eyes—except I didn’t collide. I walked right through it. Turning around I watched the figure disappear over the edge of the bluff.
Gripped by fear, I thought I must be losing my mind again. I reached for the lump on my head, but it was gone. I dropped to my knees trembling and tried to speak or maybe to pray, but my voice would not come. I lapsed into unconsciousness.
A stab of sunlight opened my eyes and I quickly felt the goad of the lump on my head. Christ, what a nightmare, I thought as I crawled out of the tent and staggered toward the cook tent for some tea.
“How’s your head?”
It was the battalion surgeon, Doc Mellin. Doc was an interesting fellow, a medical doctor who had volunteered for duty with the Rangers but always looked out of place anyway. He wasn’t the physical specimen his predecessor had been, which motivated him all the more. He enjoyed his work, and that ever-present smile on his face made sure you knew it.
“I guess it’s okay,” I said, rubbing the spot.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of tea.” We dipped our canteen cups into the caldron of tea the cooks had prepared and sat down.
“Let’s take a look at this,” he said, poking the lump mercilessly. Every time he jabbed it I flinched.
“Damn, do you have to poke at it like that? If you want to know if it hurts, the answer is yes,” I said, pushing his hand away.
“Did you have any trouble sleeping last night? Any discomfort, pain, stuff like that?”
I thought for a moment about divulging my strange experiences. But if for a second Doc thought I might be hallucinating … well, that would have been the end of me. In the Ranger battalion, men are as expendable as ammunition, and when it comes to the bottom line you’ll be gone and a suitable “healthy” replacement will fill your shoes before you’re even missed.
“No, nothing unusual happening … a little pain, that’s all. I’ll be fine, just keep that Motrin coming.”
“Morning!” came a voice from behind us. It was Nightingale grabbing himself a cup of tea. “We need to talk about yesterday,” he said, sitting down next to me. “Do you want me to put a call in to Debbie or something? We can have the regiment notified and the regimental adjutant can call her and let her know what’s going on.”
I thought for a moment, looking at Doc. “Naw, it’s too risky, sir. You know how it is. The message will get screwed up and twenty-four hours from now Debbie will think she’s a widow.” We all chuckled.
“You’re right,” Nightingale said. “I guess as long as you’re alive, we’ll just keep it quiet.” He paused for a moment, staring at the dirt in the bottom of his cup. “Well, big day ahead. I guess I’ll let you get back at it.”
“Rangers lead the way, sir.” Doc and I snapped to attention as Nightingale walked away.
“All the way!” he said, never looking back.
Several days after getting in the way of that bullet, we mounted trucks to make the long motor march to a new training site on the western edge of Jordan. We camped on a rocky ridgeline high above the mouth of a valley called Wadi Mussa, or the Valley of Moses. For the most part this was green farmland, flanked on three sides by mountains of smooth rounded boulders and sparse vegetation. It’s said to be the place where Moses struck the rock to bring forth water. A small mosquelike building was constructed on the site to commemorate that event, and inside the monument you’ll find a rock from beneath which water flows. It even looks as if lightning has struck it a few times over the centuries. I drank from it once and pulled a small stone from the water, placing it in my pocket for safekeeping. I grinned at myself for doing it but reasoned that in light of recent events … one never knew.
The wind blew hard and relentlessly across this ridge, making the living conditions at the bivouac site just slightly above bearable. To make matters worse, getting to the training site in the valley required a long truck ride down a steep, winding one-lane road with thirty-two switchbacks in it. What kept the twice-a-day trips interesting was the fact that Jordanian trucks were used to transport us. To say the least, they were not well maintained. Some of them really were held together with tape and wire where screws and bolts were supposed to be.
To keep morale and interest up, Colonel Nightingale and I planned a trip for the entire company to the ancient city of Petra, which rests at the foot of the stream that flows from Moses’s rock. On a sunny day in March we trucked the company to the entrance of a narrow passage called the Seth which leads visitors into the city of Petra. We spent the day wandering among the ruins and thinking about what it must have been like to defend or attack such a fortress. It was magnificent, and I’ve seen nothing like it since.
I split from the rest of the group and made my way to a point well above the city, called the High Place. Everything I had read about Petra suggested that this was where humans and beasts were sacrificed to various gods over the centuries. A large obelisk marked the sacred place, and below this vantage point lay the domain of the City of the Dead, a myriad of cubbyholes, rooms, and dwellings carved into the sandstone canyon walls of Petra. This was an entire city constructed by Petra’s inhabitants to be the exclusive resting place of their dead. Like so many places in Jordan, it was declared haunted by the locals, a place to steer away from when it got dark.
The wind blew small bits of rock and dust, pelting my face. It was then I had the perception I was being watched. There, next to the obelisk was the same being I had seen in the first vision, the one who had spoken to me from the hilltop. He stared at me from fifty feet away, his white robes blowing in the wind. I raised my head until I was looking him dead in the eye, and stayed that way for what seemed an eternity.
He smiled knowingly. “Seek peace … and become a teacher of it,” said that enchanting voice. He then nodded slightly and turned to walk out of sight behind the obelisk. I ran so I could see behind the obelisk—but he wasn’t there. I circled it, but found nothing. I didn’t know whether to run for my life or cry out for the being to return. “Goddamn it, who are you?” There was no answer, only the rush of the wind and the wisping of sand across the flat rocks of the High Place.
As I walked down I tried to see around every corner and bend in the narrow trail before I reached it, but there were no more surprises. I didn’t know what to do or what was happening. I must have asked myself a hundred times whether I was going insane. I kept touching the bruise on my head as I made the hour-long walk back to the main city.
Over the next week and a half we dedicated ourselves to training assault climbers in the jagged cliffs lining the bottom of the valley. Our time in Jordan grew short, and the pace picked up in anticipation of home. Eleven days later we were in a secret Jordanian airbase conducting airborne operations with their paratroopers. They were a wild bunch who did their duty without the luxury of having the best equipment available the way their American counterparts did. It wasn’t unusual to see the Jordanian paratroops tying their jump helmets on with twine or wire, as they did with the rest of their equipment. Their parachutes were a memorable sight, frayed and even torn; it took a brave man to strap one of those raggedy things on and jump out of a plane. We continued training with them for another week or so before beginning final preparations for the trip home. It was here I decided to ask a man I trusted some guarded questions about the visions.
We bivouacked in a large hangar, all of us together in one big swarming mass of humanity. When that many men get together and snore in an open hangar it’s tragic. We slept on the floor, which at least was softer than most of the rocks I’d pulled from under me in recent months. To pass time we watched movies on an old projector someone had borrowed from our hosts. All in all it was a good time: the last of the mail was handed out, and the best of the remaining rations were consumed, and hot showers—well, sort of hot—were taken. But most important, we were going home.
The battalion chaplain was Captain George Du
ffy. Duff and I had always supported one another—that is, I encouraged my men to attend his services and he always gave me good advice and counseling when I needed them. I needed them now. We sat together behind the hangar watching the C-141 Starlifters that would take us home as they landed one after the other and taxied to their parking spots. We talked casually of home and wives and of our lonesome men, until well after dusk. I tried to find some place to throw in my questions, but as time wore on Duff started talking at a pretty good clip, and getting a word in became more difficult with each passing minute. Finally I jumped in with both feet.
“I know you believe in God, Duff, and I assume you believe in angels, but do you believe in ghosts and demons?”
Duff rambled on for a few seconds until the question sank in. He stopped talking for about five seconds and looked at me with the biggest grin I’d ever seen on his face. When he saw I wasn’t kidding he burst out laughing and picked up the conversation right where he’d left off.
“What the hell’s so funny about that?” I interrupted. “I know it’s not the first time you’ve heard that question, so why all the chuckles?”
“I just never thought I’d hear it from you, that’s all. I mean it’s not what we’ve usually talked about, is it?”
“No, it’s not … . But there have been some things …” I stopped before I said anything I’d be sorry for. “It’s just something I want your thoughts on.”
He pulled his cap off and scratched the top of his head. “If I can believe in God and His domain, and in His angels, then I guess I’d have to believe in the other guy’s team as well. Wouldn’t I?”
“Probably,” I answered. “But that means you believe only in good and evil as man defines them—you believe that there’s God and his angels, and Satan and his angels, nothing more or less. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s how I see it. I mean, they didn’t give classes in seminary on any other options.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible there’s something else?”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps something in between, or maybe yet something parallel?”
Duff looked at me carefully and then laughed again. “You’re really scaring me, you know that?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”
“Look, I’m not calling myself a philosopher. I simply believe there has to be something else out there besides what religion outlines for us. Why does everything have to be good or evil, black or white?”
“Because that’s the nature of all things in this world. There is good, and because there is good there is evil. There must be opposition, or there can’t be any good. There’d be no purpose in it, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. Are you telling me that good and evil exist for balance?”
“Not balance … choice,” he said quietly. “They exist so that you have a choice. You’re talking to a chaplain”—he smiled—“so I’m gonna tell you that salvation lies only with the pursuit of the good. But the other way is there to explore if you choose to. People do it every day.”
“Well, I’m making a choice right now,” I said, patting him on the back. “A choice to go watch the rest of that movie with the boys and then hit the sack. How’s that for picking the good from the bad?”
“That’s an excellent choice.” Duff grinned. “But your question isn’t answered, is it?”
“It is and it isn’t. I guess I’m looking more for an explanation than an answer.”
“An explanation of what?”
“Of something I saw.” I hesitated. “Let me put it this way. Would one of these people, these beings, visit somebody? Say, somebody who wasn’t dead?”
“Sure! I mean we hear about it all the time. Of course there are skeptics, and events are often disproved or explained away, but I believe it happens. Why not?”
“Okay, then, why would they visit this person?”
“Who knows? It could be anything. They might be trying to warn him of some impending catastrophe, or protect him, or maybe teach him.”
“Teach him about what … God?” I said, more sarcastically than I meant to.
“That could be it. They might also teach him about himself, about his fellow man, about his calling and election or about life in general—hell, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I guess that would make more sense. Thanks!” I shook his hand. “Thanks a lot. You always help, even when you don’t mean to.”
On our way back to the front of the hangar Duff stopped before we got within earshot of anyone. “Something tells me this won’t be the last time we have this conversation,” he said. “Why is that?”
I must have had a shocked look on my face, because he reached out and grabbed my arm just above the elbow and hung on. Finally I told him, “It probably won’t be, but I can’t talk about it right now. I need to think, okay?”
He released his grip, trading it for a touch on the shoulder. “You know where I am, and you damned sure know I’m available whenever you need me.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. Come on, let’s see if there’s any soda left.” We disappeared into the hangar, closing the night behind us.
The next morning I joined my officers for tea outside the hangar. Several of the Jordanian officers were present, saying good-bye to their new friends and comrades. The Jordanian colonel glanced at me over his cup of tea and excused himself from his conversation with Duff. “Good morning, Captain Morehouse.”
“Salaam aleikum, Colonel,” I said, bowing my head slightly.
He smiled broadly. “Aleikum salaam, my friend. I trust you slept well, out of the desert for once.”
“I slept like a child, sir. And you?”
“Well, thank you.”
I took another sip of tea. He’d never approached me like this. There must be a reason.
He looked out at the desert, nodding his head slightly as if he’d answered a question for himself. “Ah … Captain Duff and I were talking about something that may interest you.”
“What might that be, sir?” I asked, glaring at Duff.
“The jinn,” the colonel said.
“The who?”
“The jinn, evil spirits, ghosts and demons. Creatures that plague mankind. Ghouls who devour the bodies of the dead.”
“Sir, wait. I apologize for anything Duff might have said about all this. I don’t want you or anyone else to think—”
“Think what? That you are crazy? I assure you, Captain Morehouse, that is not the case. I will also assure you that Duff said nothing to me about you except that you had an interest in this sort of phenomenon. Do you?”
“Well, no … at least, not until a few weeks ago, in Baten el Ghoul.”
“Ah.” He seemed relieved. “So you saw something, did you?”
“Yes, sir, I saw something. At least I think I did. It may have just been a reaction … .”
“To the bullet.”
“Perhaps.”
“Yes, perhaps it was just that, a reaction to the bullet. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps you were given a message?”
His words sent a chill down my spine. How the hell did he know anything about a message? “What do you mean, a message, sir?”
“Many men receive messages here. They go into the hills to ponder their fate, much as Muhammad did in pondering the fate of his people. It is here that the angels speak to them. It is not odd.”
“I’m sorry to disagree, sir, but I find it very odd. Speaking to angels, that is. And I’m obviously not Muhammad.” We both laughed at that.
“No, you are certainly not Muhammad, my friend. Regardless, I think something unusual happened to you out there. Maybe one day you will share it with all of us.”
“Yes, sir, maybe one day.” I took a long pull on my canteen. “But not today.”
He patted me on the back. “Fair enough, my friend, fair enough.” He turned to walk away.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Captain?”
&n
bsp; “Do you believe the valley is haunted—I mean, like your men do?”
“No, I don’t believe it, I know it. My father knew it, as did my grandfather and his father before him. The truth of a place like that doesn’t wander. The truth may be built upon, or the interpretation of it may change. But it never vanishes. It is unchangeable, as your spiritual ideal should be. The world that spoke to you is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” He turned and walked slowly away. After a few steps he turned and said, “Unless your mind is fixed on Allah, the giver of all things, you may find yourself chasing shadows in your search for glory.”
“Wait a minute … . What does that mean?”
“It means you have a purpose, and I think it is being made known to you. Listen to the message or chase shadows all your life. I must go now. I have a battalion to command. Salaam aleikum, Captain.” He saluted and turned away.
I returned the salute. “Aleikum salaam, Colonel.”
We jumped back into Savannah with all our families watching. Those were great homecomings, almost circuslike. After the standard formalities of equipment and personnel accountability we released the troops to visit for a few minutes with their families. First on my knee was Michael, followed by Mariah. I stood there anchored by my loved ones while Debbie approached me carrying Danielle. She had a troubled but eager look on her face.
“Oh, thank God.” Still holding Danielle, she flung an arm around me. “I’m so glad you’re home. I was really worried this time. I just knew something was going to happen … . How’s your head? Captain August from Regiment called the other night to tell me about it. He said you were fine.” She slapped me on the arm. “Why didn’t you let them tell me about it when it happened?”
“I’m fine, honey. We didn’t want you to worry. Look, it just put a big hole in the helmet, that’s all. Sergeant Hanley has it; I’ll show it to you later.” I said nothing else, just hugged her and kissed my babies. “I’m glad I’m home, too, honey. What’s for dinner? And please don’t tell me, Goat.”
Psychic Warrior Page 5
