Whatever abuse I suffered in an American prison was nothing compared to what he’d gone through. I should have been more patient. I shouldn’t have demanded that he man up. I shouldn’t have nagged him about my needs.
I shouldn’t have driven him away. I shouldn’t have been relieved when he got on the plane, and I definitely should have gone to the veteran’s partner support group.
Now that he’s gone and Arman’s family is missing or most likely dead, what harm would it be for me to call that number and leave a message for that mysterious cell phone that Arman called from? It may not get to him, but it’ll get to Afghanistan and his spirit will hear me.
I open my purse and powder my face, then brush on mascara. I swipe lip gloss over my pink lips. Tyler always liked my natural color. I practice smiling for him. I love you, Tyler. I love you, forever, and when I meet you again, I’ll still love you, in death as in life.
Turning on my front facing camera, I point the phone at myself and snap a picture. I drag my IV stand to the bathroom and turn the camera at the mirror, standing sideways so my pregnant belly is outlined. I take another picture.
I text both pictures to Tyler with the message. You are my everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted, and more than I ever deserved. I will not name your son until you tell it to me. Give me a message, a sign you are with me. I wait for you, darling, always I’ll wait, with a full heart and expectation of hope. Hope, Tyler, always hope, because without hope, there is no love. Hope is the fuel of love. And I love you, Tyler.
~ Tyler ~
The chirping of angry birds crowded his aching body. Sharp stabs of pain competed with the dull throbbing between his ears. Still the birds chirped. It was dark and wet. Tyler was covered under a soggy blanket of mud and rubble. He struggled to raise his head, groaning. Numbness was quickly replaced by fire as he gained consciousness.
It was quiet as a graveyard, except for that damned chirping. Who the hell was texting him? He opened his eyes and stared at the disappearing sliver of moon. Was he confined in a mental hospital dreaming about Afghanistan?
The chirping started again. Why couldn’t he wake up and stop the clock? He raised his head, and a gust of wind slapped his face. Teeth chattering, he reached in the direction of the chirp.
His hand landed on a rucksack. The fuzziness retreated, a little, and he stared at the sack. It seemed familiar but foreign, not US Army issue, more Soviet. Reaching in, Tyler pulled out a cell phone. A picture of a beautiful woman opened when he tapped the flashing icon. She was a goddess sent to comfort him. Someone outside his world of crazy. Her eyes were tired, but shone with emotion. Love? Her lips were slightly parted, beckoning him to touch her. Warm, honey colored hair flowed over her … hospital gown?
Tyler flicked to the next photo, and he woke completely, recognizing her. Kelly was in the hospital, one hand on a phone and the other cupping the bottom of her pregnant belly, showing him the full roundness.
His eyes tried to focus on the message. Comfort, warmth and a deep relief flooded him. She wanted him back. After everything he did to her? Leaving her behind pregnant. She wanted him.
His frozen fingers barely worked and autocorrect kept screwing up his message. He kept trying. Why was it so hard to find the right word? The phone chimed a low battery alarm. Tyler hit ‘send’ before finishing the message, but the phone blacked out.
What an idiot he was. He should have used the energy to call for help. Call the emergency number for the US military. Tyler frantically pushed the buttons, but the phone would try to boot and shut off before completion.
The temperature was dropping, and he needed to seek shelter. Everything was coming back. He’d fallen off a cliff with Arman. He could have broken bones. Arman could be dead.
Tyler groped in the dim moonlight, shoving aside rubble. If the boy’s pack landed next to him, he should be close.
“Arman, Arman,” he called. He felt around, in a systematic way, spiraling out from where he’d fallen. The ground under him was unstable, but still wet. It must have rained while he was out. How long ago was the firefight? A day, a week?
His hand touched something soft and warm.
“Arman.” He shook the boy’s body, and was answered by a groan.
Looping the backpack over his shoulder, he lifted Arman, despite his back and legs screaming in pain. His AK-47 was still over his shoulder, but Stork’s rucksack with the extra magazines was nowhere to be found. He’d have to find a hideaway and conserve bullets.
With Arman in his arms, he hobbled downhill, in search of a cave or a hut. The vegetation was slightly lusher in the valley, which meant water collected. He’d follow the water. High above him, the white peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains stood like silent sentinels, daring him to survive.
A wall of rock cast a shadow from the dim moonlight, and Tyler headed for it, finding a cave which was not much more than an upside down V. It had to be enough. He’d make a fire. Crossing his fingers, he rummaged in the pack and hoped Arman and his friends hadn’t used up all the lighter fluid on cigarettes.
They hadn’t! Thank you, God. After leaving Arman inside, Tyler scrambled to collect firewood. Unfortunately, everything was soaked through or green.
His teeth chattering, he tried to light the fire, over and over again, but without kindling, he couldn’t get it to catch. All those nights with Arman’s band, he’d relied on Stork to make the fire. He should have paid better attention.
Piling the wood against the opening to block the wind, Tyler lay down next to Arman and put his arms around him, hugging what little warmth the boy provided.
How effing ironic could this get? He’d survived the Taliban only to freeze to death because he couldn’t start a fire. Some Army Ranger he turned out to be.
Chapter Seventeen
~ Kelly ~
My hospital room was a revolving door of well-wishers and prayer warriors. Everyone from my Mom’s church stopped by with messages of hope and faith, refusing to give up on Tyler.
Toward the evening, right after my mother and Bree had gone home, a nurse appears at the door with a contingent of men in uniforms.
“Miss Kennedy,” she says. “I told them you were too exhausted, but they insisted on seeing you. They say they’re Tyler’s brothers.”
“Brothers? I didn’t know he had any.” I tug on a sweater robe over my hospital gown and tie it.
A large black man stepped forward, his hand extended. “Sawyer McGee, we’ve met before.”
“Yes, Sawyer. I know you.”
“Jingle Bell Rock.” He smiles and sets his guitar case on the floor. He’s wearing desert camouflage with his Army Ranger insignia.
“Yes, it’s okay,” I tell the nurse. “Baby’s doing great and we have the monitor attached.”
“Sure.” The nurse turns to the men. “Fifteen minutes max.”
Sawyer introduces me to the rest of the men. Grant, Ross, Josh, and Cole, Navy SEAL, Army Airborne, Air Force, and Marine.
Each one of them comes forward and shakes my hand, holding it tight and looking into my eyes with gazes full of compassion, hope, and understanding.
They rearrange the chairs and form a circle around my bed, then join hands with me and each other.
“We’re here to not only pray for Tyler, but to pull you into our brotherhood,” Sawyer explains. “All of us have been to hell and back. We know what it’s like to fight overseas and to come home and fight again.”
“But, how do we know Tyler’s coming home?” I gasp. “I’ve been praying all day, and yes, I’m supposed to say I trust in the Lord. I’m supposed to smile and thank you for praying, but my tongue is tired and my cheeks are sore. How do you know?”
“Tyler’s coming home, we know it,” Grant, the Navy SEAL, reassures. “We never leave a man behind. Believe me, right now, our guys are scouring the hillside for him.”
“The FBI man says the area is crawling with Taliban and their anti-aircraft missiles.” I wring the hand of the guy
sitting next to me, Cole, the Marine. “He says they can’t get in.”
“That’s bull,” Ross, the Army Airborne paratrooper, says. “We have helos flying over 150 knots per hour with terrain mapping radar and heat sensors. We can drop guys in the dark equipped with night vision goggles. We’ll find him.”
“We’ll break apart the entire mountain to get to him,” Cole squeezes my hand back. “He’s one of ours. We never leave a man behind.”
Dead or alive. I swallow grimly, but these guys didn’t come to hear me whine. I am a strong woman, a warrior’s wife. Crap. Where did that come from? Tyler hasn’t committed to marry me, not even with the baby on the way. He’s only let me tell my mother we’re engaged, allowing me to lie to my family, but I can never nail a date down because of all his projects.
“Let’s pray,” Josh says.
Holding hands with the men who served with Tyler, who knew the heat of battle and the scars of coming home, I feel a strong kinship. A sense of peace washes over me. These men understood. There was a bond between them, and by coming tonight, they included me into their brotherhood.
After prayer, Sawyer takes out his guitar, and the men sing Christmas carols. Their deep and sonorous voices gather a crowd of doctors and nurses outside the door.
Tears flow freely down my face. There’s nothing like hearing five veterans singing “O Holy Night” to make you fall faster on your knees.
There isn’t a dry eye after they finish, and as they hug me goodbye, each man says he’ll be back when Tyler returns. I believe them.
After they leave, it grows quiet as the staff outside shut off the lights for the evening. I know I should sleep, but how can I when Tyler’s still out there? It’s eight in the morning his time. Has he survived the night? Have they found him yet?
I pull out my tablet and check the weather. The low last night was twenty-eight degrees, and it had snowed overnight. Hopefully Tyler had headed to lower altitude and was able to find shelter and build a fire. I’ll know soon enough if what the guys said was true about sending in special forces.
My thoughts turn to Arman and his mother. The kid had sounded so forlorn and lost. I’m sure his mother had good reason for leaving, but why hadn’t she taken her son?
Maybe Arman didn’t want to go. Maybe he wanted to stay with his dad and be a warrior. After all, he’d betrayed Tyler. He’d led him deeper into Taliban territory and tried to extract a ransom.
I can’t judge a boy like Arman, one born to a warlord. He only knew the ways of war, and that included kidnapping and betrayal. An Afghan woman I once met said her children were born with guns in their hands. No one can conquer the Afghani. Anyone can rent one, but no one can own one, not the British, not the Russians, and certainly not the Americans. No, the Afghani is a fighter. He’ll never quit.
Neither will I. Whatever happens, Arman needs to know the love of his mother again. He needs to feel her concern and care. I look up the three women on the internet, the ones I had narrowed down as candidates to be Arman’s mother, and I type emails to them, explaining that Arman Tarakai is an employee of my fiancé’s and that they are lost in Afghanistan together.
After hitting ‘send,’ I can finally relax enough to sleep. The men may never give up, but neither will a mother give up on her son. I know it, because I’m a mother, and a mother is forever.
~ Tyler ~
Tyler woke up draped in fur. Stinky fur, but warm fur.
“Little Brownie!” He wiped the fur covering the dog’s eyes, and the puppy licked his face and nuzzled him, his nose busy.
Beside him, Arman stirred, moaning, “I’m thirsty.”
The dog jumped on Arman and licked his face, despite Arman trying to duck and hide. “No dog, no dog. Dirty.”
“Dog’s not dirty,” Tyler said. If anything was nasty, it was the goat dung and the communal toilet pit in the villages. That nastiness hung in his nose, and he doubted he’d ever eat goat cheese again.
“You okay?” Tyler sat up. His entire body creaked and his back ached. The throbbing in his head and torso screamed as he moved to drag the canteen toward them.
“Where am I?” Arman rubbed his eyes. “What happened?”
Did the kid not remember the firefight? Or his father dying? Tyler had to approach it slowly. First, find out if he had any physical injuries.
“A lot. Tell me if you’re hurt.” Tyler uncapped the canteen and held it for him to drink.
“My head.” Arman closed his eyes and palmed the huge bump covering half his forehead. It had darkened overnight into a black and purple splotch.
“Anything else? Broken bones?” Tyler was sure he had some, especially his broken nose and possibly a few cracked ribs. But with his entire body in pain, he couldn’t be sure.
Arman stretched and groaned, but everything seemed to be in order. “What do we do now? Where’s my father?”
“Your father’s out there somewhere. I’m hoping you know of a friendly village where we can borrow a cell phone.”
“I have one. I stole it back from my father,” Arman said, sitting up. He hit his head on the top of the cave. “Ouch.”
“I tried it already. Your battery died.”
Arman had no clue his father had passed. Maybe it was for the better. It’d help them find a way to safety if he thought his father was waiting for him.
“You have kinsmen around these parts? Your tribe?” Tyler asked.
“We have to find my father first.”
“Sounds good to me.” Tyler patted the boy’s legs. “Can you feel your legs? Can you walk?”
Arman twisted his feet and nodded, while Little Brownie licked the bottom of the canteen.
Arman pushed him. “Get this dirty dog away from me.”
“This dog kept us from freezing last night.” Tyler poured water into his hand and let the dog drink. “His name is Little Brownie, and I’m taking him home with me.”
Little Brownie’s ears perked, and his tail stood up. He barked and ambled to the pile of sticks blocking the cave.
Shit. Tyler had gotten lax, talking to Arman. There could be Taliban gunmen outside, tracking them.
“Get behind me,” he hissed and grabbed the AK-47. “Someone’s coming.”
The dog barked again, growling. Not good at all. He was giving away their position.
“I have to leave. If they find you, a boy, they won’t kill you.” Tyler took off his Soviet era jacket and tucked it over Arman. “I’ll come back if you’re still here.”
Leaving the canteen and the Taliban backpack, Tyler crawled out the other side of the crevice into a world of white. It had snowed last night. The chilly wind whipped flurries onto his face, and his arms and legs went numb. He was dressed in dark clothing and exposed on the white background.
But still, if he was to be a decoy for Arman, he’d better draw the fire. Tyler forced his legs to move as he crawled and stumbled away from the cave.
Woof, woof. The puppy bounded in the snow after him as if they were on a playdate in the park. The dog’s tracks were clearly visible, leading away from the cave.
“Little Brownie, I’m going to kill you,” Tyler said when the puppy pounced on him, wagging his tail. “You think this is fun?”
Tyler hurried to move as far from the cave as possible. There could be Taliban out there looking for him. The US military never gave up and neither did the Afghan warrior.
He wrapped his head scarf tighter and drew his black and white neck scarf over his mouth and nose. Maybe from a distance they thought he was one of them. His beard was scruffy by now, and nothing but his blazing blue eyes would set him apart.
Brownie’s growl came a split second before the muzzle of a rifle appeared, pointing straight at him.
“An M4!” Tyler exclaimed as he whipped his AK-47 toward it.
“Taliban, you speak English?”
“No Taliban. No Taliban,” Tyler said, sounding like an Afghan. Wait. English. “I’m Tyler Manning, Army Ranger. And you?”
<
br /> “Dirk DeLuca, Navy SEAL. Put your gun down, soldier. You’re being rescued.”
“I’m not being rescued. I’m going home.” Tyler held onto the AK-47 while peering into the mountains around him. “The Taliban are still out there.”
“They might be, but we’re getting you outta here. I’m reckoning they don’t want a couple of Hellfire missiles in their tents right now.”
Two other SEALs flanked Dirk and said, “Welcome home, Captain Manning.”
They saluted each other, and Dirk grabbed Tyler’s hand to pull him over the ridge.
“Wait, there’s a hostage I need you to extract.” Tyler pointed to the direction of the tracks. “A boy, a British kid.”
“A British citizen? We weren’t briefed on that.”
“Yes, his mother’s British, but his father, who died in the gunfight back there, kidnapped him. He has nobody here, other than Taliban who hate him and his father for protecting me.” Tyler embellished the story to help Arman. He couldn’t picture leaving the kid behind all alone and friendless.
“On it.” Both of the SEALs headed for the cave.
“He’s not armed, but he’ll be frightened. He speaks English. Let me go with you.” Tyler took a step, but Dirk pinned him to the wall. “Sorry, dude. We need to take control of the situation.”
“You don’t trust me?”
Dirk grinned. “You wouldn’t trust me, either. Now, drop the weapon and let’s get you on the helo.”
Tyler let the AK-47 slip to the ground. Instead, he picked up Little Brownie. “This here’s my daughter’s Christmas gift. You got a cell phone?”
“Up on the helo.” He pointed to a Chinook helicopter speeding their direction.
Tyler kissed the dog and yelped. “Woohoo, Brownie. We’re going home. God bless America!”
Dropping to his knees, he gave thanks before leaving Afghan soil, forever.
Chapter Eighteen
~ Kelly ~
My email lights up. It’s one of the women I emailed earlier about Arman. Her name is Elizabeth Norton, M.D. My heart beats faster, because what can I tell her?
Pet for Christmas (Holiday Family Story) Page 12
