by Johnson, Cat
Meanwhile, Vicki Vanover had already checked her email on her shiny new, internet capable, satellite cell phone, organized her notes and had even cleaned all the old crumpled gum wrappers out of the bottom of her oversized bag.
With an impatient huff, Vicki placed her camera gently on the floor and pulled her cell phone back out of her well-worn (okay, perhaps beaten-up was a better descriptor) leather satchel.
Moments of free time were already too few and far between. Since Vicki was unwillingly experiencing one right now, she might as well use the time to surf over to her newest favorite online pastime, reading military blogs.
Actually, one blog in particular.
She hated to admit it, but she had a little bit of a crush on one of the bloggers. She tried to explain the attraction to a soldier she never met as professional respect for his writing ability. The only problem with that excuse was that she rarely found herself all tingly on the inside from reading impressive articles in, say, the NY Times.
Vicki dismissed the feeling of shame her arousal at corresponding with this guy caused. Chances were she’d never meet him, so what harm could a little online crush do? Besides, she figured if she was heading into the war zone, she couldn’t be prepared enough, and milblogs were about as real a taste of what to expect as she could get for now.
As usual, the milblog’s author, screen name Groundpounder, had responded to her blog comment with one of his own. Vicki felt the warmth grow and spread throughout her belly as she read it.
My dear Vicki V,
So glad you liked the last post. As you can see by my newest blog entry, I’ve been buried deep, and not in a good way.
Enjoy!
Groundpounder
After reading his brief but suggestive reply twice, and growing warmer with each reading, she moved on to the new blog post he had alluded to. He had named this installment “The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful.”
Vicki smiled, appreciating yet another one of Groundpounder’s frequent Jimmy Buffet song references, and began to scroll through the post on her cell’s small screen.
The next time our B-team leader acts like the sky is falling, I guess I will have to listen to him because the other day, the sky actually fell. Or, at least, it rained enough to cave in the roof of one of our mud huts, nearly crushing eleven sleeping men and successfully burying all the equipment in the Operations Center that couldn’t be thrown out the door before the collapse. That was two weeks ago and, forgive me, Father, but it’s been two weeks since my last blog post. Here’s a rundown of what happened during that time…
After a few hours of digging that morning (and let us not forget I had just gotten off of twenty-four hours of guard duty when the shit, or shall we say the mud, started to fly) we found a few more of the guys’ personal items and cleared a small portion of the rubble. We finally called it quits, at which time the now displaced Joes had to be packed into rooms with the rest of us, so now Sergeant Wallace is sharing our already too small quarters with the squad leader and me.
It took weeks to completely clear all of the mess and recover what survived the collapse, and that was on top of all of our usual duties. Luckily, the crappy, rainy weather kept the baddies at bay for a lot of that time. Not one Joe complained about the loss of items or the extra work. We were lucky no lives were lost that day. Tomorrow, we may not be so lucky.
Vicki read the post and sighed. This guy never failed to tug at her heartstrings. At least this time, Groundpounder’s post hadn’t managed to make her cry, as it had so often in the past.
“What are you reading there on your cellie, love, that’s got you sighing so big?”
Vicki looked up to find Mel, her favorite Australian cameraman and felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She seriously hoped the fact she was lusting over a strange blogger wasn’t written all over her face. “Hey there, Mel. Just a milblog written by a U.S. soldier deployed in Afghanistan. I got approved for the assignment I requested. I’m getting sent to Kandahar. I figure I better get the feel of the country before I get there.”
Mel nodded his sandy-haired head and straddled the chair next to her and sat. “So, you’re definitely going then.”
Vicki nodded, excited. “It wasn’t easy getting the magazine to agree, but I really think it’s important to have a female’s take on the progress in that country as far as women’s rights.”
Mel nodded. “I’ve spent a bit of time in Afghanistan myself. I’d love to chew the fat about it with you over a beer…or maybe breakfast.” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
Handsome in a rugged Indiana Jones kind of way, and over-the-top flirty while always managing to remain a gentleman—that was Mel. Too bad Vicki had a “no dating men at work” policy. Actually, it was a fairly new policy enacted about a year ago after the disastrous ending to her ill-fated relationship with a co-worker.
The problem with the “no dating at work” plan however, was that Vicki only met men at work, leading to an extremely long dry spell in her dating, and more importantly, her sexual life, but she was sticking with the resolve. She’d figure out a way to iron out the kinks in the plan later. But the globetrotting ladies’ man Mel and his proposal, as charming as his Australian accent was, was still definitely off limits.
Vicki laughed. “Thanks, Mel. I’ll keep that in mind.” He probably wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she ever said yes to one of his proposals anyway.
As usual, Mel grinned good-naturedly at her sidestepping around his flirting and winked. “I hope you will, Vicki, and if things do get dodgy in Afghanistan, give me a jingle. I know some blokes there.”
“I bet you do.” Vicki had no doubt that after all the time he spent embedded as a cameraman there, the man was familiar with Afghanistan. She would definitely not hesitate to call or email him if things got “dodgy”, as he had put it.
A door in the wall behind the podium opened and the Prime Minister, along with his entourage, funneled into the room, interrupting Vicki’s thoughts.
Mel rose from the chair with a sigh. “Time to go and make a quid.” He hooked a thumb back toward his video camera, set up on a tripod along the sidewall.
She laughed at his ever-colorful dialogue. “Talk to you later, Mel.”
He smiled handsomely. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”
Vicki had barely managed to hear him over the hustle and bustle of a roomful of restless and high-strung members of the media as the press conference began. The Prime Minister’s Press Secretary adjusted the microphone’s angle before announcing, “The Prime Minister will make a brief statement before taking questions. Please hold all queries until the end.”
Vicki snapped a few quick photos as the Prime Minister took the podium, before she stowed the camera and took out her notepad and pen. She wasn’t there so much for pictures for her magazine as she was for information. The Prime Minister was supposed to be speaking on Britain’s continued involvement in Afghanistan. Of course their allies’s troop movements were of interest to Vicki’s U.S. readers, but more importantly, with her own departure for the region looming, Vicki was interested on a more personal level, also. When he began speaking, she tuned out all else and concentrated fully on his words.
“Currently, Britain’s Foreign Secretary David Miliband is in Kabul meeting with Condoleeza Rice and Afghan President Hamid Karzai. He’s there on my behalf to, firstly, recommit the British Government to the plans set out in the House of Commons in December, at the heart of which is a determination to work with our allies against the shared enemies that we have. One of these enemies is terrorism, but, also, we fight the common enemies of poverty, ill health, and economic development, all of which conspire against the aspirations of the Afghan people to build a decent life for themselves. It is to help the Afghan people gain those privileges rightly due to them that Britain is dedicated.
“Secondly, Secretary Miliband is there to reflect on progress, to recognize the refugees coming back to the country, the children going
to school, and the improvements in healthcare, none of which would have been achieved without the support of the international community.”
Glancing around the crowded room, the Prime Minister concluded reading his written announcement by saying, “I’ll now take questions.”
The hand of every reporter in the room rose, including Vicki’s. The Prime Minister pointed to a foreign press correspondent seated in the front row and addressed him by name. “Mr. Wood. Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. Is it true the decision has been made that Prince Harry will be joining his unit in Afghanistan?”
“Prince Harry is proud to be serving his country and looks forward to continuing to do so.”
Vicki raised a brow, wondering if sidestepping questions they did not want to answer, as the Prime Minister had just done so effectively, came naturally to all politicians or if they went through some sort of training course to hone the skill.
Still standing, Wood tried to get more clarification. “But given the fact that Prince Harry is third in line for the throne…”
“Members of the royal family have proudly served in the military throughout history. The Princes William and Harry, like their father, as well as their aunt and uncle, are no exception.” In spite of the foreign press correspondent’s attempt at his follow-up question, it was clear the Prime Minister was done with that particular topic as he moved on, pointing to an American reporter. “You, sir. In the second row. What is your question?”
“Jonathon Gorlin, Associated Press. Do you agree with the assessment last week by an independent panel in the United States which said Afghanistan is the forgotten war and that the state is at risk of again failing unless there is a more concerted international effort?”
“The defeat of al-Qaida and terrorism, both of which were prevalent in the region for so many years, was achieved in less than a month and a half. Since then, Afghanistan has moved forward. Highways have been completed. Healthcare is being provided for the entire country. There is a better economy and better wages, more business, a constitution, a free press, and so on. All of this proves that Afghanistan has not been forgotten. Next question.”
Amid the sea of waving limbs, Vicki raised her hand higher.
“Yes, Ms. Vanover.”
Pleased that the Prime Minister knew her name, Vicki rose from her seat. “Thank you, Prime Minister. The tangible and measurable progress, such as advances in the transportation infrastructure, education and healthcare, is commendable. But what will Britain do to further secure the rights of Afghan women who continue to be mistreated within a culture that accepts and condones such abominable treatment of its females?”
“The advancements and continued efforts that you just commended, Ms. Vanover, are the very things which will further the rights of women, as well as of all the Afghan citizens. Mr. Fielding. Your question?”
And with that, Vicki’s question was dismissed, though it was exactly what she had expected, a non-answer, which was precisely why Vicki was traveling to Afghanistan herself.
He fielded a few more questions about everything from troop levels, to NATO, to the final question about the situation of a journalist being held by the Afghan government for circulating blasphemous materials, which was when his press secretary stepped forward, poised to end the press conference. The Prime Minister very briefly answered that the matter of the journalist was being handled by the Afghan judicial system, which did nothing to calm Vicki’s fears, and then he was bustled out of the room, leaving Vicki to wonder what the hell she had gotten herself into by signing on to go there.
When Mel reappeared next to her, she felt relieved for the familiar presence.
“I forgot to give you my satellite cellie number,” he said, smiling.
She glanced down at the business card Mel had dug out of his cargo vest pocket and handed to her. She sighed. “Am I doing the right thing, Mel? Going there, I mean.”
He squatted down to be eye-level with her as she sat. His head wobbled back and forth in a ‘maybe yes, maybe no’ kind of motion which made Vicki even more nervous. “You having doubts, love?”
“It’s just…that journalist who’s being held on bogus charges…”
“You said you’d be at Kandahar Air Field?”
She nodded.
“That region is still heavy in landmines and warlords, but if you stay within the fences of KAF, you should be safe enough, love.
Landmines and warlords!
The fear must have shown on her face, because Mel’s hand touched hers. “Like I said, stay safely within the fences at KAF, listen to what the Army tells you to do, and you’ll be fine, love.”
Vicki sighed. It was good advice. The problem was, she had a feeling the real story, the one she wanted to tell, could not be found within the fences. Vicki wanted that story, no matter what.
Chapter Three
There had been one constant in Ryan’s life while growing up. Even though, as an Army brat, he’d had more first days in a new school than any of his non-military cousins, even though he had so many new bedrooms his posters had no corners from being repeatedly hung up and taken down again, there had always been the “Field of Poppies”.
Of course, it hadn’t been the real painting. The original one was by Claude Monet and hung in some museum somewhere, but the framed print was his mother’s favorite possession. Even when some pieces of furniture had to be sold because the new base housing they were moving into was smaller than the old, the colorful print still came with them, carefully wrapped in plastic bubbles so the frame wouldn’t get nicked during the move. Whether they had been living in the States or OCONUS, it had always hung in a place of honor where his mother would often gaze at it, her own little piece of home, no matter where in the world they happened to be.
Ryan’s gaze swept the expanse of brightly colored blooms now, only this was no Monet. This was Afghanistan during the yearly poppy harvest and every one of the seemingly innocuous flowers may as well have been an RPG, recoilless rifle, or parts for an IED, because that’s exactly what they would turn into—weapons used to kill American soldiers.
Like it or not, that was just the way things were in today’s post-Taliban Afghanistan. Poppies turned into drugs, illegal drugs that when sold supplied the baddies with money, money that funded terrorism.
After his tour here, poppies and thoughts about his mother’s painting would be ruined for him forever. At that moment Ryan hated the Taliban for mutilating one of the most comforting memories of his childhood and home.
He hated them even more for the fact they had innocents harvesting the blooms—locals comprised of the very old, the very young, men, women and children—all trying to survive in the face of the failure of their own non-drug related crops due to the extreme weather in the region that year. Through his scope, Ryan could see them out there right now, far in the distance. Because of that, simply bombing the area, wiping out both the drug crop and the workers, was out of the question.
Didn’t it just figure? The much needed local wheat and almond crop had failed miserably this year, but the poppies were still going strong. The only bright side was that with everyone, both the locals and the bad guys, busy picking and transporting flowers for heroin production, enemy contact during the harvest had been nearly non-existent. That was one thing to be grateful for and during his years in the service, Ryan had learned to take what he could get.
With a sigh, he turned helplessly away from the horrible, beautiful view.
Ryan saw Walker, a soldier in his squad, come to relieve him and his patrol was finally at an end, for today, at least. A shower, a meal (most likely meat patty) and a short sleep before going out to help with some of the construction work on one of the new buildings all sounded pretty good to Ryan right about then, even the meat patty.
On his way back to his living area, Ryan spotted Black and Moraches, a few of the guys from his squad, out on the makeshift volleyball court. As the new and still fairly white volle
yball they’d gotten as a donation from the States popped high into the air, Ryan heard shouts in both English and Pashto (the local language) as various players called the play. His troops were trying to teach the Afghani Army guys, who resided with them at base, the game of volleyball. Luckily, the phrase “I got it” translated fairly easily between Pashto and English.
Ryan smiled. Multinational volleyball. That alone would probably go much further towards establishing friendly diplomatic relations with the locals of the region than all of the government’s other official efforts, but wasn’t that always the way?
Besides, a little bit of diversion, like playing volleyball, went a long way to raise troop morale and break up this very long deployment, which felt a bit too much like that movie Groundhog Day. Each and every day seemed essentially the same as the last, while at the same time being different. It was enough to really mess with a man’s head if he didn’t watch out.
While considering that the Groundhog Day analogy might be a good theme for his next blog entry, Ryan opened the door to his sleeping hut. It had grown a bit more crowded within the tiny space since Wally had moved in with him and Hawk after the collapse of his living quarters. Privacy was an even more rare commodity now, so Ryan was not at all surprised to find at least one of his roomies in residence when he stepped into the dimly lit hut.
“Hi there, Hawk.”
His squad leader nodded in his direction, not even looking up from the papers in his hand. “Hey, Pettit. How was the patrol? Any action?”
“Nah. It was as quiet out there as Afghanistan during the poppy harvest,” Ryan joked.
As he stripped off his weapons, Ryan watched Hawk crack a small smile and nod at the truth of what he’d just voiced. “Anything exciting happen here?” Ryan asked, fully expecting the answer to be a no given the game he’d seen. If something had happened, the guys would not be out there spiking the volleyball.
