by Sidney Wood
“Good morning ma’am,” a Marine said cheerfully while walking to the other tent.
Jen stopped and said, “Good morn…ing" Her voice trailed off and her face turned bright red. She quickly turned her eyes away and hurried to her tent. The Marine who greeted her was heavily muscled, like a body builder, and he had large black tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest, and some on his legs. To Jen’s embarrassment, the Marine was wearing nothing but a brown towel. She heard him say, “Oohrah,” and chuckle as he disappeared into the opposite tent.
Hot anger replaced the embarrassment and Jen stormed into her tent. She was determined to stay away from the Marines as much as possible. It was the only way she could be safe, and it was the only way to keep them safe.
Chapter Thirty
Deep South drove deep into the city toward the Green Zone. He passed the infamous parade grounds where Saddam had showed off his SCUD missiles and elite Republican Guard to the world. He saw the monuments to Iraq’s war with Iran. People were parked near the base of the giant copper statues of raised arms with crossed swords, forming an arch at the end of the parade grounds.
When he arrived at the gates to the Green Zone, Deep South parked the SUV and walked in. He didn’t want to explain why he was driving a private citizens car. Things were quite different than they were at the beginning of the gulf war, when commandeering vehicles was a common and sometimes even necessary practice. Back then it was rarely questioned. Now days, it was likely to land him in an Iraq jail before any questions were asked. Deep South didn’t have that kind of time to waste.
His military ID was enough to get him through the gate, and he passed through as one of many people going in and out on official business. Once inside, he walked straight ahead toward a plain two story building situated across from a series of street vendors and a small parking lot. Special Operations Command had one whole corner of the building, and Deep South’s higher command element had an office there as well. He wasn’t looking forward to going in. At the very least it would mean hours of debriefing and pages of report writing. He considered going to one of the street vendors for a bite to eat before going in, but time was an important factor. He went inside.
It was early afternoon when he found himself standing at attention in front of Lieutenant Colonel Griffin’s desk. “Good morning, sir. Staff Sergeant Parks reporting as ordered,” he said with a sharp salute.
The officer seated behind the desk returned the salute and then spit in a Diet Dr Pepper can. He set the can on the desk next to another and sat back in his chair. He waved his hand toward the two chairs in front of his desk and said, “Have a seat Staff Sergeant. It’s Deep South, isn’t it?” he asked. He leaned forward and took the other Diet Dr Pepper can and took a drink while he waited for an answer.
Deep South sat at the position of attention and answered respectfully, “Yes, sir.”
The Lieutenant Colonel leaned forward again and swapped cans. He spit into the can again and replaced it on the desk. “This guy’s gonna mix ‘em up any second,” thought Deep South. He watched with interest each time the commander took a drink or spit. What made it even more interesting is that each time he picked one up and put it down, he set it in a different spot. It was a welcome distraction.
“Okay, Deep South; I see why they call you that, by the way,” he said with a practiced smile. He leaned forward and retrieved a Diet Dr Pepper can and bravely took a drink. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell happened out there to cause the death of your entire team? I’m going to warn you right now, son; this better be a good story or I’m throwing your ass in a cell. You got that?”
Deep South nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Well, then,” the Lieutenant Colonel said. He swapped the cans again and spit. “Proceed.”
The Lieutenant Colonel was starting to seem less eccentric and more insane to Deep South, but he reminded himself why he was here and began his story. “We were set up in a hut just outside of Mosul when I first saw her, sir,” he said. For the next hour and a half, he laid out the whole story, including the IED, the farm, and bringing her close to Baghdad. What he specifically avoided, was telling Lieutenant Colonel Griffin where he left her or who she was with.
“Staff Sergeant,” the commander said. “You are playing a dangerous game, and I’m half tempted to throw your butt in prison right now." Deep South stiffened. “But,” he said. “I see where your head is at in this." He swapped cans and took a long drink. Then he smashed the can and threw it under his desk. He reached into a cube refrigerator behind him and pulled out another. He cracked it open and set it on the desk.
“I need your official, written report on my desk in two hours. I don’t want to read any crap about diseases or crazed infected people either, are we tracking?"
Deep South answered, “Yes, sir."
“Your report will reflect internal conflict or unidentified enemy combatants. The girl is not going to be in any official report." Lieutenant Colonel Griffin leaned forward and took the new can off his desk. He leaned back and put it to his lip to spit, but stopped suddenly. He moved it away from his mouth and said, “I’ll make some phone calls and find out what we can do about her. She’ll have to be dealt with, and soon, but what that means is not my call." He leaned forward and almost set his Diet Dr Pepper down, but then sat back again as if pondering something. Instead of revealing a deep thought of some kind, he simply said, “Now get your ass to the infirmary before you get gangrene, tracking?”
Deep South nodded and said, “Yes, sir." He stood and saluted.
The Lieutenant Colonel took a sip of Diet Dr Pepper and set it the desk in front of him. He saluted and said, “Dismissed.”
Deep South took a step back and turned around before walking out of the office. “So, you want a report that leaves out all of the important details. Roger that,” he thought as he walked down the hall toward the infirmary.
The infirmary was nothing more than an office where an Army Medic hung out playing video games and listening to music. Technically, there was also a Physician’s Assistant on duty to prescribe meds, but he was rarely in the office. The medic, a Specialist, had a basic trauma kit, but calling the office an infirmary was a stretch by any standard. Deep South walked in and waited for the Specialist to look up.
“Oh, uh…good afternoon Staff Sergeant,” the young soldier said, surprised. “What can I do for you?"
“Do you have any antibiotics?” Deep South asked. “I have a little cut that went deeper than I thought.”
The Specialist pushed a sign-in roster toward Deep South and turned around to access a wide filing cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and dug around a bit before coming out with a dark orange pill bottle. “Hang on, I’ll be right back,” he said. “Doc’s downstairs. I’ll get him to sign off on these and you can get going,” he said. The Specialist rounded the desk and hurried out of the office.
“You don’t want to look at it or anything?” Deep South asked.
“Nah, I trust you Staff Sergeant,” the Specialist said over his shoulder. “If the Doc wants to look, he’ll come up."
“Okay then,” Deep South said under his breath. He sat on a hard plastic chair on the corner. He kept his right leg straight and checked his bandage for new bleeding.
A few minutes later, the PA walked into the office ahead of the Specialist. “Good afternoon Staff Sergeant,” said the squat Hispanic looking Major. His name tag read, “Marcos." “Why don’t we take a look at that leg of yours,” Major Marcos said. He reached into the desk to retrieved a pair of blue examination gloves, and put them on while Deep South unwrapped the bandage on his leg.
The Major used a pair of scissors to cut the trousers away from the wound. He placed fingers on either side of the cut and pulled it apart. “Holy crap!” he said. He gave Deep South an accusatory look and asked him, “What the heck happened? Did you get stabbed?”
Deep South shrugged and replied, “I guess you could say that. I hit an I
ED yesterday. The firewall peeled back and punched into my leg. I’m pretty sure nothing stayed in there, but it’s pretty dang sore anyway.”
“You hit an IED yesterday?” the Major asked incredulously. “Why are you here? You should be in a hospital!”
Deep South looked him in the eyes. “Major, my entire team is dead. I have to make sure what happened to them doesn’t happen to anybody else. Hospitals? I don’t have time for all that. Can’t you just throw a stitch or two in there and give me some antibiotics?”
Major Marcos prodded the wound and made “Tsk,” noises. “Specialist, get me the iodine and some gauze. Then bring me a suture kit." He continued examining the wound, shaking his head. A few minutes later, Deep South was hating life as the Major flushed the wound and wiped it roughly with an iodine soaked sponge. He put two stitches in the muscle below the skin, and then stitched the wound closed with six ugly stitches on top.
“Well,” the Major said, standing up straight. “You won’t be winning any beauty contests, but I don’t suppose that was likely anyway.”
The Specialist re-wrapped Deep South’s leg with a clean bandage, and then handed him the bottle of antibiotics.
Deep South stood up and tested his weight on the leg. “That’ll work, I guess. Thank’s Doc,” he said.
Major Marcos said, “Try to take it easy Staff Sergeant. If you don’t, you’ll end up with an infection or worse. Got it?" He shook hands with Deep South and left the office.
Deep South stood there staring at the Specialist for a moment. Finally, he asked, “That’s it?”
The Specialist looked at him blankly for a second, and said, “Unless you have some other issue?”
Deep South shook his head and headed for the door. He held up the bottle in thanks and stepped out of the office. He was halfway down the hall when he heard the Specialist call after him, “Are you allergic to anything, Staff Sergeant?"
“No,” he answered back. The Specialist gave him a thumbs up and went back into his office. Deep South shook his head and walked into the office he was to use for his report.
An hour later he knocked on Lieutenant Colonel Griffin’s office door.
“Enter!” was the greeting from inside.
Deep South walked into the office and centered himself on the desk. Before he could salute and report properly the commander waved at the seat and said, “Relax Deep South. Take a load off." Deep South set the report on the Lieutenant Colonel’s desk and sat down.
The commander picked up the report and a new can of Diet Dr Pepper, and sat back to read. After only a few seconds he tossed the report back onto the desk and burped. He didn’t apologize. “The report’s fine. Deep South, here’s the deal. That girl of yours is all of the sudden, the hottest ticket in the region. You’ll need to bring her in now, no questions asked.”
Deep South frowned and shook his head. “Sir, with all due respect, I need assurances that she’ll be treated fairly. She’s not a criminal.”
The commander’s demeanor suddenly changed. He leveled a stern look at the big southern soldier and said, “She is now our number one high value target." He leaned forward and set the can on the desk. He put his elbows on the edge of the desk and leaned even closer. “She’s one hundred percent, coming in, alive or dead. Got it?”
Deep South bristled. “Sir, there’s more about this that you don’t know,” he said.
“Damn it, Staff Sergeant!” Lieutenant Colonel Griffin shouted. He stood up and slammed his fists on the desk. “This is not a request! You will put that little traitor in cuffs or a body bag! Every federal agency with a fancy three letter name is on this now! They know she’s here! So you get your big southern ass out there and bring her in, or this is the last day you’ll be wearing rank on your collar! Am I making myself clear?" He spit angrily in the can he just drank out of, and then took a big gulp from the other can. He looked confused, briefly, and then angrily pointed at the door.
Deep South resisted the urge to punch Lieutenant Colonel Griffin in the face. Instead, he calmly stood up and walked out of the commander’s office. “Mess with her and you’ll be sorry,” he said under his breath. He walked out of the building and toward the SUV. Once he was sitting in the driver seat, he pulled out the cell phone and dialed Sergeant Lynch. It went immediately to voice mail. “He must have it turned off,” Deep South thought. He noticed the battery on the phone he was using was down to ten percent. “Or his battery died." He turned his phone off to save the battery and fired up the engine.
“I need gas, food, and guns,” he thought. “Guess I need to go home." He backed out of the parking space and sped toward Baghdad International Airport. His team set up a small camp within what used to be Camp Liberty. It was supposed to be their fall back place. That’s where they would have spent their down time after the current mission…if they had made it back. Deep South thought about Preacher while he drove. “Damn, brother,” he thought. “You shouldn’t have gone out like that." He punched the steering wheel. “Not like that.”
Deep South pressed the accelerator harder. He needed to get to the camp and gear up. “There’s no telling how long it’s going to take to get Jen to safety. We’ll have to go underground and stay off the grid. Maybe we can find a way to get a vaccine made, or find a cure for her without letting the feds get ahold of her." He punched the steering wheel again. “Damn it! How did I get wrapped up in this!”
At the camp there was a sealed storage container with supplies, a small armory, tactical gear, and some goodies that the higher ups didn’t need to know about. One of the many benefits to being in Special Forces was the autonomy each team had when it came to what they brought with them. The simple fact was that most non-SF soldiers assumed the SF guys had special privileges, so they got away with a lot more than they should have. Deep South was never one to complain about it. He’d take every advantage he could get, especially now.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Get down!,” Lance Corporal Sharp yelled at Jen.
“I can’t see him!” she shouted. “Where is he? Where the heck is he shooting from?”
“Grenade!” the Lance Corporal yelled. Jen screamed and jumped to her feet.
Her character was thrown into the air by the force of the explosion and she groaned. “Awe man!” she complained. “Every time! How are you guys so good at this?" The rest of the tent erupted in laughter.
Lance Corporal Sharp held his hand up for a high five. “You lasted a whole five minutes this time Killer. Come on, put it up.”
Jen gave him a high five and sat back down with a fake frown on her face. She was having a blast, and the Marines were making her feel at home. It was difficult to let go of her fears and reservations and open herself up to these gruff men, but it was worth it. She felt like she had thirteen new big brothers. They were unbelievably crude at times, but always in a funny way. Once they found out that she didn’t like that kind of joking, they policed each other up and cleaned things up around her. All of them slipped-up now and again, but Jen appreciated the effort. They grew protective of her, and after three days with them, Jen was surprised to find that she actually felt safe.
Sergeant Lynch stepped into the tent and hit the power to the Xbox. The tent fell silent. He looked around, and his eyes settled on Jen. “Jen, I need you in the other tent right now." He addressed the rest of them, saying, “Gear up. We have company." He turned and walked out without another word.
The Marines in the tent spun into action. They dove for boots, body armor, guns, and ammo. The tent was chaos as they prepared for whatever was coming. What struck Jen the most was that these men were not solemn and brooding in the face of danger. They were pumped. Jen got the feeling that they were anxious for what was coming, like a junky craving a drug. They thrived on the adrenaline that came with the fight. But it was more than that. They were pumped to be going out together. It was a collective high. They thrived on the camaraderie and brotherhood that came through facing death together.
&n
bsp; Jen hurried out of the squad tent and ducked into the tent she and the Sergeant occupied. Sergeant Lynch was waiting there with a pistol drawn. Jen pulled up short and gasped. She lifted her hands slowly. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Why don’t you tell me, miss..Ahmadi? Jena Ahmadi? The suicide queen?” he asked her with anger in his eyes. “You lied to me!"
Jen’s head was spinning. “It’s not what you think! I’m sorry! I couldn’t say anything! Look, just wait for Dustin to get back and he’ll explain! I’m not the enemy! Please,” she begged. Tears were starting to come to her eyes and it made her furious. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. She respected him and the other Marines too much to pull the “girl” card and cry. She forced the emotions back down and looked him in the eyes. “I’m not lying, Sergeant.” she said. “I was kidnapped two years ago in Iran. I’ve been drugged, experimented on, beat up, and tricked into doing and saying terrible things, but I am not evil. I am an American! I love America! Dustin…Staff Sergeant Parks was helping me so I could get home. Please, just wait for him.”
Sergeant Lynch lowered the pistol and sat on his bunk. He pointed his pistol at her cot and nodded. Jen sat down and looked at him nervously. He ran his other hand through his close cropped hair. “I just don’t know. I mean, you got me in a tight spot here,” he said. “First off, I don’t think Parks is coming back.”
Jen felt a lump rising in her throat.
“The guys that are coming were using his phone to find you. They called me on it and I picked up, thinking it was him. The guy said Parks was picked up two days ago near Baghdad International Airport and placed into custody. The guy said he was helping a known fugitive…you. They say you’re a terrorist, Jen." He shook his head. “I don’t know."
