by Sidney Wood
“Didn’t they learn anything the last time?” Sarah asked. “I mean, Germany alone is having enough trouble to warn everyone away from accepting so many Muslim immigrants." She turned to Fouzia suddenly and apologized. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude!”
Fouzia laughed and pushed Sarah’s arm playfully. “Don’t worry so much, Sarah! It’s not so easy to offend me. I’m a doctor, remember?" She laughed again. “Besides, I completely agree.”
They watched together as video footage showed thousands of immigrants, mostly military aged men, running through the streets past police and barricades.
“Why are there so many men?” asked Sarah? I mean, it’s not even funny. It’s like a full on invasion."
Fouzia looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s actually what it is, Sarah. What people don’t realize is that this,” she pointed at the television; “This actually is an invasion. The caliphate is trying to expand. How better to expand and conquer than from within? These men will take jobs, marry local women, influence their communities, and they’ll do it all in the name of Islam. Mark my words, Sharia will grow as Islam spreads. It will continue growing in Europe until the caliphate gains complete control…and then it’s coming here."
Sarah screwed up her face. “That is the scariest thing I think I’ve ever heard, Mrs. Ahmadi,” she said. “Well, the scariest thing since hearing about Jena’s kidnapping.”
The two women sat quietly until Najid walked in the kitchen door from the garage. “Hello my love,” he said to Fouzia. He bent over and kissed her cheek. “Hello Sarah,” he said, taking a seat on the recliner. “What are we watching?”
“It’s more Muslim refugees swarming to European countries,” explained Fouzia. “We were just commenting on the fact that most of them are young men, but the news is still referring to them as men, women, and children, as if they were in equal parts.”
Najid nodded and watched the news with them. After a few minutes he said, “They say the men are leaving to escape being forced into military service against their countrymen. I suppose that is true for some, but I can’t believe it is true for all of them. There are just too many. Wouldn’t they be taking their families with them if that was the case?" He looked at Fouzia and then at Sarah. “Where are their mothers and fathers? Where are their little brothers and sisters? I see military age men, storming across borders under the guise of innocents seeking refuge. Nothing good will come of this. Doesn’t anyone remember the attacks in Paris? What about Germany?” Najid said, waving his hand at the television for emphasis.
“See?” said Sarah, excitedly. “That’s what I said!" She was feeling more comfortable talking with the Ahmadi’s.
Fouzia smiled at her excitement and then turned back to the television. She watched the news with hope. She scanned through the flood of refugee faces, looking for one in particular. She was looking for a young woman, the same age as Sarah. “Where are you Jena?” she wondered. “Please, show yourself to me so I know you’re still alive."
The three of them watched the rest of the nightly news, and talked about it for a while after. They discussed how Christians were persecuted more and more around the globe, and yet Islam was tolerated and accepted. It was more or less promoted regardless of the atrocities committed each day under its banner. In response, the Ahmadi’s and the Callahan’s prayed for the plight of Christians around the world each time they got together. They especially prayed for Jena.
When it was time for Sarah to go the three of them prayed, and then Sarah gave Fouzia a hug before saying goodbye. “Please, be safe and have a good semester,” Fouzia said as Sarah got into her car. Fouzia and Najid stood in the doorway and watched her drive away in her red Ford Fusion. They waved, and felt a twinge of sadness, knowing they might never get to visit and talk with their own daughter again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Deep South was angry. His face was flushed red, and the veins in his forehead were standing out, pulsing visibly. He was done talking. This punk in front of him wasn’t interested in doing anything but antagonize him into saying something untrue. Deep South knew the tactic. He had used it himself on detainees. Once an interviewer got the subject on their heels, or caught them in a lie, it was possible to push them into making bigger mistakes or confess outright.
“Answer me you big stupid Hick!” the agent said.
Deep South fixed him with a stare that sent shivers down the little man’s spine. The CIA agent took a half step back. Deep South growled and the agent took another step back. The agent continued walking backward until he ran into the door.
“Hey guys?” he called. “I’m done in here!"
Deep South stood up. The agent turned and pounded on the door.
“Hey! Let me out of here!” the little man yelled in a panic.
Deep South pulled violently at the chain restraining him to the floor. He couldn’t actually get near the agent, but he was more than happy to scare the smug bastard anyway. He growled again as he shook the chain.
The door opened and the agent squeezed through as fast as he could.
Deep South sunk back into the metal folding chair and tried to relax. It was gratifying to see the spooks sweat, but it wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Jen. “I can’t help her if I’m tied up in here,” he told himself. “Dear God, you helped me save her before. Please, let me out of here.”
He leaned forward and let his head drop forward. His chin nearly touched his chest and he felt the sore muscles in his back and neck stretching painfully. He rolled his neck slowly side to side, and took deep calming breaths, in and out.
The door opened again and an attractive woman in a black skirt and white blouse walked in. She had dirty blonde hair tucked hastily into a bun, and long athletic legs. Deep South noticed her hips swayed as she walked, and her blouse was unbuttoned just enough to show some cleavage, but his first thought was, “Jen would look gorgeous in that outfit.”
The woman stood in front of Deep South, very close. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Dustin, let me help you so we can get out of here." Her perfume washed over him and he had to admit, this was a much better tactic than the lame intimidation ploy the little guy had tried.
“If you want to help me, unchain me and bring that little guy back in here. He and I were becoming friends,” he whispered back.
The woman stood up and cocked a hip. “You’re funny,” she said with a coy smile. “Have you always been that way?”
Deep South rolled his eyes. He dropped his head and smiled. After a moment he looked back up at her and said, “Lady, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m as queer as a three dollar bill. Seriously, send the little guy back in here,” he said with a wink.
She reached out and slapped him across the face. She was clearly upset that he wasn’t taking the bait, and she glared at him hotly.
Deep South laughed. “Uh oh, did I touch a nerve?" He continued laughing when the blonde turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.
Just before the door closed someone else stepped through. He was a small man, with dark skin and a youngish look about him. “He might be Indian or Pakistani,” Deep South thought. The man was wearing a white lab coat and eyeglasses, and Deep South surmised he was a doctor of some sort.
The doctor retrieved another chair from against the wall and unfolded it about five yards away from Deep South. He sat back and crossed his legs, silently evaluating the big man in front of him.
Deep South fixed the doctor with a steely gaze, and wondered, “Who is this guy?" He waited for the doctor to say the first word.
When the doctor finally spoke, it was not what Deep South expected: not by a long shot. “Hello Staff Sergeant Parks,” he said with a pronounced accent. “I understand we have…a mutual friend.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The three fugitives fled Iraq in a stolen black Chevy Suburban. Sergeant Lynch drove and Jen sat shotgun, while Lance Corporal O’Bryan sat sideways, wit
h is bad leg extended on the bench seat behind them. They were heading southwest toward Jordan and the Gulf of Aqaba. From there they would travel by sea, southward to the Red Sea before turning north to the Suez Canal, or west into Egypt. Their ultimate goal was to get into a European country where the Marines could hep Jen find a doctor and hopefully, a way out of this mess.
The Marines had ditched their uniforms for street clothes at the first opportunity, and all three wore head coverings. The black Suburban flew down the highway, stopping only for fuel when the extra fuel cans ran empty. They were on the run from every intelligence agency in the developed world, and no one could be trusted.
Jen looked out of her window as the countryside raced by. Her gaze drifted up to the sky, where white clouds dominated a hazy blue sky. She saw a bird soaring high in the air, just under the clouds, and she remembered the drone that circled just after the attack at the Marines’ camp. “Who’s drone was up there watching them?” she wondered. “Was there an intelligence analyst in a dark room somewhere watching and hoping she died? Didn’t they know who she was and that she was kidnapped? This isn’t my fault!” she wanted to shout. “Would they even care?”
O’Bryan moaned in the back seat. Jen snapped back to the present and turned around in her seat to look at the Lance Corporal. The Marine was laying against the door, with his eyes closed and a sheen of sweat covering his pale skin. “Something’s wrong Sergeant,” she said. “I think he is getting worse.”
Sergeant Lynch pulled the Suburban over on the side of the highway and parked. “I told you to call me Matt,” he grumbled as he climbed out and walked around to the rear of the vehicle. He opened up one of the rear doors and retrieved a camouflaged kit. He brought it to the side of the vehicle opposite of O’Bryan, and opened the door.
He set the kit on the seat next to O’Bryan’s extended leg, and unzipped it. It was a medical kit. He pulled out a red handled device that looked similar to the detachable handle to a power tool of some kind. Instead of a threaded bolt head extending from the connecting face, it had a circular row of ugly looking needles poking out. Sergeant Lynch laid out an IV bag, some tubing, and two needles, and then picked up the red handle device.
“Ummm, Matt, what the heck is that thing?” Jen asked awkwardly. Calling any of the Marines by their first names seemed foreign to her. They only called each other by last name or nick-name in camp, so she felt like she was violating a rule of some kind.
“It’s to start an IV. There’s a big ass needle hiding in here that will punch straight into his bone marrow when I push down on this thing." He pointed at the end with all of the needles sticking out. “It’s a fast way to start an IV, and I don’t have to try to find a vein. When somebody looses a lot of blood, or crashes like this, finding a vein can be impossible. This little monster makes getting fluid and meds into somebody easy.”
Jen watched with interest as he pressed the needles into O’Bryan’s shoulder. The row of needles held the handle firmly in alignment with the targeted bone, while Sergeant Lynch pushed hard on the device. Suddenly, Jen heard a snap, and the Sergeant pulled the handle away. At first Jen was worried the snap she heard was the Lance Corporal’s arm breaking. Sergeant Lynch had put a lot of force on the device to get it to activate. When the red handle was removed; though, Jen could see that the Lance Corporal’s arm was still in tact, and now there was an IV tube jutting from the skin.
Sergeant Lynch connected the IV bag and then injected antibiotics and morphine straight into it. He hung the IV from the hook above the door and tossed the kit into the next row of back seats. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s get going. I’ll change out the bandages next time we stop.”
“I know it’s not easy, but O’Bryan really needs a doctor,” Jen said.
Sergeant Lynch slammed his door shut and pulled the Suburban back onto the road. “His name’s Nathan, and getting to a doctor is going to have to wait."
He spoke in a calm tone, but Jen noticed he avoided looking at her, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She looked out her window and tried to find the bird she had been watching before they stopped. It was gone.
Late that evening, at least two hours after darkness fell on southwestern Iraq, Jen saw spotlights ahead illuminating an earth colored double archway extending over the road. There were three vehicles ahead of them, and Sergeant Lynch slowed as brake lights glowed in front of them. “How are we going to get through?” Jen asked him. She had been wondering all along what his plan was, but she was afraid to ask. His temper frightened her, and she didn’t want to provoke him.
She could tell he was tired when he answered, “I’m going to show him my military ID and hope the black SUV and plain clothes does the trick. Nobody questions people they think are special ops, or CIA, or whatever." He looked at her and added, “But this is a border crossing, not some hasty checkpoint along an MSR. Sorry, that’s a Main Supply Route. They might not be so eager to be cool and let us through. If they stop us, I’m counting on you to be our plan B. Keep your knife handy, and make yourself bleed before you get out of the vehicle. If the virus works as fast as you said, just infecting one of them should be enough to get us through."
Jen shivered, but nodded in understanding. “Whatever it takes to get Nathan some help,” she said. She glanced back at the sleeping Lance Corporal. He looked awful with his head wrapped and eye covered, and his leg bloody and bandaged. “Please, Lord, give him strength to get through this. Keep him alive until we can find a doctor.”
The Suburban crept forward and Sergeant Lynch rolled his window partially down. He held up his Military ID for the border guard, who looked into the vehicle suspiciously. The guard couldn’t see much because he was relatively small and standing flat on the ground. The windows were tinted as well. He walked slowly around the vehicle and looked underneath briefly.
Jen held her hand inside her pocket, with the knife blade extended and pressed against her index finger. She pressed even harder as the guard passed her window slowly, and then eased up when he was past. Jen kept her head down and hoped the scarf hid enough of her face to avoid drawing his attention.
The border guard finished his walk around the Suburban and returned to Sergeant Lynch’s window. He said, “Open,” and took a step back.
Jen pressed hard and slid her finger along the blade. She winced as she felt the knife cut into her finger tip. She closed the knife in her pocket, and smeared the welling blood from her finger all over the handle. “Dear God, please help us get out of this alive,” she prayed.
Matt opened his door and started to climb out. He fixed Jen with a serious look, and she nodded to let him know she was ready.
A second guard was standing back, away from the vehicle as overwatch, and he called out to the first guard in Arabic. The first guard looked at his watch, and nodded agreement. He held up his hands to Sergeant Lynch and waved him back into the vehicle. His arms were extended with his hands pointing down, palms toward his own body, and he swished them back and forth as if sweeping filth away from himself with is fingertips. Jen and the Sergeant understood that the gesture was a cultural thing and was not intended as disrespect.
Sergeant Lynch hopped back into the driver seat and closed the door. The guard waved them through the arches and across the border. The Suburban rolled forward, and against all odds they entered the Kingdom of Jordan unmolested. Jen sat back in her seat and exhaled. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she let it out. She looked over at Sergeant Lynch and saw him smiling. He glanced at her and then back at the road. He started chuckling and Jen couldn’t help but join in.
The situation at the border was more intense than she understood at first. It was starting to sink in. If there had been a disturbance, they would have the police and probably the entire Jordanian Army after them before they could get away. At the very least, it would have let the agencies searching for them know their location. Getting through the border quietly gave them an enormous advan
tage, but they were still fugitives from every government in the developed world. Laughing was a release, and it felt good to let go and ignore the hopeless reality of their situation for a while.
“Get some sleep if you can,” Sergeant Lynch said in a friendly voice. “I’ll wake you up when we stop for food or gas."
Jen leaned her seat back and nodded. “Thanks Matt,” she said. “I mean it." She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep as the SUV cruised west through the pitch dark desert.
Sergeant Lynch simply grunted and focused on the road. After a few minutes, when he was sure she was asleep, he looked at her. His eyes softened and he shook his head and sighed. “What this girl has had to endure…” he thought. “Jesus, keep her safe,” he prayed. He looked back at the road. “And Jesus? Take care of my Marines. They’re a rough bunch, but they are definitely good guys. They didn’t deserve to go out like that." His eyes started to well with tears, and he wiped them with the back of one hand. “One more thing Jesus,” he thought. All of the softness was gone from his face, and he gritted his teeth as he prayed, “Give me a shot at the son’s of…the animals responsible for this. Let me be your sword here on earth. I will break them to pieces." His eyes drifted back to Jen, and lingered on the smooth skin of her neck and the side of her pretty face. Slowly, he felt the calmness return.
He turned back to the road and drove into the night. Memories of his family, high school, and a normal life he would never know again flashed through his mind as he watched the road in front of them. He remembered stepping off the bus at MCRD San Diego and standing in the yellow footprints that symbolized the beginning of his transformation from civilian to Marine. He wished his parents and his little brother could have been there on graduation day when he marched across the parade grounds and heard the Commanding Officer call them all Marines for the first time. Tears came to his eyes when he heard those words over the loud speakers, and the applause that followed.
