Taken With The Enemy

by Tia Fanning

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  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Tia Fanning

  First published in RP, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Taken With the Enemy

  For my sisters Rachel and Renee...

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader,

  About the Author

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  Taken With the Enemy

  By Tia Fanning

  Copyright © 2008, Tia Fanning

  Published March 2008 by Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  Edgewater, Florida

  All rights reserved

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  For my sisters Rachel and Renee...

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  GlossaryMilitary Acronyms and Lingo

  PFC—Private First Class

  IED—Improvised Explosive Device

  ACU—Army Combat Uniform

  The Wire—The perimeter of a secured site. Used as a reference because most deployed sites lay some type of razor/barb or concertina wire along the perimeter as a deterrent.

  Chem Bag—Short for Chemical Bag. It contains items such as a gas mask and chemical suits to be used in case of a chemical/biological attack.

  Ops—Short for “operations".

  MIA—Missing in Action

  CIA—Central Intelligence Agency

  NCS—National Clandestine Service

  RPG—Rocket Propelled GrenadeList of Ethnic Clothing

  hijab—Arabic word for “cover". Is sometimes loosely used to reference the khimar, or “headscarf".

  burqa—(Also spelled as burka) The all-over garment worn by some woman that leaves only the eyes exposed.

  abaya—A loose fitting robe/cloak worn by some woman over their clothes. It comes in many styles, ranging from a large sheet of fabric draped over the body, to the more modern style that wears like a caftan or long tunic.

  khimar—Head covering

  niqab—Face veil

  chadri—A burqa with the grille netting that covers the eyes. Worn by some women in Afghanistan.[Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  The blast knocked me on my ass. Literally. Like slow motion, one moment I was tending a wounded man sitting along the battle-strewn street, the next I was flying backwards.

  I hit the ground with a jarring thud.

  Opening my eyes to smoke rising in the dusty glare, I struggled to get my bearings. My ears were ringing, my limbs heavy, and I couldn't seem to remember anything beyond the explosion.

  Where am I? Shit. Who am I?

  The smell of charred rubble swirled around my nose.

  Iraq. Sergeant Brenna Mathews. US National Guard. Combat Medic. Assigned ... no, attached ... in support. Attached in direct support of the infantry battalion.

  Damn. My head throbbed beneath my helmet.

  What the hell had happened? Car bomb? Suicide Bomber?

  Trying to shake off the shell shock, I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. Amidst the painful moans and fearful cries engulfing me, gunfire echoed off the war-torn buildings.

  "Take cover!” the squad leader, Jackson, shouted.

  Soldiers scrambled to their feet. People ran, becoming nothing more than blurs of fabric. There was screaming—directions, orders, and wails of grief—in a meld of English and Arabic. More gunshots pierced the air, closer, rapid in succession, adding chaos to the madness.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  There were grunts, and then bodies dropped, some collapsing in a mist of spraying blood. Automatically, my hand searched for my weapon.

  Cover. I had to take cover.

  No. There were still wounded.

  Abandoning my weapon in lieu of gathering up my much-needed medical supplies, I quickly low-crawled over to one young soldier. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, his neck cranked at an unnatural angle.

  Dead.

  Bullets whizzed over my head, hitting the ground nearby. I ducked lower as shots were returned from behind me.

  I scrambled to the next victim. Civilian. Male. Bullet wound to the chest. Also dead.

  "Mathews, take cover!” Sergeant Jackson hollered. “Now!"

  I hesitated. What of the wounded?

  Suddenly he appeared at my side. I barely had time to snatch up my med kit before he grabbed my arm and dragged me behind our vehicle.

  ...tink—tink-tink-tink-tink...

  The bullets hit the armored transport just as he pulled me to safety.

  Another soldier, Corporal Mollina, was issuing details into his radio. “IED, taking on fire, soldiers down..."

  Sergeant Jackson scooted over to the edge of the vehicle and glanced around the side. “Doc, Big M is hurt. His leg."

  I never told any of them what I did back when I was in the civilian world. But out here, all medics were called ‘Doc'.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Bee, behind you."

  I swung around and saw PFC Michaels applying pressure to his calf. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  Shit.

  I scrambled over Corporal Mollina to get to where Big M, aptly named due to his size, lay propped up against the side of the tire.

  "Is it bad?” he asked, wincing in pain.

  "Let me see."

  He hesitantly removed his hand. I lifted the torn shreds of his ACU pants out of the way. Shrapnel. Small pieces. Embedded. Oozing, but not spurting.

  I dug into my kit. “You'll make it,” I whispered, placing a pad over the wound and tying the bandages firmly around the edges.

  "Specialist Pinot ... he's injured too,” he strained.

  I glanced up. “Where?"

  Michaels winced, then looked past me.

  Following his gaze, I turned to the bombed out home behind us, maybe ten yards away.

  "He crawled in there. I think he took a bullet."

  Gathering my supplies, I held my breath and waited. When Mollina and Jackson rose to return fire, I sprinted toward the old, crumbling shelter.

  Off to my right,
I heard a loud whistle.

  Oh Fuck!

  I dove through the doorway just as the shockwaves rattled the area. The lintel came crashing down, taking the doorjambs and the brick mold with it.

  I lifted my head, choking on the cloud of dust that stole all the breathable air. My chest burned. God, I felt like I had been tackled by a three-hundred pound offensive lineman.

  Rising to my knees, I squinted through the haze, searching the debris-filled room. A couple of feet in front of me, lying on his stomach, was Pinot.

  I crawled over to the soldier, fearing the worst.

  The ceiling groaned and bowed, raining sand and small chunks of rubble. I prayed that the standing columns would hold out just a few minutes longer.

  Pinot was alive, his breathing shallow. The puddle beneath him told me he had lost too much blood. When I rolled him over, his eyes fluttered open.

  "Sergeant Mathews,” he mumbled. “I've been shot."

  "I know.” His whole left arm was coated in sticky crimson. I felt around, finding the entry hole on the top of his biceps, near his shoulder. No exit. Bullet lodged. “And what did I say about calling me that?"

  "Only do it when the superiors are around,” he moaned.

  I pulled out my shears and began cutting into the blood-soaked combat uniform. “Right. You can call me Bee, or Doc, or even Mathews. I'm only a weekend warrior, remember?"

  He gave a small smile, but instantly winced when I lifted his arm slightly to remove the fabric from around the injury. “Am I going to die, Doc?"

  "I don't think so. More troops will be here soon. We'll get you to the hospital."

  "What does Bee stand for?"

  I pressed dressing over the wound. “Brenna."

  "Pretty name,” he mumbled before passing out.

  The gunfight grew heavier and loud voices filtered into the building, bouncing off the walls. I crouched low, holding my breath and slowly reaching for Pinot's weapon. Suddenly, a shadow passed over me. Before I could blink, I was hauled off the ground.

  Strong fingers wrenched my arm and swung me about, my back colliding into a hard chest. A palm smothered my lips, silencing my cry.

  Sandalwood.

  "Do not scream,” the deep voice whispered in my ear. “Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?"

  I nodded.

  Large vehicles rumbled into the area. Reinforcements.

  Another male voice echoed in the room. The man holding me responded in Arabic and shoved me away. I crashed into one of the columns and slid down to the ground.

  Rapid dialogue ensued between the two armed insurgents. The older, scarier looking of the two, pointed at Pinot, still unconscious on the floor. The other shook his head.

  Outside the front window, shouts and booted feet rang through the air. Both men glanced in that direction and lifted their weapons. The older one said something, glared at me in disgust, spat on the ground, then sprinted out the back. The remaining insurgent aimed his rifle at me.

  I met his deep dark eyes before closing my own.

  He fired.

  I cringed.

  A few seconds passed.

  When I opened my eyes, he was gone and I was still alive, unharmed.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  The chow hall hummed with the din of small talk, but I sat alone, staring at the tray of food in front of me.

  Three days had passed since the battle, but he haunted my thoughts, invaded my dreams. Those dark eyes, the deep voice, that scent. Sandalwood, and a hint of something else ... vanilla maybe.

  Why hadn't he executed me?

  Strangely, I was bothered by that decision.

  I replayed his whisper in my mind over and over like a broken record. He had spoken in perfect English, his accent barely noticeable. He sounded ... American.

  Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?

  His word choice and usage, all grammatically correct and properly pronounced, clearly showed fluency. Native fluency. He didn't say ‘be quiet’ or ‘do not talk’ or ‘do not speak'. No, he used the phrase ‘do not say a word'.... a very American English phrase.

  The last thing that bothered me, even more than his surprising act of mercy, was the fact that my dog tags were missing. I tried to figure out how I could have lost them. I knew I'd put them on that morning. Those tags were sometimes the sole way of identifying a person if they should meet a violent end, and a soldier never left the wire without them.

  During the gun battle, I knew they were a under my shirt, which was tucked into my uniform pants. Even if the chain had come undone, I would have found the tags when I undressed.

  My mind, fueled by the hazy memory of a negligible twinge on the back of my neck, kept asserting only one possible conclusion...

  He took them.

  It must have happened when he had pushed me into the column. I had felt a small pinch around my neck, like he had yanked my hair. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Now the mystery consumed me.

  Why would he want my dog tags?

  "Nothing like a late dinner,” Corporal Mollina said, taking a seat across from me. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you since the services."

  I nodded, remembering all too well the five pairs of empty boots positioned in front of five standing rifles, the butt of each adorned with the helmets of our fallen comrades.

  "It's been two days,” he continued. “It's not like you to avoid us."

  "I know,” I replied, moving the mashed potatoes around my plate.

  "Or are you trying to avoid the ass chewing you know is coming your way?"

  My head shot up. “What?"

  "Sergeant Jackson wasn't happy about that last stunt you pulled."

  "Oh, whatever.” I sighed, finding myself deeply annoyed by the direction this conversation was going. “He's just pissed because I'm here—being a woman and all."

  "No, he's pissed because when he says to take cover, he means it. You might not be assigned to us, but you're still his responsibility. The First Sergeant tasked him specifically with watching over you. There'll be hell to pay if you get hurt. And I hate to say it, Bee, but this time, I have to agree."

  "That's Sergeant Mathews, Corporal."

  "Whoa.” Chuckling, he lifted his hands in surrender. “You don't like what I'm saying, so you're going to go all gung-ho with the rank? Cool, cool ... I understand, Sergeant."

  "Sorry, Mollina.” I pushed my tray forward. “It's not you. I'm just in a mood. You can still call me Bee, or Doc as you all so lovingly titled me."

  "Hey, no problem. It's been a rough week."

  I gave him a forced smile.

  "Are you going to eat that?” he asked, pointing to my dinner roll.

  Before I could answer no, he snatched it off my plate.

  Deciding it was best to just go to bed and sleep the icky feelings off, I stood, only to come eye to eye with Sergeant Jackson.

  Damn.

  "Just the soldier I wanted to see."

  "I'm out,” the corporal said all too quickly. He shoved the roll in his mouth, got up, and moved to another table.

  Jackson took a seat.

  I let out a heavy breath. “Hey, Sergeant. I was just leav—"

  "Sit your ass down, Doc,” he ordered.

  I did as I was told, preparing myself for the reprimand the corporal had warned me about. I listened without comment as the squad leader droned on about my carelessness and issued threats of disciplinary action the next time I failed to follow his orders. He then went on to say if I ever took off into an unknown building without my weapon—and backup—again, he'd save everyone the trouble and shoot me himself.

  "Don't think because you're a medic those terrorist assholes out there consider you a non-combatant,” he remarked. “This ain't Geneva. They'll kill you and not think twice about it."

  If he only knew how close I had been to dying that day. I'd failed to mention the incident with the two insurge
nts. If I had, I knew I'd never be allowed outside the wire again.

  Then Jackson moved on into his usual ‘no woman assigned to combat’ spiel and how the military might have found a way around the law, creatively using the words ‘support’ and ‘attached', but that didn't make it right.

  "Don't think that I don't have faith in your abilities as a medic because you're a woman. I think you're a damn fine medic. But why be out there if you don't have to be?” he reasoned. “Shit, I don't even want to be out there."

  Here it comes...

  "Perhaps you should consider giving us more training so you can take less mission work. Teach us what you know."

  It would take me eight or more years to teach him what I know. But he was referring to my military medical training.

  "I understand your concern, Sergeant Jackson. But—and I mean this with the utmost respect—there are some things that only a certified medic can do. I have already shared with you all the basic first aid knowledge I can. I'm sorry my gender makes you uncomfortable, but it's better to have a female medic than no medic at all."

  "Have you heard anything on Pinot and Michaels?” he asked, dropping the subject.

  "Michaels is recovering well. I haven't heard anything about Pinot since he was flown to Ramstein Air Base.

  He looked at the nearly untouched food in front of me, then stared me directly in the eye. “How are you holding up?"

  "I'm all right. Tired. But I'll be back to work tomorrow. The doctor had me take an extra day of rest. My legs and backside are bruised something awful."

  "No, Sergeant Mathews. I mean how are you holding up?"

  Oh, he meant emotionally.

  A person dying around me was not a new experience, but then the squad leader wouldn't know that. Back in my civilian life, it was never the people dying at the hospital that had destroyed my spirit; it was telling the news to those left behind.