Deployed

by Mel Odom

  “Let me go?” At first the words didn’t make any sense to Bekah.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it has to be.”

  “Why?”

  Dwight waved a hand. “Cutbacks. It’s this recession we’re in. Gotta make some adjustments. Nothing personal.”

  “I work on tips, Mr. Hollister. And you don’t provide benefits. It’s not like the restaurant is out a lot of money having me at this job.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just the way it has to be.” Dwight looked down and wouldn’t meet her eyes. He reached into a drawer and came out with an envelope. “I’ve got your final check here. I added an extra week’s pay.”

  Numbly, Bekah took the envelope because she didn’t know what else she was supposed to do.

  “It’s not like you really needed this job, Bekah. Your grandma looks out for you and your son.”

  That brought some anger back to Bekah and she tried to rein it in. “I make my own way, Mr. Hollister. I work hard to make my own way.”

  “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

  “Why does it have to be difficult? What has changed?”

  “Bekah.” Dwight looked at her calmly, and she saw that there was maybe a little shame in his gaze, but it wasn’t going to affect his decision. “You’ve worked at this restaurant for nine years, off and on. Since you were a girl. The Hollister family has taken care of you.”

  “And I’ve worked hard, Mr. Hollister. I’ve worked every shift that was asked, and I’ve picked up slack when there was some. The only time I’ve ever missed is when I was having Travis.”

  “You missed while you were off with the Marines too. I took care of you then, and I made sure you had a job when you came back.”

  Bekah wanted to point out again how hard she worked, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  “I just can’t do that anymore. I’m sorry.”

  “This is about Buck Miller, isn’t it?”

  Dwight hesitated, then gave her a short nod. “Yes. It is. I can’t afford to have him or his friends come in here and bust the place up. Darlton’s was lucky to get by with just a little damage the other night. Those people Buck is running with these days?” He shook his head. “Some of those folks are dangerous. I can’t risk anybody getting hurt. Buck’s gonna get back on his feet again, and he might just come looking for you. I can’t take that chance.” He paused. “I’ll be happy to give you a recommendation for somewhere else. Anywhere else you want to go.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “They got restaurants in Murchison, secretarial jobs, other things. You can find something. I know you can.”

  Bekah had already thought about those options a long time ago. The truth of the matter was that she was a blue-collar girl with little training. The Marines hadn’t expanded her knowledge base like she’d hoped. She’d learned to shoot and to guard and to march wherever she’d been ordered, just to do more of the same.

  “Let me know if I can help you.”

  Knowing that was her cue to leave, Bekah stood. “Thank you.”

  Dwight nodded.

  Head high, ignoring the emotions sloshing around inside her, Bekah walked out of the restaurant and back into the heat of the day. She paused at the front of the building and dug in her pants pocket for change, then bought copies of the Oklahoman and the Murchison Gazette.

  When she returned to her truck, she went down to the Beep ’N’ Buy to fill up the gas tank. As the pump cycled, draining her bank account of more money, she leafed through the classified ads and circled jobs that looked like something she could do.

  She wasn’t going to give up. She had too much of her grandparents in her for that. But it felt like every direction she faced was uphill, like she was climbing out of a well.

  Then she remembered something her grandpa had always told her. “No matter how tough the way looks, little girl, all it takes is that first step to get you going. Just take that step.”

  She took out her phone and started calling the numbers she’d circled in the Gazette. She’d start there, see how far she got.

  The truck hesitated a few times on the old country road that led back to the Shaw farm. The engine coughed and sputtered and wheezed like an asthmatic.

  Tired and frustrated, spent from a day relentlessly pounding pavement and talking to strangers about jobs that didn’t exist or required more experience than she had, Bekah stomped the accelerator. “C’mon. Don’t quit on me now.”

  She gazed at the fuel gauge and saw that she had used just under half a tank. The heat gauge was well within range as well.

  With a final spastic cough, the engine died completely and the power steering went out. Thankfully the brakes were manual. She stomped hard on the brake pedal and muscled the truck to the side of the road.

  Resisting the urge to cry or curse, Bekah popped the hood and got out the small toolbox she carried behind the seat. Walking around to the front of the truck, she smelled gasoline and guessed at the problem she was going to find.

  She loved the truck for two reasons: because her grandpa had given it to her and because she could work on it. They had rebuilt the engine together, and it had run like a top.

  Until today.

  The spark plugs and coil wires had been changed right before she’d headed to Afghanistan for her last tour, so they should still be in fine shape. That left the carburetor or the fuel pump. Both of which were expensive. All the local auto shops and salvage yards would be closed up tonight, and tomorrow was Saturday. Most of them closed at noon, even in Murchison.

  Disheartened, Bekah closed the hood and put her tools back behind the seat. She guessed she was still four miles from home. She did the only thing she knew to do: she called home.

  “She give out on you, did she?” Clyde Walters, as big and affable as ever, climbed out from behind the steering wheel of his tow truck. He was tall and broad, and he looked like a wild-maned Santa Claus in overalls. A Texas Rangers ball cap held his white hair in place. The truck’s bright lights carved holes in the darkness that had settled over the deserted road.

  “Yes.” Bekah tried to put on a smile, but she really wasn’t feeling it. She’d placed road flares around the truck, and the glow left spots dancing in her vision.

  “Well, don’t you worry, little missy. We’ll get you and your truck home tonight. We ain’t gonna leave either one of you stranded out here.” Clyde started hauling chains from the back end of the tow truck. “Do you know what’s wrong with her? Got plenty of gas?”

  “Half a tank. I think it’s the fuel pump or the carburetor.”

  “You know how to fix those, right?” Clyde crawled under the back of her truck and started attaching the chains. “Big Travis, he was right proud of the way you took to mechanicking and hunting and fishing.”

  After Travis was born, everyone started calling her grandpa Big Travis.

  “I know how.”

  “You’re lucky you got a model you can work on. Most cars these days, you gotta be a computer technician to climb up under the hood.”

  “I know. That’s why Grandpa insisted on this truck and why he helped me rebuild it.”

  “Your granddaddy was a smart man.”

  “He was.”

  Clyde grabbed hold of the truck’s bumper and levered himself up. He wiped his hands clean on a red rag. “I miss talking to him.”

  “Me too.” Bekah swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat. “I appreciate you coming out here to get me, Mr. Walters.”

  Clyde waved that away. “I can’t refuse your grandma anything. I promised your granddaddy I’d help look after her, so that means I’m helping look after you and your young’un too. Let’s get in my truck. I got a couple sodas in the cooler. I bet you could use one about now.”

  Driving carefully over the cattle guard at the entrance to the small ranch, Clyde honked the horn a couple times and headed on past the house to the barn in the back.

  “I suppos
e you want the truck in the barn?”

  Bekah nodded. “I’ll probably pull the carburetor tonight.”

  “Mighty ambitious, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not going to fix itself.”

  “True enough, and the Good Book always noted that God helps those who helps themselves. Or maybe that was Andy Rooney.”

  Bekah smiled a bit, but she couldn’t help thinking that, given everything going on in her life lately, God had been a little shy on the helping-out part. She finished the Coca-Cola Clyde had given her from the cooler between the seats. “Stop for just a second and I’ll open the barn.”

  “Yep. It’s a lot easier that way. Won’t have to replace the doors.” Clyde grinned at her, and his good nature was infectious. He brought the truck to a halt and she got out. By that time her granny was standing on the front porch with Travis.

  “Hi, Momma!” Travis waved excitedly.

  “Hi, Travis.” Bekah set herself and shoved the barn door open, then walked inside and switched on the lights. The stalls were empty at the moment, but tack for horses hung on the walls along with milking stools. A hoist for working on the tractor and the vehicles hung from the ceiling rafters.

  Deftly, Clyde slipped the truck into the barn, and they each took a side to unhook the vehicle.

  Bekah coiled the chain and put it on the back deck of the tow truck. Then she headed back to her own truck to get her tools and get started.

  Clyde wiped his hands on the red rag again. “Your grandma’s got supper waiting.”

  “The sooner I get started on this truck, the sooner I’ll have it running again. I need it running.”

  “Let me make you a deal. Your grandma invited me to supper tonight too. What say we go eat, and then I’ll come back and help you tear down that carburetor? Four hands work faster than two.”

  “Mr. Walters, I already owe you for the tow.”

  Clyde waved that away. “No, you don’t. Least I can do for one of our soldiers. And for your grandma. From time to time, she makes a meal and asks me to stop by. I’m getting a home-cooked meal out of this tonight. The way I figure it, I’m coming out ahead. My good fortune. And I like working on cars. Don’t get to do it as much as I used to because everything’s so new and can be cantankerous.”

  Grinning in spite of her situation, Bekah held out her hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Good. I’ll try not to feel bad what with me getting the better end of things. Let’s get on to the house.”

  Bekah led the way across the yard that she had mowed countless times while growing up. She loved the smell of the dark all around her, the way the world was cooling down and the breeze was finally sighing through the trees. Fireflies glimmered in the deep shadows around the yard, and moths bumped the light hanging from the second floor of the old house she’d grown up in.

  She was home, and that felt better than it had in a long time.

  Travis came running toward her, and she scooped him up in her arms. He hugged her tight. “I thought you were never coming home.”

  “Me too.”

  Then he looked at her seriously. “Did you break your truck?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I can.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “All right.” Bekah bumped heads with him. In that minute, she didn’t feel all the disappointment and setbacks of the day. She was home and she had her son, and there wasn’t much else she needed. Then she saw the official-looking letter in her granny’s hand.

  “This came for you today.” Her granny looked at the letter with displeasure. “I was going to hold it till after supper, but I didn’t figure it would be any more welcome then.” She held the letter out. “And I figured you’d want to know now.”

  Bekah took the letter with a mixture of emotions. She didn’t think the Marine Corps could be writing her about the felony charges. That had only been two days ago. They couldn’t find out that fast, could they? And they’d wait until the trial was over before taking any kind of disciplinary action, wouldn’t they?

  Of all the military branches, the Marines were strictest about legal infractions and personal backgrounds. Almost anyone could get into the Army, but tattoos—even non-gang-related ones—could keep an applicant out of the Corps. Bekah didn’t know how they would react to the felony charges she had pending.

  She shifted Travis to her hip to free up both hands so she could open the letter. When she had it open, she had to turn slightly to catch the light from the lamp on the house. The letter was simple and direct.

  “I’ve been reactivated. My orders are to report to Twentynine Palms in California by the end of next week.”

  Travis looked up at her with mournful eyes. “You’re going away, Momma?”

  It broke Bekah’s heart to have to tell him, but part of her was thinking about the battle pay and how that money would help straighten out everything at home. “Yeah, baby, I have to go away.”

  Travis held her tightly, and she carried him into the house.

  8

  RAGEH DAUD CREPT through the jungle, surprised by how much at home he felt. All the years that he’d been away melted, and he became the creature that he had been back then almost as easily as drawing breath. He slid effortlessly through the trees and brush even in the darkness, despite the bruises and pains that still plagued him from the beating he’d received. The AK-47 he carried in his arms felt natural, and it was like he’d found a piece of himself that he had been missing these past ten years.

  When he was a child, Daud had lived in ruins outside Mogadishu with his father and the bad men his father had led. His father had never tried to hide his nature or the nature of the men from Daud. They were thieves and killers, men who took what they needed from those who had it.

  His father, before he had died from sickness, had been on the cutting edge of the pirates who now worked the Gulf of Aden and the Indian Ocean. Before his death, his father had even started capturing some of the ships out in the harbor. The work—and all of the men with his father considered the piracy to be work—had kept them alive. And the pay was important to the survival of their families.

  In fact, for a time Daud’s father had served with the local coast guard. That was where many of the pirates learned the skills they now used to take the cargo ships. When the jobs they needed went away, they turned to the business that had supported the country hundreds of years ago when their ancestors had plied the seas. Piracy was a very old trade in Somalia.

  So was raiding, and that was what Daud and his group were here to do tonight. Returning to the old ways, giving in to the violence that he knew so well, felt right and good. He felt stronger, able to reach out and seize his own fate from the jaws of uncertainty.

  But he knew his wife would have been ashamed of him.

  She had known nothing of the things he’d done before she met him, and he’d always told her different stories about the scars she discovered on his body. Mogadishu was filled with violence. People were easily in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had believed him without question.

  A momentary twinge of guilt over her innocence assailed him as he went forward, but he quickly walled it off with the anger and pain that threatened to consume him over the deaths of his wife and son. Images of Ibrahim’s wide, unseeing eyes haunted Daud’s sleep. He had spent days and nights praying at his son’s bedside, and all of those prayers had gone unanswered.

  Now he had no prayers left in him. Only the violence that he was about to unleash.

  Voices sounded from up ahead. Men laughed and joked, and the golden glow of a campfire cut through the darkness. Those men had no idea they were being stalked.

  The day after the beating he had received in the alley, Daud had lain abed to recover. He’d come a long way on foot to reach Afrah, and that had been draining enough—he’d had to dodge the TFG and AMISOM units struggling to lock down the city so peacekeeping efforts could be made. When the al-Shabaab h
ad pulled out of the city, a power vacuum had been created that the transitional government and the United Nations were struggling to fill. Hundreds of thousands of people had been displaced by the constant warring, and many of them remained scattered in the surrounding countryside. The al-Shabaab held some of them as hostages in order to extort more money and to ensure their own protection from retaliation.

  All of those displaced people needed food and water and medicine. Children died every day. The peacekeeping efforts were too little too late, and they did not appear to be growing in number.

  God had truly turned his back on Mogadishu.

  But Daud had not. When he had buried his beloved wife and child, he understood what he was meant to do. He took a better grip on the assault rifle and peered through the darkness toward the fire as he waved his group to ground.

  Afrah, only a few feet away, hunkered down behind a boulder sticking up from the ground that was just large enough to shield him. Daud thought maybe time had robbed the older man of a step or two, but he moved silently in the shadows, like Qori ismaris, the hyena-man who switched between animal and human form.

  Daud could remember being fascinated as a child by the old stories that his father and the other men told him. They’d done it to scare him, of course, but he had loved the old tales; he had loved being scared of things that didn’t exist. There were too many real fears in his life, but borrowing nonexistent ones that could be banished at daybreak was another matter. Those make-believe terrors had contributed to his tattered childhood. Those stories had been one of the constants in his life with his father. The other had been learning weapons and small-unit tactics.

  Taking cover behind a banana tree, Daud concentrated on the clearing ahead. All of the trees in the area were short and stunted from the drought that had claimed Somalia, but they were big enough and thick enough to hide Daud and his men. The ground was almost as dry as dust, and when the wind picked up, the earth lifted with it and was blown away.

  Gone were the pasturelands that had fed the cattle so many Somali people depended on for their livelihood. Only farmlands along the Jubba, the Shebelle, and the other rivers still prospered. However, many rivers were under al-Shabaab control, and the water was auctioned off to those farmers who could pay. People downriver from where the dams were built had to struggle even harder to survive and keep their cattle alive.