Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  The next morning, he would fly back to his Connecticut home and begin the meticulous preparation for his next mission.

  Chapter 14

  Landstuhl, Germany

  August 31

  Except for the occasional roar of a plane taking off from the adjoining Ramstein Air Force Base, Landstuhl Hospital was a quiet setting amongst the peaceful forests of western Germany. But ever since a certain television reporter was flown in from Belgrade, a large blockade of media had set up camp across the street from the medical center. Since I hadn’t been able to leave my hospital room the past six weeks, I was only getting this information from my television.

  While my stay had been long, my list of medical maladies was even longer. Concussion, broken eye socket, broken rib, torn knee ligament, and punctured left lung. But the most painful injuries of all were my wounded pride and badly bruised ego. My face was still splattered with dark scabs, although the doctors told me that they were healing, and my face would return to its “TV standard” in no time. I decided not to let them in on the scoop that my television days were over.

  Contrary to what my critics often say, my biggest professional nightmare has always been becoming the story. But that’s exactly what happened. What the media dubbed The Capture of JP Warner! was the second biggest story of the summer, only topped by the unsolved murder of Senator Craig Kingsbury.

  As the world looked on for twelve long days, we were held captive in a remote eastern section of Serbia, near the Bulgarian border. Perhaps the terms “exclusive interview” and “tortured hostages” got mixed up in translation. Our living quarters were in a small, dilapidated house, where we were chained in sauna-hot, windowless rooms.

  The leader was an eerily calm man named Qwaui-one of the top lieutenants of Mustafa Hakim, the leader of Al Muttahedah. He wore desert camouflage and spent most of his time playing chess with another bearded soldier who was decked out in matching attire.

  Zahir, the man we sought for an interview-although, in hindsight, it was clear that they were seeking us-was also present. He wore traditional Islamic garb, and his clean-shaven Western looks from his Chicago days were long gone. He was a loose cannon, often going off on violent tangents about the “infidels,” which I brilliantly deduced was us.

  I found Zahir’s act a little contrived, fearing the quiet Qwaui much more. A deep look into his eyes revealed an unwavering zealotry. I knew there would be no reasoning with him.

  To make matters worse, our hosts played the incessant, and usually inaccurate, reports by Lauren Bowden on a small black-and-white television that looked like a relic from the 1970s. Lauren seized the moment to take advantage of my martyrdom, usually referring to me as her “soul-mate” during her reports, and I’m sure to Sutcliffe’s delight, often cried crocodile tears into the camera as she begged for my release.

  On the twelfth day of captivity, I was summoned before the group and instructed-with machine gun to temple-that I was to deliver a statement to the Western World. The camera rolled and I swallowed hard. Logic said they would kill me anyway, so I should refuse to spread their propaganda and die with a little dignity. It’s hard to explain to someone who has never had the cold steel of a gun poking into the back of their neck, but survival instincts kick in, dignity goes out the window, and the only thing I could think of was to survive the next second. For such a natural act, dying doesn’t come very naturally.

  I completed the anti-American monologue like I was the keynote speaker at an Al Muttahedah convention, and signed off as I had so many times before, “JP Warner … Global Newz.” The camera was shut off and I braced for my throat to be slit.

  But nothing happened.

  I was still alive, but things were different. There was a distinct change in mood-Qwaui’s normally meditative demeanor had vanished. He began pacing like a lion stalking its prey, and barking orders to Zahir in Arabic. We were blindfolded again, and whisked into the Serbian night.

  The details of what happened next are a little foggy. The therapist I’d been assigned at Landstuhl believed that I wanted to suppress them-he was probably right-but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remove the familiar screams from my memory bank.

  My relationship with the military had always been complex. My job was to uncover information, while they, understandably, wanted to keep things under wrap. So naturally things became strained at times between us. So while they were forced to be nice to me publicly-my capture having turned me into an American hero-they were able to show their disdain in more subtle ways. For example, they claimed that the only room they could find for me was in the “Labor and Delivery” section. For six weeks, my nights and days were filled with the sounds of screaming babies. My nurse, Lieutenant Colonel Knight, told me that I fit in well.

  But that didn’t compare to the torture of the television, which was left constantly running in my room, playing the GNZ coverage of my demise. If it wasn’t bad enough to be forced to watch the endless coverage of my downfall, Lauren was the lead reporter on the story. It was like she had been in my room with me for six weeks. There was no escape.

  Today, she stood in the rain outside Landstuhl, doing her best to try to fill up the 24-hour news cycle with another non-story about nothing, but of the most importance, looking good doing it.

  “I’m coming to you live from Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany where we have breaking news. My sources tell me that GNZ’s JP Warner will be discharged today.”

  This was news to me, although I wouldn’t argue if it were the case. But I didn’t exactly trust Lauren Bowden’s sources.

  Then as if she’d angered the heavens, the light mist turned into a downpour. But being a trooper, Lauren continued shouting through the rain, “When JP is released, I’ll conduct an exclusive interview with him, seen only on GNZ! If you want to hear JP Warner’s first words since bravely escaping from the clutches of Al Muttahedah-turn to GNZ!”

  I wasn’t planning on giving anyone an interview, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with Lauren. But that’s not to say I didn’t respect the effort. She had made repeated attempts to get in to see me over the past month, only to be repelled by the cranky Lieutenant Colonel Sharon Knight, on the orders of her even crankier patient, JP Warner. It was probably the only thing we agreed on during my stay.

  Speaking of the Lieutenant Colonel, she stormed into my room like it was the beaches of Normandy. She was a short, humorless woman who was the chief nurse of the facility. Without asking for any type of consent, she stuck a temperature gauge in my ear, and recorded the results on a chart. I knew the drill, and stuck out my left arm and rolled up the sleeve of my hospital gown. She attached the Velcro blood pressure cuff too tight around my left bicep and pumped.

  “Is it true I’m getting out of here today?” I asked.

  “You’re the smartest man in the world. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Seriously.”

  “That’s classified,” she said, before moving on to my daily breathing exercises. “Sit up … take a deep breath … okay, hold it … release,” she commanded and I obeyed. I had learned my lesson about crossing her.

  “Do I at least get a Purple Heart when all this is over?”

  “You’re lucky you don’t get a kick-in-the-ass and a bill.”

  When she finished recording all the pertinent information, she coldly stated, “You have a visitor.”

  “Let me guess, the firing squad?”

  She didn’t rule it out, which concerned me.

  But as she left the room, she passed Jeff Carter on his way in. It was like two battleships passing in the night. I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the one-man rescue team. I hoped he was here to save me again-sling me over his shoulder and carry me home to New York.

  “Tell me I’m going home,” I greeted him.

  “You are,” he got right to the point. But before I was able to look up at the pink ceiling of the maternity ward and give thanks skyward, Carter added, “But first we mus
t make a return trip to hell.”

  Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant.

  Chapter 15

  “I’m not ready-I need a couple minutes,” I said, overtaken by fright.

  Carter shook his head. “There is no amount of time that’ll make this any easier. You just gotta tear the scab off.”

  That was the problem-it wasn’t a scab yet. It was still an open wound. A wound that would likely never heal.

  “You got two minutes,” Carter stated. “Do you want me to sing and dance, or do you wanna do small talk?”

  “I was hoping for a lap dance.”

  “I hate to get you all worked up for nothing, but I left my G-string home, so it’ll have to be small talk. What’s next, Mr. American Hero … book? … Movie? … Talk show circuit?”

  I smiled serenely at him, and I could tell it freaked him out a little. “I just want to go back to Rockfield.”

  “So what do you plan on doing when you arrive at this glorious field of rocks?”

  “I want to go to the Rockfield Fair.”

  “Who wouldn’t? Please tell me that it has something to do with alcohol and women.”

  “It’s a country fair that’s held every year on Labor Day weekend. They have great food, carnival rides, and livestock contests. And it’s a showcase for a lot of the newest farming equipment. Since I’m going to start a farm, I need to learn more about that sort of stuff.”

  Carter burst into laughter. “J-News the farmer, now that I gotta see.”

  He reached in the back pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a rolled up TIME Magazine. He tossed it softly on my chest. I winced-even the light magazine felt like an anvil.

  “So you are telling me you have no plans to capitalize on your hero status?” Carter pushed.

  I picked up the magazine and viewed myself on the cover. It was an out-of-focus screen-shot taken from the video Qwaui released to the worldwide media. The picture portrayed me in a way his audience rarely saw me-tired, haggard, and with a look of vulnerability. The caption under his photo read: With the capture of journalist JP Warner, we ask the question: Has the media gone too far?

  I looked up. “It’s nice to read something objective on myself. The news coverage has almost made me believe I’m some sort of hero. We both know the real hero is…”

  And with that, the eight hundred pound gorilla was out of the cage.

  “How is he? They don’t tell me anything.”

  “What do you say I take you over and you find out yourself?”

  Before I had a chance to filibuster, he picked me out of the bed and slammed me into a nearby wheelchair. It felt like every inch of my body had been set on fire. He then proceeded to wheel me through a maze of corridors.

  The hospital staff numbered over a thousand, and it seemed as if each and every one of them greeted Carter. He posed for pictures and signed autographs. Military members were some of the biggest fans of Coldblooded Carter. I, on the other hand, received snide glares.

  Byron lay motionless in a bed, surrounded by breathing tubes and beeping monitors. We hadn’t seen each other since that fateful night-the doctors wouldn’t allow it. Byron smiled as wide as he could, but it didn’t lessen my guilt, if that was his intention.

  Carter had informed me of the grim diagnosis a few weeks back. The paralysis would likely be permanent. But it didn’t soften the blow when I saw my fallen friend for the first time.

  The reason for the quick getaway that night was that our captors had learned that the CIA had discovered their hideaway and were minutes away from taking them down. The three of us instantly went from bargaining chips to dead weight. Our SUV was sent careening into a ravine, and we were all ejected. I still couldn’t get Byron’s screams out of my mind from when he was trapped under the vehicle.

  “It’s okay, man, it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault,” Byron said, reading my bleak stare.

  We bumped fists-his arms were the only things that he could move. He wore no shirt, revealing that his upper body, while scarred from the crash, was still in magnificent shape. It was impossible to believe a man in such top condition wouldn’t walk out of Landstuhl under his own power, while carrying a full load of video equipment.

  “It was my fault,” I forced out the words, my voice shaking. “I’d lost my edge-I should have never gone on that trip.”

  “Get over yourself, JP-it’s not always about you,” Byron scoffed. “I’m the lucky one. Do you know how many people leave this place in a coffin? Don’t you think that Milos would have loved to have another chance like this?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I reiterated, almost zombie-like. I pushed out of my wheelchair and wobbled on shaky legs.

  Byron looked at me, incredulously. “Listen, man, I got life and life is precious. As long as you’re breathing anything’s possible. You guys saved my life.”

  He motioned me to come closer. When I did, Byron grabbed my hospital gown, surprising me with his strength. “Do you understand if you beat yourself up over this I will put you in this hospital … permanently?”

  I nodded blankly.

  He released his grip. “I’m glad we’re understood.”

  “JP is going home today and going to start a farm,” Carter broke the tension with a laugh.

  Byron smiled. “You won’t give up the life, JP. It’s not a job with you-it’s who you are.”

  “The only way I’ll ever come back is if you’re my cameraman.”

  “Deal,” Byron said with a determined stare.

  We had learned never to doubt him.

  It would still be weeks before he could leave Landstuhl, but preparations had already begun back in South Carolina. Without his knowledge, Carter and I had contracted to have his home in Charleston converted to the top-of-the-line in handicap accessibility. It would be ready upon his return. We figured that the technology lover would be like a kid on Christmas with all his new gadgets.

  Byron mentioned that he couldn’t wait to get back home and eat the famous fried chicken from Mama Jasper’s, his mother’s restaurant. He was also looking forward to getting reacquainted with his longtime girlfriend, Tonya. Carter added that it sounded much more appealing than my plan of attending a farming fair.

  We continued the visit until Byron’s team of camouflage-attired doctors descended upon his room like the 82nd Airborne, and ushered us out.

  “Remember what I said, Warner,” Byron got in the last word.

  After a final consultation with my doctor, Major Ellison, I was released from Landstuhl. None of the hospital staff seemed sad to see me go.

  The media attacked me the moment I was outside the hospital. Carter played interference as I was escorted in a wheelchair in the soft rain. The media got nothing but ‘no-comments’ from me, and had to settle for a bicep flex from Carter.

  We arrived at a C-141 Starlifter that would serve as my ride home. I took one last look at Landstuhl and noted, “What a long strange trip it’s been.”

  “The Grateful Dead?” Carter inquired.

  I smiled. “No, grateful to be alive.”

  Part Two

  All Isn't “Fair” in Love and War

  Chapter 16

  Glendale, Arizona

  Labor Day Weekend-two years prior

  He stood outside the small home in Glendale and wiped the sweat from his brow. He told himself it was from the oven-like Arizona night, but for the first time in a long time he felt apprehensive. The voice had been loud and clear, telling him to come here and finish the business between them, but now doubt was creeping in.

  He hadn’t been back to Arizona since he moved away. And it was even longer since he’d seen Lucy. She was hesitant at first-unsure about meeting her old boyfriend while her husband was away-and she should have listened to that first instinct. If she thought she would just be able to walk away, without him without any repercussions for her for her actions, then she underestimated him once again.

  He looked through the window beside the
front door, and saw Lucy scurrying around her kitchen, getting ready for their “date.” She appeared much the same with her long dark curls and smooth olive skin. She wore the pink sundress, which had always been Kyle’s favorite-it looked like she was more excited to see her old flame than she’d let on in their correspondence, he thought.

  Wearing latex gloves, he reached into the inside pocket of his sweat-stained blazer and pulled out his Glock, before ringing the bell. When she opened the door, he would take in the immense surprise on her face, and an understanding of what was about to happen, and why, all in a split second. Then he would shoot her right in that sharp tongue that she used to belittle him with.

  He gripped the gun as the door swung open. But nobody was there. Then a voice rose up from below, “Are you Kyle? My mom said to tell you she’d be with you in just a minute.”

  He looked down to see a little girl-a miniature version of Lucy with the same dark curls. He hadn’t counted on this. An image of his parents flashed in his mind, followed by the same pain he felt when he lost them. He now understood the source of his apprehension. He misread the voice. He couldn’t allow this girl to grow up with that pain.

  “I’m sorry, I have the wrong house,” he replied in a low voice, and ran as fast as he could up the street, until he reached his rental car.

  He drove directly to the airport and boarded the next flight home. He had no fear of being traced-he was using the identity of Grady Benson, who had been Kyle Jones’ old Air Force wingman.

  He picked up an extra shift on Saturday night. His presence was welcome, due to so many officers being assigned to work the Rockfield Fair during the Labor Day weekend. While on patrol, he tried to make sense of his failed journey. His missions had always been so clear, and brought such a feeling of peace, that this was uncharted territory for him. But he still felt a strong call-to-action hanging over him. Completing his business with Lucy on this anniversary had made sense, but now for the first time since his journey began, he felt unsure.