by Ronie Kendig
“Sorry, that is above your pay grade.”
I’ll let her snotty attitude slide. Because I am getting paid.
CHAPTER 8
Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
28 December—0820 Hours
Wearing her hijab and flight suit, Fekiria made her way to the training rooms. First day of advanced training and one step closer to advanced certification. Surrounded by other pilots, soldiers, airmen, and sailors, she almost felt crowded. Yet an insane amount of loneliness tugged at her soul.
She’d walked out of the apartment six days ago while Zahrah was at the school working with the children. Though Fekiria left a note explaining that she was okay, she had not been entirely honest in her description of her destination and reasons.
Sitting in the classroom as the initial first-day buzz thrummed through the air, she wondered at her reasons. Why was she here? Her gaze skidded around. Men wearing uniforms. Most were Americans, though she spotted one ANA soldier sitting down front. Silent. Isolated. A chill emanated from his direction and mirrored the one wrapped around her.
An involuntary shudder trickled across her shoulders—and with it a gust of wind.
“You ready for this?”
Fekiria jumped at the firm voice of Captain Ripley as he eased into a desk next to her in his flight uniform and a big smile. “Ready?” Was her small laugh enough to cover her nerves? Would he question her about abandoning him at the hookah bar? What about his mysterious “we all have secrets” comment? “It would be vain to say I am, but…”
“But you want to be up there more than anything?”
She met his gaze evenly. Their love of flying provided common ground for a friendship. But Ripley wanted more.
She didn’t.
Or do I?
A colonel strode into the room and briskly moved to the lectern. The students punched to their feet and stood at attention. Fekiria with them.
Captain Ripley started toward the front, where he smiled and greeted the colonel. Then with a hand on the podium, he faced the class. “Good morning. This is the first day of the rest of your lives—at least, your flying lives. Here, you’ll learn the advanced-flying techniques that will ready you for more sophisticated combat aircraft.”
He’d said nothing of Sergeant Brian using her real last name, or of the fight, or of her departure. Only that impervious smile and the look that said he was interested in her in a romantic way.
Madar always said she’d wanted a man to look at her with that look. Baba’s baba had arranged their marriage. And though Fekiria had railed against those “business deals,” as she had called them, they were starting to make sense. Men did stupid things when they got romantic ideas in their heads.
The day of lectures, physical fitness, and simulators wore on her. By the time they were done and she stood in line for dinner, Fekiria was exhausted. And sad. The thoughts of her parents and cousin tugged at her conscience.
As she stared at the food in the metal serving trays, she grimaced. What she wouldn’t do for some naan and Tandoori chicken. With a sigh, she scooped some slop on the plate and shuffled to a table in the corner. The first bite was blah. The second worse. Finally, she set down her fork and closed her eyes.
It felt wrong. All of it. The food. The people. Being here. Leaving her family.
Why had she been so anxious to—?
“Let’s talk.”
Fekiria jumped. “You keep doing that to me!”
Captain Ripley smiled. “Sorry. You are very distracted. And depressed. What’s going on?”
“How would you know I am distracted and depressed?” Anxiety squeezed her chest. “You do not know me.”
“Not as well as I’d like, but yes—I do know you.”
Heart tripping over each beat, she held his gaze. Refused to back down.
“Okay.” He gave a quick glance around then zeroed in on her again. “Your name is not Rhmani. It’s Fekiria Haidary. You’re the daughter of Jahandar Haidary, the biochemist. Cousin to Zahrah Zarrick, daughter of General ‘Z-Day’ Zarrick.”
Had she not already lost her appetite, she would’ve now. She stared at the mounds of food and her stomach churned. “What are you going to do?”
“Talk.”
She met his eyes. Did he mean, he wanted her to talk? Or he was going to talk to his superiors? “Is that a threat?”
He shook his head. “If you don’t know by now how I feel about you and that I’d never entrap you or put you in a bad situation, then we haven’t come as far as I thought.”
“Captain Ripley—”
“Sandor.”
Fekiria stilled. “I…I am not…cannot—” She heaved a sigh, frustration a noose around her neck, forbidding a decent breath. “Clearly, I am a liar.” She couldn’t bear to look at him. “Why would you want to do anything except write me up and dismiss me from the program?”
“Dismiss one of our best pilots?” He laughed. “Not even close.” Forearms on the table, he leaned toward her. “But I want the truth.” He pointed to the table. “Right here, right now.”
No sense in arguing, because he wouldn’t relent. She wet her lips. “Being female has been my curse since birth. I served no purpose to my baba. Even though I was—am—smarter than my oldest brother, I was a waste. Baba even lamented that he had to pay to get rid of me.”
“Fekiria…” Captain Ripley touched her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“My parents had already tried to marry me off twice, but I made the first man so angry, he rejected me.” Staring at her hands did not help the acute feeling of unworthiness. “The second man ran off with my best friend.” She gave a halfhearted smile. “Last summer, they were working to marry me to a sixty-something-year-old man who had grandchildren. After the second man, I joined the army. My parents did not know. When they found out, they forced me to quit. They said I brought shame on them.”
“But…your papers said you’ve been in since you were eighteen.”
A thrill of excitement ran through her. “I…I let them believe I quit.”
“You stayed in.”
With a shrug, she gave him a small smile. “It was not so hard to get away with it. They were not worried about me as long as I was out of their sight. And working part-time with my cousin. She did not know it was part-time. She thought I was there at the school all day.”
“So, you’ve been lying to everyone.”
Shame smothered her. But more so, the disappointment in his words. “I know it is awful of me, but I had to make my own life, my own future. If I let them, then I would be married with three children and who knows what number wife!”
Captain Ripley held up his hand. “Easy.” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “All this must go in your file”—again, he snapped a hand at her when she started to object—“but no one here needs to know this.”
“I cannot risk my family finding me.”
“They won’t. I’ll have it documented in your file here, but it won’t be uploaded or added to your digital file.” He held her gaze. “Not yet anyway.”
Fekiria looked away, fighting the mountain of panic surging through her.
“You realize that you are an adult. A woman who knows how to shoot a weapon and fly a helicopter.” He had a charming smile. “Fekiria, if I don’t put this in your file and someone finds out, then it’s over. You won’t be in the Army and you won’t have your certification. You’ll never finish advanced training.”
Tears burned her eyes.
“I’m just trying to protect you.”
Dulles International Airport, Virginia
28 December—1515 Hours
Duffel slung over his shoulder, Brian made his way up the aisle of the plane and deboarded. As he strode the umbilical toward the terminal, he couldn’t stave off the bad mood. Hated this part. Hated seeing people greet their loved ones once they got past security. Or as they stood around the belt at baggage claim.
As always, he’d have nobody there. On his own.
Alone.
And now, busted down a rank. No hero’s homecoming for him. He didn’t even get to hop a flight with a returning unit. Brian ducked into the first restroom and changed into his civilian duds. Jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket. He headed out past the security area, where he’d catch a cab.
“Brian!”
Surprised to hear his name, he hesitated then kept going. He was alone. That warm welcome belonged to some other lucky Brian. Not him. He didn’t have family. Not any that would greet him. His sister had her family to keep her busy. His mom’s parents were still alive, he was pretty sure. As he rode the tram to the main terminal, he realized he’d missed Christmas. Nothing too surprising.
“Brian!”
A few yards from the escalator up to ground transportation, he cast a look to the side. Not you. Keep going.
“Brian Bledsoe!”
He gave a quick survey of the area. Pivoted and glanced around. No way he imagined that. But who—? He struck the gaze of a familiar pair of green eyes beneath a thick white mop. His pulse spiked.
“Granddad!” Even as he uttered the name in a disbelieving breath, Brian was caught up into a strong—yet frail—hug that smelled of Old Spice and…home.
“Thought I’d have to put my running shoes on to catch you, boy.”
Released from the hug, Brian stepped back. Held the shoulders he’d once been carried on. Choked back the squall of emotion. “What are you doing here?” His gaze then met the sparkling brown eyes of his grandmother. He bent and embraced her. “I’m…” Blown away. Stunned. Shocked. “How…?”
Nana smiled and patted his shoulder. “Todd Archer told us you were coming home. Course, your grandfather couldn’t let it go. He had to know when and where.” She’d always had the warmest smile.
“I know you probably didn’t want a welcome, but I said nonsense.” Granddad slapped his shoulder. “You were doing good work over there, and I wasn’t going to let you return without the welcome owed to you!”
An arm in a puffy winter jacket wrapped around his shoulders. He’d gotten his height and most of his looks from his father’s side. Especially from Granddad Jack. “C’mon. Let’s grab a steak and you can tell me about your latest exploits.”
An acidic pool of dread roiled in Brian’s gut. How was he supposed to tell the man who’d received numerous commendations for his heroic acts during World War II that his grandson was on the verge of being dishonorably discharged? That Brian, despite his every effort, had failed the Bledsoe legacy? Just like his father.
In the Cadillac—Granddad always said his Kitty had to have the best—they headed west on 7 toward Dulles Town Center where Granddad pulled into the parking lot at Red Lobster. “Hope you brought your hollow leg.”
Brian climbed out, watching as the once-nimble man hoisted himself from behind the driver’s seat by holding on to the door frame and side of the car. Upright, he grinned at him. “Ain’t as spry as I used to be, but I’m not stopping till they put me in the ground.”
“All right,” Nana said. “Stop showing off, Jack. Let’s get the poor boy out of the cold before you start in on the marathon.”
Hands shoved in the sleeves of his leather jacket, Brian looked at his grandfather. “Marathon?”
Granddad winked. “Inside,” he whispered conspiratorially. “If I tell you out here, she’s liable to beat me with that purse of hers and I’ll never see the New Year.”
Small talk covered them as they waited and during appetizers. But with each passing minute, Brian could feel his granddad’s radar-like instincts homing in on the gaping wound in Brian’s pride and career. The meaningful looks. Phrases that felt too perfect to be coincidental.
The waitress returned with a basket of garlic-cheese biscuits and set them on the table. Hands folded in front of her, she smiled at them. “Ready to order?”
“Yes.” Granddad jabbed a crooked, arthritic finger at Brian. “He’ll have the sirloin and lobster.” Bushy eyebrows wagged at Brian then back to the waitress. “He’s my grandson. Just returned from Afghanistan. He’s a Green Beret, a hero. So nothing but the best for my boy.”
Oh man. Just puncture the guilt tank and let it leak all over the table. Brian couldn’t even appreciate the way the waitress smiled at him. It just made the hole bigger.
Nana leaned in. “Yesterday, Emory came over with little Benny.”
“Benedict!” Granddad spat. “Who on earth names their kid Benedict?”
“Quiet,” Nana said with a rueful smile. “He’s still your great-grandson.”
With a warning look, Granddad pointed to him again. “When you have kids, give them good strong names. Benedict,” he said with a curled lip. “Might as well name the poor kid Sherlock.”
Brian couldn’t resist laughing.
“I never should’ve told him about that actor,” Nana said. “Now, Brian—tell us you’ve found a girl.”
“Of course he has, Kitty. He’s a soldier. A right fine one, too.” Granddad chuckled. “Where’d you think he gets his good looks from? And I got the best nurse the Army could provide, didn’t I?” He leaned over and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek.
“Go on, you old goat,” she said with a blushing laugh. The lighthearted banter continued, and Brian couldn’t thank God enough for taking the pressure off. Last thing he wanted was to admit he’d failed to this man.
Their entrees came and they quietly prayed then settled into the meal. Brian’s guilt and annoyance at eating such a fine meal when he should be relegated to a crust of bread and cup of water made the steak taste bland.
Shaky hands sawed into chicken smothered in a creamy sauce and topped with cheese and shrimp. “When do you report back?”
“First thing a week from Monday.” Brian slid a chunk of sirloin into his mouth. The flavor popped and the meat melted in his mouth…yet soured in his stomach. I’m no freakin’ hero. How could he tell Granddad?
“You’ll come stay with us at the lake house till then.”
Brian set his fork down and leaned back. All day, 24/7 with those expectant, proud eyes watching him? “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Yes.” Granddad’s gray-green eyes Brian had inherited sparked with firmness. “Yes, you will. You need it.”
Nana placed a hand on Granddad’s arm. “Now, Jack—”
“I need to go over a few things with you,” Granddad said. “I’m not going to live forever, you know.”
Brian would rather walk into an IED-laden alley than his grandfather’s home. Filled with once-happy memories, the home was also a veritable shrine to the Bledsoe legacy. The very one he’d failed. But it wasn’t just the shrine-of-a-home. It was the man, the force behind it. The man sitting across the candlelit table had this terrifying ability of dismantling Brian’s defenses, flying in under the radar and digging out every secret.
CHAPTER 9
Kandahar, Afghanistan
10 January—1515 Hours
Red is the color of the blood that flowed…”
Fekiria ran her finger over the beads threaded together in a bracelet. Glittering and beautiful, the piece made her spirits pop. She jerked toward the young woman tending the stand. “This bracelet—Who made it?”
Wide, almond-shaped eyes lowered. “I made that one.”
Disappointment flowed through Fekiria’s veins as she eyed the pieces on the cart. The threads in the scarves bore the same multicolored pattern. Mitra. It had to be. Especially the one with gold threads.
“For the streets of gold we will one day walk down,” Mitra had told the gathering of children.
Beautiful, sincere Mitra, who had loved Fekiria more wholly, less judgmentally than any other person she had ever met. More than any other Christian she had known. Their friendship had been fast and deep, growing up together. They’d been inseparable.
Until Mitra met and married Jacob, who tore her away from Mazar-e and Fekiria.
Soft and smooth, the scarf seemed so much like one Mitra had made her years ago. It didn�
��t bear these colors, but it was similar. Where are you, Mitra? Oh, to have a friend like that to confide in. To laugh with.
Laughter had been missing too long in her life.
“I see you still like bright colors.”
Sucking in a sudden breath, Fekiria spun. Met the bright brown eyes of her dearest friend and threw herself at her. “I knew it was you!”
Long, thin arms wrapped tightly around Fekiria as Mitra’s laughter filled the crowded market row. “You beautiful angel!” Mitra’s voice was light and sweet, as always. “What are you doing so far south?” She stepped back and lifted Fekiria’s hand, glancing down. “I thought perhaps you had finally married.”
Fekiria’s laugh turned caustic. “Not yet. Baba tried to marry me to a sixty-year-old man, but I refused.”
“Again.” Mitra folded her arms and arched an eyebrow.
With a shrug, Fekiria could only stare at her long-lost friend. In a demure blue hijab and modest clothing, she had not aged much at all in the years since she’d left. A few more lines around her eyes—probably from too much laughter—but no other signs of aging. “He was old.”
“You said that about all of them.”
Fekiria wrinkled her nose and lifted a scarf. “Haven’t given up on spreading the God News, huh?”
Mitra tugged the scarf out of her hands. “Good News.” She hung it back up on the rack then drew Fekiria out into the busy market. “And no, I will not give up. Ever.” Linking arms as they walked, Mitra gave a very long sigh. “It is so good to see you, angel.”
The endearment warmed Fekiria’s heart. “I miss that name.” Missed having someone who thought highly of her, someone who believed in her.
“So, tell me,” Mitra said, bumping shoulders with her. “How are you so far south, so far away from your father’s grasp?”
“You would not believe me.”
“Of course I would.” Mitra turned a corner, delivering them out of the jostling foot traffic and onto a street with a half-dozen or so cars. “I might tease you or roll my eyes, but I will believe you.”
