by Ronie Kendig
“No, ma’am. I did not argue.”
In her nasally voice, Captain Mason read from the transcript:
OIC: Sergeant Brennan, get your team to safety and get out of there.
Bledsoe: Sir. Sta—Sergeant Bledsoe here, sir. I have eyes on target and can neutralize the threat.
She brought her dull brown eyes to him again. “I’d call that arguing.”
Brian resisted the urge to correct her. He wasn’t arguing but offering a solution that had not yet been considered.
After an intense but brief glare, she continued. “And then you go on and give a situation report to OIC, as if he had no idea what was happening.”
Armchair generals were always the worst. Couldn’t see what’s happening and yet they felt they had better insight into whatever the boots on ground were seeing and doing. Did it matter to them that nobody could see what he saw? That he had a bead on the guy, could’ve stopped this madness? That if he’d taken that shot, this conversation wouldn’t be happening?
The squawk of Mason’s chair snagged his silent aside as the captain sat back. “Well, Sergeant? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Dare he come clean, call it like he saw it? What would happen? This wasn’t like Raptor where his opinion mattered. Or was even considered. He’d been stuffed here to fill a “warm body” slot for a supply run.
But he’d never been the kind to go down without a fight. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”
She considered him, no doubt aware of the way he wielded his tongue. “Go on.” She held up a finger like an old schoolmarm. “But tread lightly, Sergeant. I warn you that you are on thin ice here.”
Thin ice. Brian wanted to curse. “Ma’am, I meant no disrespect to anyone on oversight with the supply run, but I had eyes on ground that Command did not have. Considering my unusual insertion with your team and previous experience with my Special Forces team, I felt it prudent to be sure the officer in charge knew I was capable of neutralizing the threat posed against the soldiers. That I could”—easy, easy, Brian warned himself as his pulse amped up—“that I could prevent any loss of life.”
“You think you’re that good?” Slusarski’s head came up only after he asked the question.
“I know I am, sir.”
“Mighty arrogant, aren’t you?” On his feet, Slusarski’s lip curled. “After a lower-ranked soldier dies?”
“She died, sir, because my hands were tied. I had eyes on the terrorist. I saw him take aim at her and Parker. That’s why I stepped into the conversation about withdrawing.”
“Conversation?” Mason scoffed. “That was an order, Sergeant.”
“I understand, ma’am. But—”
“No. No more buts.”
Brian’s heart kick-started. “You’re blaming me for this?”
Mason and Slusarski glanced at each other, faces full of meaning. Intent.
Son of a biscuit! Brian worked to constrain the swell of rage.
“No,” Slusarski finally said. He slid his hands onto his belt. “It’s worse than that.”
Un-freakin’-believable! I obey the order, breaking my own moral code—but I do it because I was told to, then two soldiers die, and now they blame me!
“Major—”
“He should know,” Slusarski said quietly as he faced Brian. “The order to stand down never came from us.”
CHAPTER 17
Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
17 January—1910 Hours
The days were dark and only growing darker. A bleak thought, but Brian couldn’t shake it. Skies laden with thick clouds and the cruel wind digging its icy fingers through the tents and portable buildings left him with a chill deep in his bones. Something was off. Something was brewing.
Or maybe he just wanted to get back with the team.
That much was true without the weather or sense of doom plaguing him. But he felt it, the nudge that said…
He wasn’t sure what. Just felt it. The way some athletes feel an approaching storm in their joints. For some, the indication was painful, for others it showed up in the form of an annoying ache that created little more than a “hurry up and pass” wish. That’s where Brian was right now. Whatever it was, whatever was coming, he just wanted it to be over. Life was dishing him a whole lot of junk right now. He was so over it. So ready to get on with his life. Get back to normal.
A chuckle rattled the air to his left. Though Brian didn’t look, he could tell one of the Airmen had a device of some kind. By the sound of it, the guy was streaming back home because that voice was a woman’s voice. And it wasn’t a friendly or sisterly voice. That was an “I want you home” voice.
The woman’s voice and the baby’s giggle whispered through the void in Brian’s life, stirring an ache in his chest he hadn’t known was there. Dad was too entrenched in his work at the university to help at home, and Mom liked her pity parties too much to indulge in a bigger family.
Worked better for Brian. At least another kid didn’t have to endure what he did. Imagine the fun when Dad’s scandal blew wide open.
The baby’s belly-gut laugh burst through the connection.
Brian dropped his gaze and reached for his HK416. He removed the bolt carrier group, which consisted of the firing pin inside the bolt carrier and the charging handle, and laid them on the wool blanket.
A girl and a baby back home. What would that be like?
Awesome.
No. Awful. Nobody would hang around six, twelve, or eighteen months while he secured freedom in some other country. Even if he was home.
He snorted. No chick was stupid enough to put up with his crap. She wouldn’t stick around. That’s why he flirted but kept his distance. He didn’t need more humiliation in his life.
“You’re worthless! What’s wrong with you? Use that brain of yours!”
The problem was, he had used his head. Not good enough for Dad. Sucked to be a borderline genius when your father was a Mensa.
A really stupid Mensa at that.
Got hung up on that brain of his. Thought he was above everyone, even the law. Especially Mom. The scorn, scandal, and shame of his father’s idiocy underscored to Brian that it didn’t pay to have head-smarts. While his father served his life prison sentence, Brian played the dumb jock and bought himself a pass out of geekdom. He cleaned the cam and pin with a small patch, a brush, and lightweight oil.
Getting into the Army and discovering he could be physical and mental at the same time settled any question about what he’d do with his life. He’d found his niche. Being in the Army took care of his body, and being a communications specialist kept his mind engaged. And being Special Forces did all of that in one blink. And his skills served the team.
Well it would have served the team. If he’d been authorized to take the shot.
Or…if the terrorist hadn’t interrupted communications.
It would’ve taken one shot. And Davis would still be alive. He’d sit here without her blood on his conscience. He was sick of this. Sick of the bad guy having a leg up on them. Baiting them. Ambushing them. Killing us.
The jerk had thought he was so much smarter.
Just like Dad.
What was the terrorist’s point? What did he want? If he had a point, he needed to make it. Because if they encountered him, Brian wouldn’t wait for kill authorization. He’d do it.
With each piece carefully cleaned and replaced, he reassembled the weapon. Racked the slide. Now that he’d taken care of his weapon, time to take care of his body. He went outside, a brittle wind nipping at his ears as he ran a couple of circuits, beating off the boredom and sense of isolation. As he jogged toward the gate, the swirl of snowflakes caught his attention.
Great. Freeze his assets off while they played hide-and-seek with a terrorist who had more seek capabilities than should be plausible. Maybe it was time for Brian to reverse the poles, swing some favor in their direction. Put the brains his father belittled to some use.
&nb
sp; And just like then, it was time for him to do something. His boots crunched on the dirt and gravel as he headed to the Command building. At this time of night, most personnel would be either at dinner or bedding down for the night. Perfect time for Brian’s nimble fingers and brain.
Bathed in a swath of dimness, the building sat like an ominous challenge to his goal. A few cubicles cradled grunts, battened down. Some groaned when the wintry mix swarmed in with Brian before the door clattered against the frame. He took a moment to orient himself. Which monitor…? One in a dark corner. But where he could keep an eye on anyone coming. Not near a camera.
A familiar face peeked up from a monitor. Crap.
Slusarski’s eyes widened. “Hawk.”
Play it cool. Brian moved that way. “Hey.” He shrugged off his jacket and met the guy halfway across the room.
“You lost?”
More than anyone could ever know. “Is there a terminal I can use?”
Confusion skittered across the major’s face. “They have terminals at the—”
“No.” Brian leaned in and lowered his voice. “My specialty is communications.” He hadn’t admitted to this in a decade. “I thought I could dig around, maybe find a trail. Maybe back-trace.”
Lifting his chin a little, Slusarski seemed like he was about to turn Brian away. “This about Davis? The village?”
Brian said nothing. It was about Davis, but it wasn’t. The scope on this terrorist’s head had widened. Brian had yet to figure out if the guy was targeting him—it was starting to feel a little personal—or if he was just screwing with the entire military coms system. That was the more logical, less-paranoid answer.
“You know they have guys working round the clock to find—”
“Nobody will know I was here.”
“I’ll know.”
“Didn’t mean that. Just meant I wouldn’t screw things up.”
Slusarski sighed and looked around the communications room. “You really think you can find something nobody else has?”
“After having my hands tied and watching a soldier die when I could’ve stopped it, I’d like to think I have a little more invested in making this stop than some grunt out there who’s been staring at code and traces for the last week or month.”
After another heavy sigh, the major started out of the room. “Come with me.”
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
17 January—1930 Hours
Reviewing her manual to stay fresh while the panel reviewed the event, Fekiria sat at a table poring over the flight instructions. The intricacies of advanced flying skills. Sitting here for three hours hadn’t made the information seep into her brain, which was locked on the team who had gone over the aircraft then the flight recordings. All to determine if she had done something wrong. Or should have done something different.
Like never climbed in the cockpit.
Chin resting on the heel of her hand, she let the questions overtake her again. What was her brother doing there? He’d always had a particularly sharp tongue, little patience, and even less tolerance for her antics. But this? Outright wickedness? Waving guns around? Holding his own sister hostage?
She almost laughed. Keeping her hostage would’ve been something he’d have taken pleasure in as an older brother. Not because of any malice but because he was her brother. But now…
Was there a darkness in Adeeb? Something wicked that drove him to wield a gun at her. Command men who answered to a terrorist? A darker, graver thought worried her—did this make Adeeb a terrorist? What would Baba think?
Oh! Fekiria pressed a fist to her breast. Madar would be shattered, knowing her son went down the same path that had brought so much war and death to their country.
They were traditional in their values, committed to Islam.
Am I?
The question, the very doubt that lingered in the back of her mind like a…a stain on her soul, bothered her. Of course I believe in Islam!
What craziness!
There had been too much stress. Too many incidents that left her afraid and…uncertain. What did she know? What did she believe—about life, about love, about everything?
The thoughts, gaining strength and vigor, rushed her like a gale trying to toss down an aircraft that didn’t belong in its domain. Fekiria cupped her hands against her forehead and closed her eyes. She was independent and successful. A self-made woman.
“Yet more confused than ever,” she whispered over a throat raw with thick emotion.
Warm pressure came to her back as a voice said, “Are you okay?”
At Captain Ripley’s question, Fekiria straightened and purposefully tucked aside her doubts and tears. “Yes. Just…tired.” Her gaze fell on the open manual, and she hoped it was enough to convince him she wasn’t lying. She pressed her spine into the chair as he sat beside her.
“You look more than tired.” His brows knotted as he considered her. Then he reached up and brushed the side of her cheek. “That’s a tear…” He said it as if he didn’t believe what he saw.
And neither did Fekiria, who glanced at his fingertip, surprised at the shiny drop. She wiped her eye to make sure there weren’t any more. “I…I guess it was from yawning too hard.” The nervous laugh didn’t cover her lie, and she hated lying to Captain Ripley. He was a nice man. “Anyway, why are you here?” It was not like he was just dropping by with the way she had sought an out-of-the-way spot to study and think.
No, that wasn’t true. She had wanted to be alone. Away from her classmate who kept telling her she should date Captain Ripley. Away from the safety officers assessing her every move, looking for a reason she might try to steal or sabotage their aircraft. And away from the man sitting here with her now. Mostly because she wasn’t sure what direction to go with him. Was she being unreasonable?
“I got word from CID that their decision is coming close. An inside source”—at this he winked—“told me that things looked pretty positive. He doubts they are going to levy any punishment, let alone ground you permanently.”
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “That is very good news. I am relieved.” Her stomach turned and twisted, knowing that wasn’t the only reason he’d come here. Maybe she should leave before—
“Fekiria?”
Warm dread poured down her. She hated that he used her real name. It felt wrong. Invasive, somehow. She slid a wary gaze in his direction.
“I care about you, and I’m concerned.”
Her pulse skipped a beat. Where was this going?
“You haven’t been the same since you returned.” Captain Ripley leaned forward. “Are you okay? Did something…something happen…?”
Crazy the way a simple shake of his head seemed to speak so much. “No. I told you everything.” Except about Adeeb. That wouldn’t—couldn’t—come out. The panel would ground her for sure. “Why? What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. You’ve been withdrawn. When you see me coming, you look like you want to hide. The openness and free spirit I’d always admired is gone.”
Fekiria chewed her lip, nervous. What he described had little to do with the event a few days ago and everything to do with wrong impressions. “It is true, I am stressed. Scared, even. They could take my wings away.” She pushed her most fearful expression toward him.
Captain Ripley, facing her, placed a hand on the back of her chair. And it seemed to jam her breath in her throat. “I won’t let that happen. You’re a great pilot—you have strong instincts up there. If they come back with a negative decision, I will fight it.” He was close. Too close. “I won’t lose you.”
She blinked. Won’t lose me?
Before she could react, he leaned in.
For a kiss!
Fekiria jerked her face to the side. Shame raced through her. And anger. She grabbed her book and shoved to her feet. “I’m sorry. I should get some rest.” Though she didn’t look directly at him, she could see his downward gaze, his disappointment. “
Thank you for trying to cheer me up.” Right. With a kiss?
She turned and headed out of the small classroom, manual clutched to her chest. Heat washed down her spine. She was furious. Scared. Not because she had almost been kissed by Captain Ripley. But because she had worked too hard and too long to gain her flight status, and if the panel even saw a hint of romance between her and Captain Ripley, it would all be gone.
As she pushed open the door, her heart thumped hard. One of the majors from the panel stood in a library office, phone in hand, staring out at her. The message he telegraphed made her fears seem realized.
The possibility of losing everything seemed more real than ever before.
NECESSARY RISKS
Undisclosed Location, Afghanistan
17 January—2015 Hours
Meeting here is dangerous.”
Hands in his pockets, Daniel stared at the man who’d sold out his country, sold his soul, for money. Disgust swirled through him as he watched the uniformed man look around the open desert road they stood on. “Do you not feel safe?”
Blue eyes caught his. “With the stunts your people are pulling? No, I don’t feel safe.” He hunched his shoulders, apparently against the bitter wind.
“You mean with the stunts you are helping us pull off. “Daniel watched the man squirm. For the right price, the soldier had compromised his own people but could not accept the blame that sat so squarely on his shoulders.
“Look, I’m here.” He scowled and looked around again. “What do you want?”
Though the freezing temperatures tugged at his coat, Daniel refused to let it affect him. Refused to let this weak, impudent American destroy so many months of hard work. He slid his gaze over the landscape. The mountains bordered his homeland and felt familiar. Freeing. “We need ‘eyes in’ again.”
“No.” The man seemed to have found his manhood. “Not again. They know they’re being watched. They’re sweeping randomly, and if I’m caught—”
“You will be caught.” Daniel felt his own heart thud, giving away a piece of his plan. But he watched the man grow uneasy. “If you are careless. Risk is a game we must all play to succeed. It is inherent in every decision we make. Some risks are higher than others, but they exist.”
