“I am. It’s just . . .”
“Don’t sweat it, man. I knew you were lying.”
“How?”
“Because I’m not over my dreams, and I’m a better man than you.”
“That a fact, is it?”
“Watch what you say, Zinsser. You don’t want me to get out of this bed and smack you around.”
It took a moment for the words to come. “Yeah, yeah I do.”
“We’ve been over this, Zinsser. My condition is not your fault. You saved my life.”
“I know.”
“You know it in your head but not in your heart.” Brian pulled his one arm from beneath the covers and scratched his forehead.
Zinsser decided to change the subject. “When is your surgery?”
“Same as it was yesterday when you stopped by. Two days. One more time under the knife to get my plumbing realigned, then a couple of months of rest. After that they’re going to torture me with prosthetic legs. They’ve been working on some new technology. Still, I won’t be doing disco soon.”
“Any word from Juliet?”
Brian frowned. “No. She’s gone for good, Zinsser. I told her to leave. She married a whole man.”
“That’s just wrong on so many levels.” A hot spear of emotion pierced Zinsser.
“It was hard on her. I’ve asked for divorce papers. She needs to be free to live her life.”
“And she agreed to it?”
“No, but she will. It will take time for me to wear her down, but she’ll leave because I tell her too.”
“She loves you.”
“Jerry, we’ve been through this. In this situation, love doesn’t matter. She’s only twenty-seven, just like me. This is as good as it’s gonna get for me. I don’t want to hold her back.”
Zinsser tried to find words to change his friend’s mind, but he came up empty.
“You don’t have to come by every day, you know.”
“What? You don’t like my conversation skills?”
“What I don’t like is you coming here to make yourself feel bad.”
“I come here because you’re my friend.”
Brian sighed. “We made good teammates, but let’s face it, we never hung out much.”
“What we’ve been through creates a bond. You can’t deny that.”
Brian pursed his lips. “That’s true, I guess.”
“Well, you’re going to get your wish. I won’t be around for awhile. I’ve been reassigned.”
“The docs really said you’re fit for duty?”
“Since I am fit for duty, they had to.” Zinsser’s words carried an edge.
“Who did they assign you to? Another special ops team?”
“Yeah. I requested it. I’m on Eric Moyer’s team now.”
Brian thought for a moment. “I’ve heard of him. I hear he’s a good man and a great soldier.”
“I’ll try not to hold him back too much.”
“When do you deploy.”
“Tomorrow. Early.”
Brian looked thoughtful for a moment. Zinsser knew he wanted to ask about the mission but was too much of soldier to do so.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m ready, Brian. I’m more than ready.”
CHAPTER 5
“I ALMOST FAINTED WHEN I walked in,” Tess Rand said as she slipped into the corner booth of Tio Leo’s Mexican restaurant, one of Columbia, South Carolina’s upper-end eateries. She and J. J. had come here on their first date. He’d been trying to impress her, and she’d been willing to let him do it.
“It took me aback a little too.” J. J. slipped into the booth beside her. “At first I thought the guys were pulling a joke and got you to go along.” He paused. “They weren’t, were they?”
“Sorry, I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Of course. It’s part of the sneaky woman’s code of conduct: Keep the men in your life guessing.”
“Men? Plural?”
“Relax, soldier, you’re the only guy for me.”
A waiter approached and offered to take their drink order, but only after he suggested several types of margaritas. Tess and J. J. both ordered Dr. Pepper.
“Do you think we offended him by not ordering something with alcohol?”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.” He took her hand. It felt good.
“This is awkward.”
J. J.’s eyebrows rose. “Holding hands is awkward? We’re going to be married six months from now. I’m pretty sure we’re going to be moving beyond the hand-holding stage.”
“Not that, you goof. The work situation.”
“Ah. You know, you’re the only significant other that has an idea of our mission.”
“Actually, I don’t know that much. You know how compartmentalized this stuff is. I advised Colonel Mac and a few other of the brass, but they never discussed the mission with me. I’m still pretty much in the dark.”
“That makes two of us. Moyer will give us the details tomorrow.”
Tess stared at J. J. “He’ll give you the details. I’m out of the loop until they call me in.”
“It’s better that way.”
The comment irritated Tess. “How is it better?”
“What you don’t know—”
She raised a hand. “Don’t even go there. Not knowing means my imagination can take over, and I can imagine some pretty horrible things.”
J. J. gave her hand a squeeze. “Do you remember when I proposed to you?”
She scratched her chin. “Can’t say that I do. Was it recent?”
“Very funny.”
“Of course I remember. I was there.”
“I almost didn’t propose.”
Tess straightened. “Really? Well, I certainly feel loved now.”
He moved closer and ran a finger through her hair. “You should. I wasn’t going to back out because I don’t love you. I do. More than I can say.”
“Then why the cold feet?”
“Because of what is happening right now. We’re lucky. We have the evening together. Most of the time, I get called up and have to race to the base. I’ve watched Moyer, Rich, and Jose when we get called up. There’s a thrill about a new mission, but you can read the concern they have for their families. They wonder if they’ll see them again. It’s the thing these guys fear the most. I’ve seen them face impossible odds without blinking, but when it comes to family, well, it’s very different.”
“It must be hard.”
“Hard isn’t a strong enough word, but I don’t have another to use in its place. It’s like some living thing burrows into their gut and eats them from the inside out.”
“Oh, gross. Can you be a little less poetic?”
“Sorry. Don’t get me wrong. They would never step away from the mission, but this work takes its toll.”
Tess narrowed her eyes. “And that made you reluctant to propose.”
Before J. J. could answer, the waiter returned with a basket of chips, a bowl of salsa, and two sodas. They gave their order and the waiter disappeared again.
Tess waited for J. J. to continue. “I know you already know this. You can’t do the work you do without some idea of what happens to couples at a call-up. I hesitated in proposing because I don’t want to bring any pain to your life.”
Tess picked up a chip, dipped it in the salsa, but never removed it. “I have an idea what it must be like, but I’ll admit, I didn’t truly understand until today. J. J., I’m scared for you.”
“I’m not foolish enough to tell you not to be. It’s the way of life. As long as I’m”—he looked around—“As long as I do what I do, these call-ups are going to be a part of our lives. It is what I do, and I’m good at it.”
“I don’t have to like it to live with it, do I?”
“No one likes it; we all live with it.”
She forced a smile. “What I do is so different from what you do. We fi
ght the same kind of battles, but all of mine is done on paper. I read, I research, I form opinions, then I go home to a warm bed.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You intel people make our job possible.”
“I hope I don’t come to regret that.”
“We trust in God at all times.”
“What’s it like being the only Christian on your team?”
J. J. thought for a moment. “I’ve never thought about it. The team gives me a bad time about it, but they still show me a lot of respect. There’s been a couple of times when they’ve turned to me for advice, but not many. Most of the time they just tolerate the fact.”
“Do you witness to them; tell them about your faith?”
“Not directly. I don’t know how to explain this. The men on my team—really, on any team like ours—are highly individualistic. They keep their cards close to their vest. We trust each other implicitly, and part of that trust means we don’t invade one another’s privacy. You have to be invited in. I try to show Christ by the way I live. I leave the sermons to my twin brother.”
“Oh, have you asked him if he’ll perform the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked how much money you have.”
Tess moved away from J. J. “I see.” She smiled.
“Get over here. He said he’d be honored to do the deed.”
“He’d better.”
J. J. motioned at the table. “You going to eat that chip?”
THE LIGHT FROM THE kitchen poured over the white tile counter and through the opening that separated it from the living room of the apartment. Jerry Zinsser sat as far from the light as possible. In his hand he held a tumbler half-filled with Chivas Regal. He sipped the scotch and enjoyed the burn it left in his throat, and savored the smooth, honey taste of the whisky.
This was his tradition. Soldiers had traditions—especially Special Ops. He knew men who went to certain restaurants the night before deployment. Others picked out lucky socks, worked out, went jogging, went to church, or ate specific foods. Zinsser’s old team always gathered for a glass of Chivas, toasted the future, then went home to hug their families.
Zinsser had no family and those he counted as friends were dead, brought home in body bags. All except one, and Zinsser had left him in the hospital bed an hour before, no longer able to look at his damaged form. He raised the glass of booze and said to the darkness, “To Echo.” He downed the remaining fluid in one gulp. It sent shivers through him. His head began to spin.
Taking the decorative bottle he poured another glass and raised it. “To Boss.” It took two gulps to down the golden fluid.
His hand began to shake. Rising, Zinsser moved to his stereo and pressed play. The dulcet voice of Roy Orbison filled the dark room. Roy sang “Running Scared.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Roy. You don’t know nuthin’ from scared.” The melody wrapped Zinsser’s mind, and he began to sway, holding out the glass as if it were his dance partner. He two-stepped to the bottle of Scotch and refilled the glass.
“To Chief.” He took his time with this drink. It was a breach of superstition, but he didn’t want to vomit on the floor and lose all the good booze he’d been pouring down his throat.
By the time Roy Orbison had worked his way through “Oh, Pretty Woman,” “Only the Lonely,” “In Dreams,” and “Crying,” Zinsser could no longer walk a straight line. He had reached his goal: oblivion by drunkenness. His last conscious memory was stumbling into the bathroom, opening the felt-lined case holding his Distinguished Service Cross and pouring the last dregs of his drink on it. “Here’s to courage under fire.”
Zinsser began to weep.
THE AIR WAS FILLED with noise that pummeled Zinsser’s already assaulted ears. The MH-60G Nighthawk helicopter unleashed a torrent of 7.62mm rounds from its Dillon minigun on the street in front of the building. The sound of weapons, the impact of bullets, the thunder of the helo’s rotor blades, and the screams of the men burrowed through Zinsser’s ears and into his brain. His mind raced. What he did in the next few seconds would determine if he lived or died.
He forced his ears to separate the sounds. He heard what he hoped: the syncopated pounding of another helo.
“Our ride is here. Time to get moving, Echo.”
“You go, Zinsser. I can’t last much longer. I can’t stand.”
Zinsser holstered his 9mm, ignoring the empty M4 on the concrete floor. Taking Brian by the front of his vest, he yanked the man up and over his shoulder. Brian’s scream melted Zinsser’s soul. He charged the door, peeked out the opening, then sprinted into the street. In a perfect world, the street would be wide enough for one of the helos to land, or the roof strong enough to hold the aircraft’s weight. Of course, in a perfect world, he wouldn’t be trotting down the street with his dying friend over his shoulder and waiting for the impact of a bullet striking the back of his head.
In the distance one of the helos was landing in a small field a hundred yards away. Dust rose around the chopper. Zinsser forced himself forward. His wounds screamed, and he could feel blood oozing down his arm. Still he forced one step in front of the other. Adrenaline powered him like racing fuel.
Two men rounded one of the buildings, stopped, and raised weapons. Zinsser kept moving. A second later the men lowered their guns.
“Take him. He has several wounds.”
The soldiers took Brian from Zinsser. “Can you follow us?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s move.” The two special ops men headed toward the landed chopper. Zinsser turned and ran back to the building.
He heard popping and saw bits of asphalt fly into the air. A thinking man would have sought cover, but Zinsser gave up thinking. He was in reaction mode. Years of training had taken over his conscious mind.
Moments later Zinsser dove through the door he and Brian had been defending, stumbling and landing hard on the floor. He howled as the impact jarred his damaged arm. He scampered to his feet and entered the windowless room where the captives were chained.
Several of the men rifled through the pockets of the dead guards. Zinsser joined them.
“Got it,” a grizzled middle-aged man said.
“Give it to me.” Zinsser reached for the key.
“Behind you!”
Zinsser spun and saw a tall Somali in a striped shirt and ripped jeans duck in the door. He didn’t bother to check the room. Instead he raised a Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade launcher and pointed at something in the air. Zinsser knew what that something was.
Sprinting from the room, he lowered a shoulder and executed a “crack-back” tackle on the man, sending them both tumbling into the street. Again electric bolts of pain ran through Zinsser’s body.
The loud roar of the M-134 Gatling gun rolled over them. Bits of asphalt and of plaster shrapnel punctured their skin, but no bullets touched them. The Nighthawk gunner had released the trigger just in time
Zinsser could feel his strength ebbing. He couldn’t last much longer, and wrestling with a twenty-something-year-old Somali pirate would tax him too much.
Without thought.
Without regret.
Without hesitation, Zinsser drew his 9mm, forced the business end into the young man’s side, and pulled the trigger. He rose and scampered back into the building, leaving the man dying in the street.
That was when Zinsser stopped feeling anything.
CHAPTER 6
TESS RAND LAY IN her hotel bed staring at the ceiling. The clock by her bed glowed 2:30 a.m. She had tried all the tricks to sleep: warm milk, thinking of quiet happy places, listening to a late-night radio program, but nothing worked.
After dinner J. J. had taken her to a movie, but she couldn’t recall which one. When she was a girl, her mother advised her, “Love is the most wonderful torture you’ll ever experience.” It didn’t make sense then. Now, alone in the darkness of worry, she understood. Tomorrow
, J. J. would leave for Europe and might never come home. The mission—at least on paper—wasn’t as dangerous as some, but she had been around enough, read enough reports, briefed enough teams to know that easy missions could go badly. Many names on the killed-in-action list got there while on “routine patrol.”
She pushed herself up, crossed her legs, and sat on the bed. Tess wanted a cigarette. It was the first time she had felt the urge since giving up the habit her freshman year in college. That was the year everything changed for her; the year she began to live for someone other than herself; the year she found herself in an on-campus Bible study listening to someone teach from the Gospel of John.
She attended again the next week, and the week after that. By her junior year, she was leading the study. Sometime during that first year, her universe widened to include God. An international studies major, Tess graduated near the top of her class. International banking was her goal, but while working on her master’s degree at George Washington University, she developed an interest in the way countries dealt with one another. By the time she finished her PhD she’d been recruited by a major think tank, the CIA, a private consulting firm, and two other organizations slow to reveal their names and natures. None of those groups interested her, but the invitation to do postdoc work at the Army War College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, did. Soon she was an adjunct professor at the Strategic Studies Institute.
Tess hated war and violence, but she also recognized that, like weeds, evil grew wherever justice was allowed to languish. There were still many moments when her thoughts did battle, but at the end of each mental war, she remained convinced that she was saving lives by providing information to generals and senators.
It was during a briefing at Fort Jackson six months ago that she met J. J. The series of meetings required her to spend the weekend in Columbia, South Carolina. Sunday she attended services led by Army chaplain Paul Bartley. After the service Bartley stood by the door greeting worshippers as they left the chapel. Standing next to him was a good-looking man about the same age as the chaplain.
Bartley smiled as she shook his hand. “Is this your first time here?”
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