Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 04

by G. Lawrence

General Fowler makes his claim

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Following a court hearing in Massachusetts, Jack is traveling to New York City

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

President Leonard Wagner

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. President,

The kidnapping of Premier Alwan's children posed both a crisis and an opportunity. The Tashad splinter group believed responsible had revived tensions between Iran and Iraq, but we had at our disposal a veteran familiar with the Blue Mountain region where the children were being held. It was hoped a successful rescue operation would improve our relations with both countries. Respectfully submitted, General Collin Fowler

Chapter Four

FOWLER'S SECRET MISSION

As prison cells go, the one in the village of Sar'ret could be worse. It was actually a storage room sometimes used by visiting relatives. Presumably poor relatives. I had a bed. After a time, they gave me adequate clothes. There was small window for light and a bucket for night use. There was only one rat, an industrious little brown creature with a long black tail and white cheeks. I occasionally shared my bread with her. Our conversations tended to be one-sided.

Kassan Abari had warned the village that I was a dangerous American criminal, and that if I could escape, I would kill for the sheer pleasure of it. This made them cautious, but not cruel. The villagers took no joy in their assignment, and in time, I learned they greatly resented the demands put upon them by Tashad, who stole their food.

When not out for my walks, I was kept in the storage room with hands bound. The lack of activity began to weigh on me, but I broke up the boredom by volunteering to do chores around the village. Usually lifting and carrying. The lake provided some arable land for farming, rare in this region, so I would help load wagons, fill the silos, and eventually learned to feed the livestock, which included sheep, cattle, goats and chickens. I liked the goats. I was not a fan of the chickens.

There was some suspicion, at first. They feared a trick. If the village elders had suspected how violent I'd been as a youth, or how many strong men I'd beaten to a bloody pulp in prison, they would have kept me chained. But I made a point of not causing trouble. I addressed everyone with respect, never complained about anything, and struggled to remain good-natured. Though I occasionally failed in this when my spirits were low. Without my medication, the bad dreams were creeping back.

One day there was an incident that almost turned serious. I was with a crew of village men shoring up the dam supplying water to the largest farm. Several diggers labored in the irrigation ditch without shirts, but to hide my battle scars, I kept my shirt on. A middle-aged worker whose usual occupation was tanning hides had attempted to brace the spillover with an old timber. The mud wall had other ideas.

"Ramood! Ramood, watch out!" seventeen-year-old Khillan shouted, setting down the shotgun he was supposed to guard me with.

But I had seen the danger first. As the mud wall began to give way, I pulled my shirt off and jumped into the channel, covering our heads as we were buried. In such shallow confines, mud in the lungs is generally a greater danger than mere water, and I had been in enough floods to know how to react. With so many others nearby, I knew we'd be pulled up fairly quickly.

A moment later, we were brought to the surface. I helped Ramood to the embankment and crawled up after him, no worse for wear.

"Thank you," Ramood graciously said, for he thought me better tied up than roaming around.

"You are welcome, sir," I replied, wondering how to get clean.

Thus far in Sar'ret, I had bathed in my storage room with a towel and a pan of soapy water. The slime of the irrigation ditch offered a stiffer challenge. When I saw Ma'amet rushing down from the village to see what had happened, I pulled him aside.

"Master, may I wash in the creek?" I requested.

"I am no one's master. Khillan and Ishan will go with you," Ma'amet said.

"My shirt is still in the ditch. The women may not see me like this," I begged.

"We will find something for you," Ma'amet promised, waving me away.

I went around the edge of the lake to the wide creek that fed it from the north, Khillan and Ishan following with their shotguns, and stripped to scrub the mud out of my pants. My boots were in bad shape, the soles beginning to flap, and the socks were full of holes.

"What happened to you?" Ishan said, sounding shocked.

"It's only a bruise," I said, finding a purple mark on my elbow.

"No, the scars. Were you blown up?" Ishan asked. They had seen me naked in the storage room but light had been poor. Evidence of my injuries were more obvious in the bright sunlight.

"I was not blown up. Not as you think," I reluctantly explained. "During the war, I was wounded several times. Usually the scars are hard to see, but the cold water makes them turn red."

The young men crowded close. Had I been inclined, I could have taken the guns away from them. But it would have done nothing to aid my situation. I won't say I never considered escape, but my chances were poor so far from a friendly border. And I might have to hurt someone, which wasn't my desire.

"Can you tell the stories?" Khillan asked.

"Someday, if Ma'amet gives permission, but not today," I answered.

That night, when I was put back in my room, I was not tied up. I did not ask for such a courtesy, it was simply granted without comment. My food improved, too, and each night Mrs. Ma'amet brought me a cup of warm tea.

____________

Jenny and I barely left her apartment for the first two days, getting our first taste of domestic life. She was surprised that I knew how to cook. I was surprised she knew how to do laundry. But I wasn't ready to move in. I asked around the neighborhood for affordable apartments and almost signed off on a nice little loft that would suit my needs.

On a Sunday evening, growing restless for lack of something useful to do, I decided to take a walk back to my old haunts. Jenny insisted on coming with me. We crossed the river into Brooklyn and turned south.

"I've never been to the docks before. Not these docks," she said as we walked along an old pier in a light fog.

The East River lay before us, decrepit brick buildings behind us. Cargo booms were lifting huge containers off the ships. Longshoremen directed the stacking while supervisors logged the shipments. It was getting dark as the workday wound down.

"Not everything will make it into the books," I said, noticing one of the containers being moved ship to ship rather than to the dock.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Sometimes containers go missing," I explained.

"Do you mean stolen?"

"It's been a tradition for two hundred years. I acted as a lookout for the Brannigan Brothers," I recalled. "Until they asked for more than I was willing to give."

"What do you mean?"

"They needed a security guard out of the way. A nice old guy with a family. I said no. Jake Brannigan wasn't too happy with me."

"Sounds serious. Did you get in trouble?"

"Someone shot Jake a week later. Dumped his body in the harbor. Not me, though I was suspected. I decided it was time to move on."

We stopped by Fat Louie's, a rundown saloon that had gotten worse in the last twenty-three years, if such a thing were possible.

"I watched for poker cheats here," I said, pointing to a black curtain at the end of the bar. "Got pretty good, too. Even played on occasion, but the regulars didn't like losing to a kid. I was already a beer drinker at thirteen. This is where I started drinking whisky and hanging out with the working girls."

"At thirteen?" Jenny said, shocked.

"Grew up fast, Red," I said, sitting at the bar to order a Squirrel Nut. "Bartender, is Farley still around? Or Tweeky?"

"Both dead," the bartender said. "What's it to you?"

"I was a friend of Charlie Littler," I replied, recalling an old alias.

"Now that's a name that goes back," the bartender said with a nostalgic smile. "What ever happened to Little Littler?"

"Killed in Afghanistan," I said. "But he loved telling stories about Louie's. The Big Bango. Tiny's Craving. The Night of Four Aces."

"Those were great days," the bartender agreed. "Farley used to say Littler could have had a future in the organization if his conscience hadn't outgrown his britches."

"He was a bit dainty, wasn't he?" I said.

"Tweeky always said he was a good kid. Reliable. Also said never to play poker with him," the bartender recalled, grinning at the memory.

I left a ten-dollar tip and we strolled back to the dock. The moon was coming out as we passed a neglected warehouse. I pointed out a shed where I'd lived one summer, and the old meeting place of the Wharf Rats, now boarded up.

"I didn't realize," Jenny said.

"Realize what?" I asked.

"You've talked about your childhood. It sounded so colorful. Sort of. But this? It--"

"Worse than you thought?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, it's worse than I thought."

"It wasn't all bad. And I learned some valuable lessons."

Just as we were heading back toward the subway station, two ruffians appeared from the shadows. One was short and plump, his black wool sweater frayed at the cuffs. The other was my height, with thin shoulders and a limping gait. I didn't recognize either of them.

"Got a light, mister?" the short one said, coming within a few feet of me. One hand held a cigarette, the other was hidden behind his back.

"Just when I thought there'd be no chance to show off," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shorty asked.

I grabbed his extended hand, pulled him closer, and punched him hard in the face. As he staggered in surprise, I spun him around, took the knife out of his other hand, and drove him headfirst into a corrugated steel wall. As he bounced back, I hit him again. He fell senseless to the boardwalk.

His companion hesitated, then took a step forward. I faked poking him in the face with the knife, then punched him three times in the gut with my clenched right until he dropped to his knees. A kick to the face left him sprawled out, twitching next to his partner in crime. I went through their pockets, finding forty-two dollars, and threw their knives in the river.

"Come on. Time to move along," I said, taking Jenny by the arm.

"What happened? What was that? Were we going to be robbed?" she asked.

"That was their plan," I replied, finding it hard to suppress a chuckle.

"You beat the hell out of them."

"You've had questions about my past, sweetheart. Well, that was my past. Does it scare you?"

"Sort of. It's kind of sexy, too," she admitted.

A few days later I was making arrangements to get my own apartment when another ghost from the past intervened.

"What the hell are you doing, kid?" he said in his gruffest voice.

It was General Fowler, lean as always, black hair on top, gray on the sides, and wearing civilian garb. At least he wasn't wearing a fake eyepatch like he had at my review hearing, where he called the board members sheep-humpers. He had tracked me down to the Fighting 69th, my favorite Irish pub on the West Side.

"Starting a new life in New York," I replied. "And getting more money in one day than the Army paid me in a year."

"Yeah, but no one is shooting at you," Fowler said.

"You think I miss that?"

"I know you miss it. You thrive on danger. Now what's this other goddamn crap you've been doing? Teaching rich snot-nosed punks how to write essays. Playing guitar on the internet. Saving damsels in distress. The whole world knows who you are now."

"I was never a secret agent. After the Army said I was too shot up for field duty, you made me a researcher. Black Web. Remember?"

"Don't excuse you becoming a hero," Fowler responded. "But I guess you've still got your uses."

"I'm retired. I have a girl. And I'm making money."

"Don't brag about being a pussy. I need you. Your country needs you. We're gearing up for a special mission where you can make a difference. Isn't that what you goddamn heroes do? Make a difference?"

"Sir, I appreciate the offer. But I have another life in mind. I'm dating Jennifer Blair."

"Now that's a disaster ready to happen. Do you know what America is going to say? The President's daughter with the man they think murdered her father?"

"Her mother hasn't discouraged us," I said.

"Her mother knows the soul of John Lawrence. America doesn't. All they see is a reckless adventurer ready to grow feet of clay."

"Are you going to buy me a drink, or just try to tear down my world?"

"What are you drinking, kid?"

We took our piña coladas to a corner booth in the back where we wouldn't be overheard. I knew Fowler wasn't going to leave until he had his say.

"Okay, what's this all about?" I asked.

"Got a mission," he said without fanfare.

"And I told you I'm not interested. I'm looking for an apartment," I replied.

"Got a great one for you, in Afghanistan. Comes with roommates, bad food, long working hours, and a big reward."

"And what reward would that be?" I foolishly asked.

"Saving two innocent kids from getting their throats cut."

"Are you talking about Alwan's children?"

"For someone who doesn't give a crap about anyone but yourself, you stay on top of things."

"The kidnapping is all over the news. Tashad?"

"Same old bastards," Fowler confirmed. "Some bandit named Abari is trying to make a name for himself."

"What would this have to do with me?"

"I'm assembling a special team. Experienced veterans who know the language, know the culture, and give a damn about the people. And I need a medic. We'll go in, snatch the kids, and I'll have you back by the 4th of July."

"There must be scores of better qualified medics than me," I protested.

"Medics who know the Blue Mountain region?"

He had me there, and he knew it.

"This a lot to think about, and I'll need to talk with Jenny," I said. "This is a secret mission, isn't it? You're not going to splash my name all over the newspapers?"

"Secret at the highest level. Even Wagner doesn't know about it."

"The President got pretty pissed about being frozen out the last time," I warned.

"No reason to put the cart before the horse. We'll bring him in if this pays off."

"When do you need to know?" I asked.

"I'll have a jet waiting for you in the morning," Fowler replied.

I had already decided to go on the mission. Fowler didn't need to explain the stakes that were involved, for the increased tensions between Iraq and Iran could lead to another war. The question was how to tell Jenny. I decided that only the absolute truth would do.

"National Guard training?" Jenny said. "For three weeks?"

"It's no big deal," I said. "We'll ride around the Mojave Desert shooting cactus, then get drunk in the evenings. It's going to be fun seeing the guys again."

"Did you volunteer? Tired of me already?" she asked.

"Yes, I did volunteer, and no, I'm not getting tired of you. If there was room in my duffle bag, I'd stuff you in."

She wrinkled her nose and had the cutest little pout on her face. We called out for dinner and spent the night between the sheets doing everything. I wasn't sure how long it would be before I saw her again.

The next morning, just after dawn, I appeared at the airfield ready to go. Fowler provided a blue uniform in my size, complete with service ribbons and captain's bars. We flew to Washington and arrived at the Pentagon in time for the briefing. It was much different than the last time I'd been there, still serving as a Federal prisoner.

"Jack, great to see you," General Wheeler said. The Army Chief of Staff smiled and gave me a crisp salute. Wheeler was not a tall man, and tended to be thin, but had a presence. His bushy mustache was white as ever.

I recognized Brigadier Walter Atkins, along with Colonel Kristine Leslie and several other high-ranking officers. The planning center was filled with maps, monitors, and aides providing reports. For a need-to-know facility, it seemed very busy.

"Honored to be here, General," I said, returning the salute.

"How much did Fowler tell you?" General Atkins asked. He had been hostile on our first meeting, but now appeared more tolerant.

"Rescue operation in the Blue Mountains," I replied.

"More than that, son," General Wheeler said, going to an electronic map that filled an entire table. "Our relations with Iraq have been bad since Second Afghan. If we can rescue Prime Minister Alwan's children, it will go far in restoring relations."

"Even if you're all killed, just making the attempt will send a positive message," Akins added, drawing a dirty look from Wheeler.

"Tashad's influence has grown weaker since their failed attack on Boston," Colonel Leslie explained. "But they still have enough regional strength to intimidate Iran. If we can breakup this current plot, Iran might finally be ready to oust Tashad from their territory."

"That would cut off the Iraq and Afghanistan branches from each other," Fowler said. "After that, it will be a mopping up operation, and Tashad knows it. They have a lot on the line this time."

"I figured most of that out," I said, not quite so dumb as they thought. Even if I had dropped out of high school to join the Army. "Are you using the 104th Rangers?"

"Yes. Already training in Afghanistan. We're still searching for where the kidnappers are hiding," Leslie said.

"I've been associated with the 104th because of Bobby Blair's books," I said. "I want to help, but I don't want my name involved. I already get too much publicity."

"Not to worry. We'll just say it's a SEAL operation like we always do," Wheeler assured me.

"Then I'm good to go, sir," I said. "And may I suggest the Maharambi Caves, here on the Silk Border Road? During the Blue Mountain War, it was always their preferred fallback position. Rugged terrain, few roads, and good observation."

"Very promising," Wheeler observed, patting me on the shoulder. "Fowler was right to bring you in on this."

"Can I get paid this time?" I asked.

"Paid? What do you mean?" Wheeler said.

"The last time General Fowler recruited me, it was off the books. It would be nice to get paid this time."

Wheeler turned toward Fowler with an angry stare, wondering what other secret projects had been left off the books.

"Colonel Leslie, make sure Captain Lawrence gets a voucher," Wheeler ordered. "And check into how much back pay we owe him."

"C17 leaves in the morning," Fowler told me as we left the Pentagon. "Got you a nice room at the Willard, but we've got a stop first."

"I would like to visit Alex, if she hasn't left for New York already," I requested.

"No time, kid. You've got another appointment."

"More important than Alex?"

"The President wants to see you," Fowler replied. "But don't tell him about the mission. He still doesn't know."

"You're going to get me arrested one of these days," I complained.

"I'll make sure you get a comfortable cell," Fowler promised.

Our midnight blue limousine pulled up to the White House gate, the driver providing identification. The guards had the windows rolled down to confirm who was in the back seat before waving us through.

"Jack!" Addie Wagner said, coming out the front door.