Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 07

by G. Lawrence

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. The history is similar in some respects to our own and very different in others. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Fearing his controversial relationship with Jenny Blair is ruining her life, Jack has accepted General Fowler's invitation to join peacekeeping forces in Syria. Readers may wish to remember that this is an alternate timeline. International events happened differently here than in our own history.

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 soon come together.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

With the release of your son's new book, None Left Behind, interest in awarding Jack a posthumous Medal of Honor has been revived. I see those goddamn harpies in the press who turned on Jack are once again singing his praises, being the goddamn parasitical vermin that they are. Excuse my language. I was heartened to read that Jennifer has entered Yale's Master's Degree program. I know leaving her was the hardest thing Jack ever did. Your Eternal Servant, General Collin Fowler

Chapter Seven

WHITE HELMETS

Winter was beginning to give way. The ice on the lake had nearly disappeared, and birds were chirping in the trees. It wasn't spring yet, but the signs were everywhere.

"We can take the boat. Go fishing," Ishan suggested.

"Better to set traps in the mountains," Khillan recommended.

"I should not go so far from the village," I disagreed.

"No one thinks you will escape," Khillan said.

"I appreciate the confidence. It would be better if I stayed near. Nanina may need help with her baby."

"That's women's work," Ishan complained.

"Don't make me quote the Qur'an," I said with a smile.

"You know more of the Prophet's words than I do, but you have not converted to Islam," Khillan remarked. "What attracts you to the Christian God?"

"Maybe we could set a few traps, if Ma'amet gives me permission," I said to change the subject. I got up from the riverbank, dusting off my work jeans.

Late in the afternoon, there was an alarm from the village. We ran up the hill from the lake, the youngsters faster than me. There was a beat-up pickup truck in the middle of the plaza. At first, I thought it must be Abari. Should I attempt to run? How far would I get? But then I recognized several men from a neighboring village and a distraught woman.

"What's wrong?" I asked, out of breath from the sprint.

"A girl. Marjia. She has been shot," Ma'amet said.

"How?" I inquired.

''It was an accident. They seek our doctor," Ma'amet answered, for Sar'ret's infirmary was the only one in the area with a surgeon.

"Dr. Askari is in the lowlands. How serious is it?" I asked.

"Very serious, I'm afraid," Ma'amet said, shaking his head.

I squeezed through the crowd, peering into the bed of the truck. Marjia looked eight or nine years old, brown-haired and small-boned. She'd been shot in the abdomen. Her mother was stemming the flow of blood with a towel.

"Move her into the operating room," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

"Jack, you may not. If the girl dies, her father will demand your death," Ma'amet warned, grabbing my arm.

"I am a dead man already, my father. At least Marjia might be saved," I answered, going for the doctor's medical kit.

A large crowd gathered at the infirmary in the village center. Marjia's family was not happy about the infamous American posing as a doctor. And I was not a doctor. I had helped Askari with minor surgery, and practiced as a veterinarian on goats and sheep, but never anything so serious as a gut wound.

"You may not touch her," Marjia's father said, blocking my path.

"The next doctor is too far away. The drive will kill her," I said.

"Better to die than be defiled by an infidel," a burly man insisted.

It wasn't her father. Probably an uncle, thick and stout, with a bushy black beard. Marjia's mother was crying, but she had no voice.

"Every moment decreases her chances," I urged, anxious to get started.

Marjia's uncle pulled a hunting knife, setting it against my throat. I could have taken it away from him, but out of respect for Ma'amet, I would initiate no violence. Ishan hit the angry man on the back of the head with his fist. Then Khillan took the knife away and turned, pointing his shotgun at Marjia's family.

"If you do not wish the American's help, don't accept," Khillan growled. "But he has done nothing dishonorable by offering."

"Leave now, before there is trouble," Ishan added, raising his old rifle.

"Please, brothers. They are frightened," I said, pushing the weapons aside. "Parents of Marjia, I can offer no promises. Her life is not mine to give or take. I can only try."

I gazed at them with humble urgency, understanding their reluctance.

"You will try," Marjia's father decided.

The girl was lifted from the truck bed and carried by her family into the infirmary. Then all the men except myself were required to leave.

"Remove her clothes," I said, sterilizing my hands and putting on a face mask.

The women who would act as nurses, her mother, older sister, and Ma'amet's wife, also scrubbed and donned masks. I said a prayer for all of us, and began probing the wound for the bullet track. We had no X-ray machine or monitoring equipment. Sar'ret was too remote for such luxuries. The girl's life was truly in the hands of God.

Dr. Askari kept blood plasma in his refrigerator for emergencies, and the blood types of all the villagers were on record. Those who matched Marjia donated, an IV replacing the blood that was lost. Which was a lot. At one point, the girl stopped breathing. Her mother began to wail, but it was premature. I pumped up the resuscitator and she quickly came back, much to my everlasting thanks. Marjia was a strong girl, with a will to live.

This was not like being a medic in Afghanistan. The casualties there only had to be kept alive until they could be evacuated to a combat support hospital. Marjia was not close enough to such a resource.

After a while, I lost track of time, but it must have been several hours. My eyes grew blurry and hands shook. I needed my medication. Or a stiff shot of bourbon. The bullet was removed, the leakage stopped, and her vital signs stabilized. Dr. Askari had been summoned back, and I heard a surgeon was coming with him. I just needed to accomplish the basics without killing her.

Once the bleeding was stopped, the wound was closed, but not sewn up, pending better treatment. Marjia slumbered peacefully on the pain killers. I told the women to get some rest, for it was after sunset. I stayed at Marjia's side, keeping track of her pulse. Listening to her breathing. Using a damp cloth to keep her cool. Oxygen was ready if she needed it, though I probably needed it more.

Dr. Askari returned in an ambulance filled with medical equipment. Another doctor and a nurse were with him, rushing to take over. I thanked them and wandered out of the infirmary into a cool night, finding Ma'amet, Ishan and Khillan sitting on a bench guarding the door.

"How is she?" Ishan inquired.

"She's alive. I can't ask for more," I answered.

"You saved her," Khillan said.

"No, but Allah is trying to save her," I replied, finding my legs weak.

I sat down with Ma'amet and the boys. Lalia brought me a bowl of hot vegetable soup. Bonfires lit the plaza, many in the village keeping vigil. The towns and villages of the mountains were often competitive but would come together in a crisis. Hundreds now shared blankets and prayers.

After a time, Dr. Askari emerged from the infirmary, spoke with Marjia's family, and came in my direction.

"You are a butcher," Dr. Askari said. "But you saved that girl's life."

"I tried to remember what you taught me," I replied.

Askari stepped up to embrace me, hugging hard enough that it hurt. Everyone from the villages saw the gesture and took note, for Dr. Askari was highly respected.

"I know the chance you took. Allah will bless you," Askari whispered. He reached into his pocket and gave me another bottle of medication, enough for two months.

"I found this in Sāmarrā," my friend said.

"Thank you, sir," I replied, grateful for his consideration.

"If you were not here against your will, you would not need our charity," Askari said, looking at Ma'amet.

"You need rest," Ma'amet advised. I nodded. I was exhausted.

As we started to leave, Marjia's mother and sister came to thank me, followed by her father and the burly uncle who put a knife to my throat.

"We will find a way to pay you," Marjia's father said.

"A pair of leather boots would be nice," I suggested.

"Is that all my niece's life is worth? A pair of boots?" the uncle commented with a frown.

"If I expected to live a long life, I would ask your village for a wife," I said. "But Tashad will come for me in the spring, and then she would be a widow. A pair of boots will not be lonely after I'm gone."

The entire group fell silent. My words were harsher than I intended, but I was tired and not thinking clearly.

Ma'amet took me back to his house, making a place for me by the fire. I slept soundly.

_________

My unit crossed the Syrian border from Turkey on a cold late December day. There were forty trucks filled with food and first aid supplies, and six trucks filled with soldiers. I was in charge of the medical unit, wearing captain's bars on my shoulders. I could have worn a Red Cross armband but wasn't sure if it would protect me or draw fire. Major Samir Hossain, a West Point graduate born in Cincinnati, was in command.

"Your Arabic is better than mine," Hossain praised as we rode together in the lead truck. A jeep and a JLTV were out in front of us.

I had met Hossain during our training in Turkey. Brown-haired and dark-eyed, we were the same height with similar builds. He dressed informally, as most of us in the desert did, and liked to carry two sidearms. I would have called him Two-Gun Samir if it hadn't been disrespectful.

"That's not entirely true, but thank you," I said, watching the road for trouble.

"You are not going to carry a gun?" he asked.

"That's not my mission," I replied.

This portion of the route was largely flat and empty. Scrubby plants and low hills filled the horizon.

"Ten years ago, this land was torn apart by a generation of civil war and foreign interventions," Hossain recounted. "The peace has held since then. But it's fragile."

"General Fowler doesn't think United Nations peacekeepers will be enough. Our numbers do seem small."

"Too many or not enough, that's always the problem," Samir said.

Toward the end of the day, we reached a staging base outside Qarah. Half a dozen flags represented the United States, Japan, France, Ethiopia, Tunisia, and Canada. There was supposed to be a United Nations flag, but I didn't see one. No one was wearing a blue helmet.

"We're the 4th U.S. Battalion," Hossain reported at the chain-link gate.

We preceded into a tent city containing a thousand soldiers, engineers and aid workers. Our convoy stopped at the hospital to unload. I found some old friends.

"Brenda?" I said, seeing a dust-covered lieutenant leading a well-armed squad.

"Jack! Oh my God," Brenda Castillo said, rushing to hug me.

Not very military, but sometimes exceptions are made. We had spent several weeks together at Diego Garcia when we were both still sergeants, sharing the same bed. And not wasting our time while in it. She had been energetic and passionate. As I was headed back to Windhaven Prison, we were under no illusions that our affair would be brief. Born of a poor family in Detroit, Brenda had been a star basketball player at Roosevelt High School before rising through the Army's ranks to receive a lieutenant's commission. She stood 5'10, weighed in at a hundred and fifty pounds, and liked to highlight her long black hair with tinges of red.

"You remember Sergeant Bowren and Sergeant Wadislaw from Tabrit, don't you?" Brenda introduced.

"Of course. Good to see you, Lenora. You, too, Joe," I greeted.

I neglected to mention that in addition to the Tabrit mission, Joe and I had recently served together in Operation Kindergarten, which was still classified. He had proven my most reliable sergeant, a curly-haired Ohioan built like a brick wall.

Lenora Bowren was sturdy, too. Tall for a woman, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, with hands like a truck driver. She could drink with the best of us and had a bawdy sense of humor.

They saluted, me being a captain now. I returned the salute, wishing I was still a sergeant.

"We're attached to the 4th," Joe said. "Are you in command of the convoy?"

"Major Hossain. I'm just supervising the medical division," I explained.

"You never did like guns," Lenora said.

"'Where's the bivouac?" I asked.

They pointed to a lonely clump of trees. A scraggily pecan grove, but better than nothing. Maybe we could hang some Christmas decorations.

"See you once these trucks are empty," I promised.

The sun set over the desert. The base was busy. So many languages were being spoken it seemed like the Tower of Babel. Surprisingly few were fluent in Arabic, which explained why Fowler wanted me so badly.

I had just sent my teamsters for chow when an orderly summoned me to battalion headquarters. I dusted off my uniform, a mixture of brown, light-tan and lime green patterns designed to match the terrain and went to see why they wanted me. The canvas tent held eight officers standing around a tactical map of northern Syria.

"Lawrence, heard you were here," Brigadier General Walter Atkins said, a stocky grim-visaged Texan. And he seemed pleased by the news. When we had first met at the Pentagon six years before, Atkins had not been a fan. Relations improved following the Blue Mountain operation.

"Yes, sir. Reporting as instructed," I said, standing at attention.

"Take it easy, Jack. We're in the goddamn desert," Atkins said. "Too much brass to introduce everybody. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain John Lawrence. Silver Star, Bronze Star with silver leaf cluster, four Purple Hearts, and recently awarded another oak leaf cluster for the Tabrit mission."

"Sir, really," I protested, for it was very embarrassing. "I'm sure there are many here with illustrious records."

"Actually, you're the most veteran member of the battalion," Colonel Rizzo said, tall, blond and straight-laced. "Mostly rookies here. My duty was Camp MacArthur in the Philippines before they kicked us out. Prescott served at the Libyan embassy. Hossain has been an attaché in Turkey. Linster, Tamura and Herrera haven't been in the field before."

"General Wheeler speaks highly of you," Colonel Prescott said, young and attractive for a senior officer. I made her for a West Point graduate.

"What's the mission, sir? I thought we were ferrying supplies to the camps," I asked. "Not Aleppo, I hope."

"Aleppo is still a ghost town," General Atkins said. "But plenty of refugees to the south. We're going to move down the Euphrates, establish a presence, and coordinate the air drops. Central Command wants the supplies going to the refugees, not the war lords."

"I understand, sir," I said.

"We know you're medical corps, but it would help if you stayed with the forward units," Colonel Prescott requested. "Your experience will help the scouts provide accurate reports."

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed, excited to be where the action was.

On my way back to the 4th's encampment, my cell phone rang. It was probably one of the few places in Syria that I'd get a signal.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hi, Jack," my favorite voice answered. "How is it so far?"

"Like driving through Central Park, only with more sand. How are you doing, Red? How's your mother?"

"Everyone's fine. We're hoping you won't be over there very long. Will you be back in time for your birthday?"

"I don't know. No one is discussing timetables."

"I'm in Utah now finishing my degree. Professor Lofoya gave me a new job arranging seminars. Ambassador Zakharova is going to address our senior class next week."

"That's terrific. You're going to do great."

"Did you hear about your aunt?" she asked.

"Something about a plea bargain," I recalled.

"Theresa called. One year in a minimum-security facility. She said the letter you wrote to the judge requesting leniency made a big difference."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still unhappy with her," I remarked. "I just don't want my cousins hurt more than they already are. What their mother did wasn't their fault."

"They know that. Theresa and Tom say thank you."

"But not Marigold?" I asked.

"Give her time. Look, I know I was having a hard time before you left. I'm sorry I didn't realize it was hard on you, too."

"Sweetheart, no one is at fault. I'm where I need to be. You are, too. I'm proud of you."

"I love you, Jack," she said.

I didn't say it back. She needed to find someone else.

"The guys are waiting for me. Got to go," I wrapped up.

"Take care of yourself," Jenny said, her disappointment obvious.

The 4th had campfires going. Modest off-duty drinking was allowed provided no one got out of control. Brenda had gotten my tent set up in the middle of the camp, but we could no longer share it due to military protocol.

"Something wrong, Sarge? I mean, Captain Lawrence," Joe asked.

"Where's the beer?" I asked, feeling sad.

Joe smiled and produced a bottle of Red Danger.

"I need to get off my feet," I pleaded, finding a folding chair near the fire.

I sat down, trying to relax. I had known Joe, Brenda and Lenora since Tabrit. I wasn't going to stand on my rank with them anymore than necessary. The circle gradually grew to about forty. Corporal Alvarez brought me a plate of baked chicken and rice. Private Wong passed a basket of potato chips.

"Everyone got your bunk assignments?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," my guys answered.

"I haven't played sergeant in a while. Speak up if you need anything," I urged.

"You're a captain," Brenda said, provoking me.

"My exalted rank was only supposed to be for one mission, Lieutenant Castillo, as you well know," I responded. "And I wasn't even in the Army at the time. I was kidnapped from a Federal prison."

"General Fowler says you are whatever he says you are. I was at the hearing, remember?" Brenda said.

"I didn't mind being shanghaied, I minded the promotion. I liked being a sergeant," I complained. "What made you sell out, Sergeant Castillo?"

"I needed the money. My mom got sick," Brenda said.

"How is she doing?" I asked.

"She's doing great since a foundation in Utah started paying her medical insurance," Brenda explained. "You wouldn't know Professor Lofoya, would you?"

"Never heard of him," I lied.

"That's funny. He testified at your review board," Brenda pressed.

She was having a good time making fun of me.

"It's just a coincidence," I said. "There are lots of Professor Lofoyas."

"Yes, and they've all won Nobel Prizes. By the way, everybody who isn't minding their own business, this was right after Jack, and I started shagging following the Tabrit mission."

"Brenda, my former sex life isn't anyone else's business," I protested.

"It's my sex life, too. And I'm not a prude like you are," she declared.

The 4th wasn't really a battalion. More like two hundred men and women drawn from different branches for a vague mission. We bonded around the fire, for we needed to count on each other if things got rough. I encouraged the youngsters to tell us about their hometowns, families, and schools. Unfortunately, the conversation eventually turned back toward me again.