Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 08

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. This is an alternate timeline; history is similar in some respects to our own and very different in others. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: While serving with peacekeeping forces in Syria, Jack has been kidnapped by Tashad and put before a mock firing squad.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now, each chapter has begun with Jack being held prisoner in a mountain village in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines have now come together.

* * * * * *

Miss Jennifer Blair

Yale University

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Jenny,

The presentation of Jack's Medal of Honor was quite moving. All of his friends were there. The President and First Lady asked after you, but everyone understands why you could not attend. I was honored to accept on Jack's behalf, though you would have been a more appropriate choice. The medal is now on display at the Thanksgiving Eve Cenotaph on the National Mall if you want to see it. Always Your Friend, Alex McGuire

Chapter Eight

NOT QUITE DEAD

It was my 34th birthday, one year and eleven months since my kidnapping at Al-Mayadin. In the United States, I had officially been declared dead and heard that Congress had given me a medal in an elaborate ceremony.

Though I did not reveal my thoughts, I feared this birthday would be my last. Tashad was struggling to keep hold of their outposts in the lowlands, so Abari had no time to worry about me. But one day he'd be coming up that road, which was never far from my mind.

The village was still several weeks away from spring planting, but I spent mornings in the fields preparing the irrigation ditches. Sometimes I would help the women who were germinating tomato and pepper seeds in their green houses. In the afternoons, I assisted Dr. Askari in the infirmary. He still said I was a butcher, but a hard-working one.

When the doctor was visiting nearby towns and villages, I provided basic medical services on my own. Most of the patients were men and boys with work injuries, but a few were women, always accompanied by a family member, for traditions needed to be respected.

For an hour each day, I would read the Qur'an or medical books, or any literature I could find, both in Arabic and in Persian. Several homes in the village had satellite dishes for their TVs, but I did not watch them except on rare occasions. I tried to ignore the radio, too, with less success.

"What have you learned from your reading?" Ishan asked me that Tuesday as we walked back up the hill from the lake. He had insisted we go fishing, but it was too late in the afternoon for a good catch.

"I enjoy my study, but have no intention of converting to Islam," I said. "I mean no disrespect. My reasons are personal."

"What are those reasons?" Ishan inquired, for he was disappointed.

"My young friend, it is not for me to discuss my faith in this place. I promised Ma'amet. But even if I hadn't, it would still not be appropriate."

"My father says a coward would convert to seek Abari's grace, but you are too honest."

"Abari doesn't care if I convert. His plans for me have nothing to do with religion," I explained.

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Of course. But I'm trying not to let it control me. Some days with more success than others. Please, say nothing of our talk. Lalia will only worry. She knows I don't sleep well."

"I am your friend," Ishan assured me.

When we reached the plaza, I found tables set up with colorful tablecloths. Dishes of wonderful food were ready to be served. Nearly all of Sar'ret was there, finely dressed as if for a holiday.

"What is this?" I asked, for there was nothing on my calendar.

"It is your birthday, my son," Ma'amet replied.

"How did you know?" I inquired in surprise.

"It's in your book. The one you wrote," Khillan explained.

I had written many things in that book, including reminisces that were much too personal. Things that should have remained secret. I wondered how it had been received in the United States but had never bothered to find out. After all, it was only supposed to be published after my death. My real death.

We sat down to eat, my best friends close, others nearby but enjoying the party. Ma'amet give me a pair of thick leather work gloves. Lalia presented me with a colorful wool scarf. Dr. Askari gave me a stethoscope. A few of the youngsters played music, a pastime I had given up rather than let my culture infect their society. Several made kind speeches, attesting to my value in their community.

"A few have been hesitant to honor you on this day," Ma'amet said, calling everyone to attention. "It is because of the award the Americans gave you at your funeral. But I noticed you were more disturbed by this than any of us. May you say why?"

"It is not important," I declined.

"I think it is important," Lalia urged, placing her hand on my arm. Something only family in this village would do. I guess there is something about mother figures, like Mrs. Blair and Lalia, which I can never resist.

"The award is not appropriate. I was only doing my duty," I explained. "President Wagner seeks to boost his popularity. He is a politician. So he has invoked my name for his own agenda. It does not please me."

"But you must have killed many enemies to earn so much honor?" Ishan said.

"It's not something I talk about," I replied, hoping he would drop it. But Ma'amet had other plans.

"My friends and neighbors, since we heard of Jack's medal on the radio, we have wondered how it was earned," Ma'amet said. "We have wondered how many Muslims he had to kill. And how many he set out to kill. We have feared a dark place in his heart. I now have the answer for you, from the Baghdad Journal. It is the official text of the award given him by the Americans,

Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving with Company B, 144th Infantry, as a Medical Corps Sergeant during operations against enemy forces at Lavanna Valley, 15 January 2018. After warning that the enemy was lying in wait in great numbers, Sergeant John Lawrence joined the advance on his own initiative. When the advance was struck in force, and the officers leading the operation were killed or wounded, Sergeant Lawrence took command of a fighting retreat to the debarkation area, bringing back all killed and wounded soldiers. Once the last squad was loaded into the final helicopter, it was discovered that a wounded corporal was still a hundred yards down the hill. Taking an M16A2 from the helicopter, Sergeant Lawrence ordered the flight crew to evacuate to safety and returned down the hill for the wounded corporal under intense enemy fire, estimated in strength from 300 to 400 combatants. Upon finding the helicopter had delayed departure, Sergeant Lawrence then carried the wounded corporal back up to the debarkation area far enough for his squad to make a safe retrieval, suffering multiple wounds. By his undaunted courage, bold spirit, and unwavering devotion to duty in the face of almost certain death, Sergeant John Lawrence reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Army."

Ma'amet put the document down, looking for the reaction of his people. Lilia still held my hand.

"Did you kill anyone in that battle?" Khillan asked, looking at me in surprise.

"I don't know, my friend. I scattered shots to keep the enemy back, and then threw the rifle away when the ammunition was gone," I recalled. "I know you think I'm a great soldier. Ishan does, too. But the truth is, I'm not sure if I killed anybody in the entire war. That wasn't my job. I was a medic. I only fired a weapon when there was no other choice."

The village was quiet. Probably disillusioned, for the media had given me quite a reputation based on rumors and speculation. But even Bobby Blair's books about Sarge never cited a specific kill, only intense firefights.

"I think the Americans enjoy violent heroes, and have made you into something you are not," Ma'amet said. "But it explains why you enjoy the tranquility of village life. Is this not true?"

I scooted closer to Ma'amet and took his hands. They were old, but strong.

"My father, I wish it was true, but you have read my book," I said, seeking to apologize. "At times in my life, I have been very violent. And I enjoyed hurting people. I hope those days are behind me. I have never sought to kill, though there are times I've wanted to. And I have treasured being part of your family."

Ma'amet struggled with his composure, gripping me at the elbow. He had never had a son and was perhaps investing too much in me.

"You should sing a song for us," Lalia requested, sitting close.

She handed me an oud, a string instrument similar to a small guitar.

"I don't know. I've avoided bringing anything here from my past," I said, afraid to bring back that world.

"You have brought your skills, and your friendship," Ramood said. "Give us a little more."

"This can be the exception. We read of your songs in your book," Dr. Askari suggested. "And of the old black man who taught you so much."

"There is a song I'd been thinking about the last few weeks, but don't know if I have the courage to play it," I admitted.

"Then do not be afraid now, my friend," Khillan said.

The village agreed, offering encouragement. I decided to give it a try.

"This was written by Leonard Cohen, a Canadian songwriter," I explained, strumming slowly to get a feel for the oud. "It's called 'Hallelujah', which means praise the lord. It was one of the first songs Old Da taught me almost thirty years ago. We would put a hat in the street, and if people liked our performance, they would give us money."

I started the song as Old Da had, as a spiritual, gradually picking up the intensity of a long search, lost innocence, and the girl I would never hold in my arms again. By the final verse, that lamented failure while reaffirming faith, the village was silent. Caught up in the emotion, just as Old Da had trained me.

It wasn't much of a birthday song, but it did bring me back home. By the last 'hallelujah' tears were clouding my eyes. I needed to excuse myself.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was sitting alone down by the lake, Lalia came to join me. She brought warm tea and honey bread.

"Sometimes we forget you are far away from those you love," she whispered.

"I am with people I love, mother," I replied, taking her hand. "But sometimes it's not enough."

_________

Two months after my birthday, I was forced to make a difficult decision. No, not difficult. But complicated.

Khillan and Ishan, who had both turned eighteen since the beginning of the year, took me into the mountains to hunt wild goat. I took a couple of shots with their old rifle, making them laugh, and proving I had little ability to hit anything. Ishan had a nice kill. Khillan and I tied the carcass to a pole and carried it back to the village.

"Have you heard the news?" Khillan asked.

"Bits and pieces," I said, for Ma'amet liked to follow current events.

"Iran has broken with Tashad. Their agents are arrested," Khillan continued. "Tashad may no longer move back and forth between Iraq and Afghanistan. Rakmanistan has broken with Tashad, too. Many say Tashad is collapsing."

Khillan thought this good news, for the radical militias were now severely weakened. If the movement spread to Iraq, Sar'ret might be free one day of Tashad abuse. If Abari became too preoccupied to worry about me, or if he was killed, that would be good, too. Or with nothing left to lose, Abari might want to settle old scores.

We took the goat to the slaughterhouse where I emptied the entrails, cut the meat up for distribution, and saved trophies for Ishan. Not the surgical experience I had always wanted, but I'd grown quick and efficient. The youngsters went about the village bragging of their kill and making fun of my shooting skills.

I had nearly finished, my leather apron streaked with blood, when I heard strange sounds. Heavy trucks, but not those typical of the lake country. Had Abari returned?

Putting the cutting knives away, I went around to the front of the building. Bearded, with my hood up and wearing a long gray cloak, I was not conspicuous.

To my surprise, there were three armored Humvees with French Foreign Legion markings. A dozen French soldiers disembarked, spreading out and asking questions. Ma'amet and the village elders went to speak with them. I sat down on a bench in deep shade. One legionnaire came close to where I was sitting but soon moved on.

"There is tension throughout the region," the French captain said, his Arabic good. "Your government has given us permission to track Tashad. Have they been here?"

"Not since last spring" Ma'amet said. "Their visits are irregular, but always with threats of violence."

"The rogue militias are desperate. They burn villages who defy them. Only a hundred kilometers from here, they slaughtered fifty townspeople who refused cooperation. Even women and children," the French captain informed. "You must be careful."

"We only have a few guns. Can you give us more?" Ramood asked.

"It is forbidden. But we have a base in Kirkuk. Call if there is trouble," the captain advised.

"May we look around?" a sergeant asked, the accent Kurdish.

"You may look," Ma'amet agreed.

That was my cue to disappear. I slipped away to the lake with a fishing pole. Soldiers moved among the trees and store houses but did not come in my direction. After accepting donations of fresh food, including a haunch of Ishan's goat, the French drove south, back down toward the towns in the foothills.

"The French are gone," Ma'amet said, finding me still fishing half an hour later. "They will be back in the summer. They said to contact them if Tashad returns."

"Tashad will return. They need your food. They will need a place to regroup now that they are being driven from the lowlands," I said.

"Why are you here? You could have been rescued," Ma'amet said.

"The risk was too great. Abari may seek retaliation against your village," I replied, feeling a tug on the line. But there was no fish.

"It would not have been our fault if the French found you."

"Tashad is under pressure. They will use any excuse to make an example of someone. Did you hear what the French captain said? Fifty townspeople slaughtered. Even women and children. If John Lawrence is suddenly found alive, after escaping your captivity, destroying Sar'ret would suit Abari's needs. It would keep the other mountain villages in fear."

There was another tug on the line, but still no fish. Fishing was not something I'd learned to do growing up.

"Such ideals will not save your life if Abari returns," Ma'amet said, hinting disapproval. I set the fishing pole aside and turned to face him.

"Did the French do a thorough search, or was it cursory, as is their way?" I asked.

"They did not search well," Ma'amet conceded.

"If you kept me bound and gagged in the storage room, there would have been no decision for me to make. But you have given me the freedom of the village. Shared your home. I have fulfilled my dream of practicing medicine. Khillan and Ishan are brothers to me. Am I to reward these gifts by leaving you in danger? You cannot ask that of me."

"I have been true to my conscience," Ma'amet pleaded.

"And I must be true to mine. I will not pretend. I am frightened. I think of what might happen every night. It invades my dreams. But I am a soldier, and soldiers die for their families. They do not run away."

"I wish you were my son," Ma'amet whispered.

"I am your son," I answered.

We embraced, for I had not had a father-figure in my life since Old Da many years before.

_________

It was on July 6th, two years and three months after my kidnapping in Al-Mayadin, that Kassan Abari returned to Sar'ret in two trucks with seven heavily armed followers. They were low on supplies, looking anxious. Several shots fired in the air summoned the villagers.

"Where is my prisoner?" Abari demanded, waving his Makarov.380.

I was in the back of the crowd, but wearing a cloak and beard, I didn't stand out.

"Run," Ishan whispered to me, holding his old hunting rifle. I pushed the barrel down.

"And when Abari takes hostages and threatens to kill them, what do I do then? Let Ma'amet die? Let Lalia die? How can I do that?"

"They are going to kill you," Ishan warned.

"Maybe they won't," I replied with a sigh. And then I stepped forward, emerging from the throng.

"Why is the American not tied up?" Abari asked, shaking an angry fist.

"His health was failing. We did not want your wrath if he died," Ma'amet answered, most of it the truth.

Abari motioned for his men to tie my hands behind my back. The entire village was gathering around.

"The Iranians have betrayed Islam," Abari announced. "Rakmanistan denies knowledge of the martyr Frac Khanani. The Americans have made this criminal a hero, and built monuments to him. But Tashad will have revenge on our enemies, and the world will see our power."

"What are you going to do?" Ishan boldly asked.

"Galla comes with my cameras," Abari answered. "We will film the criminal, proving to the Americans that he is not dead, and then shoot him. The Americans will know we do not fear them, and this will bring many new allies."

"I thought you planned to sell him?" Ma'amet said.

"He is too famous to sell," a minion replied, a scurvy looking fellow with bad teeth.

"Take the prisoner to his cell," Abari ordered. "Galla will be here before nightfall. Then this will be finished."

Khillan showed two of the Tashad to my former holding area, one I'd not seen since my earliest months in Sar'ret. They pushed me on the dirt floor among sacks of grain, locking the door.

I did not feel so brave now. Only a narrow shaft of light shone through an upper window that was too small to climb out. I thought back on what brought me here, recalling my ill-conceived confidence in the marketplace after the bombing. There were no regrets for anything that had happened since. Little solace, but something. I said a few prayers, hoping they might help.

A handful of the village women were allowed to visit me, bringing bread and soup. I was disappointed not to see Lalia. Was she being held hostage for Ma'amet's good behavior? There had been some grumbling as they led me away.

"We will never forget you," Ramood's wife said.

"You will be in our prayers," her daughter Marwa promised.

"Many will cry," a cousin said.

"Maybe when they shoot at you, you can duck?" Marwa advised.

It was something to think about.

A few hours later, I was taken to the edge of the village, the town plaza before me, the lake down the slope behind me. Two more of Abari's men had arrived with a fancy camera, setting up for the grand performance.

"Tie him to that tree," Abari said, pointing to a slender oak that I'd spent many hours sitting under reading my books.

They wrapped a rope around my bound wrists, then looped it around the tree, letting me stand but not move. There were nine Tashad, six holding AK-47s, two managing the film equipment, and Abari holding his automatic pistol. No doubt looking forward to delivering the coup de grace. I tried not to appear afraid, but my breathing was growing heavy. I fidgeted against the ropes. My urge to resume praying was mixed with a desire not to embarrass myself.

"Gather to witness the strength of Tashad," Abari ordered, his camera filming the villagers as they formed on the north side of the plaza.