Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 09

by G. Lawrence

Jack embarks upon a Quixotic quest

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: After being presumed dead for two years, Jack attended a peace rally in Damascus and revealed his identity.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Patricia,

The word that Jack is alive has everybody in shock. We are dispatching a team to secure his safe return to the United States with all possible speed. To call this a miracle is an understatement, but knowing Jack, maybe we should not be surprised. Your Sincere Friend, President Leo Wagner

Chapter Nine

BLOODY FOOTPRINTS

We spent several days in Damascus at receptions, attending meetings, speaking with people on the street, and generally being as visible as possible. And assuring the military that my peace initiative wasn't some sort of American plot. The last part proved easier than I expected.

"You have our support," Colonel al-Hafiz assured me. "If you were a politician, or one of these foreign activists, there would be distrust. But you are a soldier, like us."

"We have seen your movies," Captain Malki said.

Rafael Martín's An American Hero and Bobby Blair's The Sarge had both been made into feature films, though I had not seen either of them. One had won an Academy Award for best film editing, which I found ironic. The actors they hired to play me were far better looking.

We were visiting the army barracks at Al-Kiswah outside the city, having been treated to an impressive military review. Farouk and Ishan were decorated by General Ahmed Saied for shooting Abari. We sipped tea and ate harisi on the commissary's broad patio, waiting for the afternoon prayers to begin.

"I have read Robert Blair's book, None Left Behind," Captain Malki said. "You must have killed many enemies to earn so many medals."

Farouk spit up his tea. Ishan grinned at the private joke. Both had heard me confess that I'd probably never shot anybody.

"Jack is a fierce warrior," Farouk said, wiping his chin.

"What can we expect going south?" I asked.

"Trouble," Captain Malki replied.

We left for Jordan the next day, still driving the beat-up old van even though we had been offered a new one. We were trailed by the press in several media trucks. They were intrusive, but also vital to spreading the message. My feelings about them were conflicted. There was also a motley assortment of camp followers, some curious about our mission, others providing services to the parade.

At the border, I met an old friend.

"Captain Salmo," I greeted, seeing the White Helmet commander.

Samar Salmo was still the lean, energetic officer I remembered. Once ten pounds lighter than I, he now looked ten pounds heavier. His black mustache was thicker, but the brown eyes remained just as determined. His hair had grown longer, and he seemed more beset with cares.

"It is Major Salmo now, and I am relieved to see you," Salmo said, hugging me. "You cannot know the guilt I've felt."

"You have nothing to feel guilt over. It was I who blindly walked into Abari's trap," I said, still feeling stupid. "How are Ali and Zada?"

"Ali died a few months ago while Tashad was retreating into Palestine. They planted one last bomb just for the White Helmets to find. Zada does well. She is with her nieces and nephews."

"I am sorry about Ali," I consoled, for I knew they were close.

"May I go south with you?" Salmo suddenly asked. "Ali's murderers are still at large. They must be brought to justice."

"We are not vigilantes, my friend," I replied. "We are seeking peace, not retribution."

"You are also in danger from enemies. Sergeant Tamer and I can provide protection. And if Tashad show themselves, we will be ready."

"Do you have any authority outside of Syria?" I asked.

"You have enough authority for all of us," he said.

"I think you overestimate my power. I'm not even sure they'll let us cross the border," I replied.

"We will see," Salmo answered.

I allowed him to join our campaign, not so much for my protection, but for Ishan and Farouk's. And I wanted the good work of the White Helmets more widely recognized.

Entering Jordan was not difficult, the Nasib guard post waved us through while news crews filmed the event. To add a touch of drama, I left Farouk and Ihsan in the van and rode with Salmo in his jeep. As we approached the capital, police directed us to the Amman Citadel. We were greeted by a massive assembly of government notables, military officials, and curious citizens.

"Welcome, John Lawrence. We will attend your peace conference," King Abdullah IV said, greeting us in the ancient plaza. And he looked like a king, too. Tall, straight shouldered, dignified, with the determined gaze of a serious man.

With him was Prime Minister Yassin, one of the few female leaders in the Middle East, and well respected. Army Chief of Staff General al-Hadi and a host of dignitaries formed an impressive greeting party. Reporters were covering every moment of the exchange.

"I am honored, sirs," I said, bowing deeply.

"None have worked harder for a general peace than the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan," Yassin said, stepping forward for the cameras. "Your campaign is an extension of King Abdullah's most cherished policy."

Amira Yassin was tall for a Jordanian woman, about sixty years old, with hawk-like eyes and a thick waist. Her colorful wool dress mixed secular and traditional, dispensing with the hijab but wearing a scarf.

"We will be in Jordan for several days," I replied. "If you have time, your counsel on these weighty affairs would be of great value."

"There is a formal reception at the palace tonight, and a tour of the city tomorrow," Yassin informed.

"Captain Lawrence will want to meet the people. To shake their hands, hear their stories, and share their tears," Farouk eloquently insisted.

"You have the freedom of the city," General al-Hadi assured us.

Major Salmo went to discuss security, which wasn't difficult. Jordan was an important contributor to various United Nations peace keeping forces and had worked with the White Helmets before. I had known Jordanians from my early days in Syria and found them to be a practical people.

Ishan and Farouk particularly enjoyed Amman's nightlife that was filled with music, good food, and charming women. As we were recognized in every restaurant and nightclub, we made no effort to conceal our identities. I politely declined invitations to sing or play instruments, not wanting to set a bad example. I also needed to keep an aggressive French tourist at arm's length even though I found her very attractive. I had not been with a woman since leaving Jenny in New York and wasn't going to have a quick affair now.

General al-Hadi, an old, wise, and cagey military man, pulled me aside into a private meeting room for a gin and tonic, ending my long abstinence. He had lots of questions about my disappearance, which I more or less answered honestly.

"We shall get along well," he assured me. "Military officers throughout the region are willing to give your peace conference a chance, but you need to secure commitments from the politicians."

"I am not known for my political skills," I replied, adding a green olive to my drink.

"Your courage is, and your connections with the CIA will provide influence with the security agencies," al-Hadi advised.

What connections I had to the CIA were somewhat tenuous, but I chose not to say so. Sometimes perception is more important than truth.

In the morning, King Abdullah's representatives spoke to me privately and at length, generous with their insight. They explained the agendas of various regional leaders, their support networks, and the traps to avoid. Much of it was beyond my pay grade, but I tried to put it all in perspective.

Outside, I was pestered constantly by reporters, but gave no interviews, and soon decided it was time to move on. There were no conflicts in Jordan requiring my presence.

Our caravan started out two days later, well supplied with food, water and funds. I rode with Major Salmo and Sergeant Tamer in their jeep for better visibility. Dozens of camp followers and media trucks made for a good show. Though getting into Jordan had been easy, getting out was a little tougher.

"Do you have a carnival permit?" a Palestinian major asked, stopping us at a heavily guarded border crossing. The West Bank had been a territory for decades until achieving independence ten years before. The struggling government's relations with Isreal, Jordan, and Egypt could be tenuous.

It did look like a carnival, with vans, pick-up trucks, and civilians on foot. And the more colorful the procession became, the more curiosity it attracted. All we were missing was a Ferris wheel.

"I have come to confer with President Hidad," I answered, once again wearing a khaki uniform.

"Are you armed?" the sentry asked.

"Major Salmo and Sergeant Tamer of the Syrian Army are carrying sidearms. We have no rifles," I replied.

"I have orders to admit you. And orders to expel you when you cause trouble," the major explained.

The parade entered the Democratic Republic of Palestine, honking horns and shouting to the townspeople. There was nothing subtle about our arrival.

I had always wanted to visit Bethlehem, so we entered the ancient town and took up residence in the largest hotel. With a diverse population, and accustomed to tourists, it felt like the best center of operations. We had a pleasant meal in an outdoor marketplace and toured the Church of the Nativity. I lit candles in the Chapel of St. Catherine.

Without intending to, I was attracting an inner circle. We had no professional politicians or international activists. It was Farouk and Ishan, Major Salmo and Margaret Evans of the BBC, Sergeant Amin Tamer of the Syrian Army, and a cheerful if slightly bohemian pastry chef named Abu who joined us in Amman. In close support were two score of ordinary men and women of different sects and religions, inspired to make a difference.

"The peace conference will be incomplete without the Israelis and the Palestinians. The border between their two nations is the harshest in the world," Farouk said, having become a student.

We sat in a busy café on a crowded street. The kitchen was making us a fine evening meal, the owner happy with the publicity. Two Palestinian policemen guarded the door.

"You only have one hope," Margaret advised. "You must convince Palestine to reach out to their enemy and then embarrass Israel into joining the talks."

"I don't wish to embarrass anyone," I protested. "Parties should join for their mutual benefit."

"Politicians on both sides have personal agendas," Margaret warned. "You need to make your position stronger than their objections."

"How can I do that?" I asked.

"Did your vision not say?" Farouk questioned.

"Damn it, Farouk. There is no vision. This is done on a wing and a prayer," I objected.

"The Syrian people responded to your message. The Jordanians followed you through the streets. Lebanon is organizing rallies. Maybe it can happen here?" Major Salmo suggested.

"Palestine is steeped in bitter rivalries," Abu said. "Some will follow. Some will not. If more follow than not, President Hidad will agree to the talks."

"Tomorrow we will go into the streets," I decided. "If necessary, I will walk from one end of the country to the other until the people have heard. And then they will need to decide."

"And if they reject your message?" Margaret asked.

"Then I will go home," I replied.

Home. I had mixed feelings about ever going home. My dreams were particularly bad that night. And there was an uncomfortable thought. Though maintaining myself fairly well in public, I had irrational thoughts creeping up on me in private. What was this quest really about? I was no politician. I wasn't any sort of activist. Quite frankly, I wasn't even sure what a peace conference was supposed to accomplish. And none of that mattered. Something was compelling me to go forward whatever the cost.

Two days later, I had breakfast in Bethlehem to much fanfare and set out on foot for Hebron to the south. There were farms and villages, checkpoints and mosques. I was not in a hurry, talking to those I met along the way. Some of my party walked with me, others followed in their vehicles, kept at a safe distance by Major Salmo. Colonel Ismail Suleiman of Palestinian National Security was assigned to keep control, which was effective most of the time.

Though many expressed interest in ending regional hostilities, they would ask about the competing factions. Arab vs. Jew. Sunni vs. Shiite. Turk vs. Kurd. Christian vs. jihadists. There were also many smaller sects, tribes, and even secular jealousies. It was a minefield of entrenched conflicts that went back hundreds of years, and I had no answers for any of it. And I did not claim to. The people needed to work out these problems for themselves. All I wanted was to open a dialogue.

We stopped regularly for prayers, and halfway to Hebron, when the sun set, we stayed overnight in a farmer's barn. More farmers came from miles around, starting a bonfire. We ate lamb stew, exchanged stories, and I was forced to retell the tale of my captivity. The execution of Kassen Abari by villagers who had had enough of his tyranny was particularly well received. Before leaving the next morning, I helped feed the livestock. I did not feed the chickens.

That afternoon, two miles from our goal, we found a section of the narrow mountain road had caved in, forcing traffic to a halt. To the right, there was a segment of pavement that looked sound enough to walk on, but it wasn't wide enough for a vehicle. The left side of the road had given way into a deep, rock-strewn gully.

"What do you want to do?" Colonel Suleiman asked.

"Those on foot can proceed to Hebron," I decided. "The vehicles will need to make a detour."

"There is another road a few miles back. The detour will take about an hour," Suleiman warned.

"Get the trucks turned around. I'm going on," I replied.

The landscape was parched, treeless, and lined with steep ravines. The vehicles in the rear turned around first, until only Salmo's jeep and the BBC press truck were left. I saw the hazy image of Hebron in the distance.

"I shouldn't leave you alone out here," Salmo worried.

"If you don't hurry, I'll be in Hebron before you. That's likely to be more dangerous," I answered.

"John, you are a stubborn man," Salmo complained, climbing into his jeep with Sergeant Tamer.

As I skirted the gap in the road, a small mob emerged from around the bend to block my path, perhaps fifteen in all. They were holding shovels, rakes and hoes. I thought they might be there to repair the road. Or maybe they were the ones who damaged it.

"Go back to Syria. We don't need foreigners here," their thick-necked leader shouted, waving his hairy arms. He was a few inches taller than I, much heavier, and wore a bushy black beard.

"We have enough trouble," another said. He looked like a skinny shepherd.

"Better wait here a moment," I said to Abu and the other followers, going forward with Ishan and Farouk.

Only seven of the protesters came to confront us, most waiting to see what would happen. A baker's dozen of our own people watched from the other side of the cave-in, careful not to fall in. I held out my hands to show peaceful intent.

"Times are difficult for everyone. Let's work together," I requested.

Their leader dropped his shovel, sized me up, and then suddenly punched me in the gut. It was a hard blow, well delivered. I doubled over on the broken pavement, having lost my breath. Before I could react, the skinny shepherd rushed up and pushed me off the road with his foot, causing me to tumble down into the ravine.

I was unable to halt the fall, bouncing a dozen yards down the rocky hillside. Only a boulder stopped me from going all the way into the gully. Back on the road, I heard a fight break out. I clutched my sore ribs, slowly got to my feet, and tried to shake my head clear. Not having been in a real fight since my Northfield Prison days, I had allowed myself to be taken off-guard. Was I getting old, or just complacent?

I climbed back up the hill, using rocks as handholds. Five of our adversaries had Ishan and Farouk backed up against the cave-in, threatening them with farm tools. The rest of the angry mob was watching from a distance. Major Salmo was in his jeep several hundred yards down the road, turning around to come back. Margaret's press truck was stopped two hundred feet away, her cameraman squatting on the roof filming the confrontation.

Chef Abu and my companions were still on the other side of the crevice, unarmed and reluctant to get hit with iron implements. I did not blame them. They were camp followers, not thugs. I was the thug.

"Hey, pal, look at me," I said, coming over the embankment.

As a man with a shovel turned, I threw a right punch, breaking his nose. A second punch smashed his cheekbone. A third knocked him senseless. Unlike these farm workers, I knew how to set myself, swing my hips, and put my shoulder into the blow. I had once stood ten rounds with world heavyweight contender Joaquin Jose Rivas. And made it tough on him for the first seven.

The man swayed on his feet, unable to defend himself. I took the shovel away and hammered him with a left hook, knocking him to the ground, then used the shovel to block someone swinging a hoe at me.

The second opponent thought me an easy target, until realizing he couldn't land a blow. He swung left, swung right, and then tried to come over the top. I used the shovel like a staff, fending off each attempt. And then it was my turn.

I dropped the shovel, tore the hoe away from him, and grabbed his collar with my left hand. With my right fist, I battered his face four or five times, splattering blood everywhere. He wobbled, knees growing weak, and his eyes rolled back. I let go of the collar and put him down with a left jab, sorry the coward had folded so quickly. When two of his friends approached to help, I turned on them with a growl, daring them to come closer. They wisely changed their minds.

Farouk and Ishan were fending off the remaining three ruffians, having found shovels of their own. I approached the leader who had sucker punched me, in no mood to be merciful, and hit him in the gut with a quick series of lefts followed by a roundhouse right to the jaw. He seemed surprised to be hit so hard.

The big man tried to stand his ground, at first, which only egged me on. He had nearly landed a punch when I pounded his face with three hard rights. He staggered backward, trying to keep his balance, and threw a lifeless right hook that I ducked. He swung again, but I moved aside and countered with a left jab to his eye. When he reached for a shovel on the ground, I grabbed his collar.

"This is how to throw a kidney punch," I said, coming underhand into his side once, then twice, then three times, the blows lifting him off his heels. He grunted, desperately trying to break free. The air burst from his lungs. I stepped back and threw my strongest right cross, knocking him flat. And then I stomped on his forearm, breaking a bone.

"Who's next?" I asked, breathing hard, turning to those not engaged in the fight. My khakis were covered in dust, torn at the knees and elbows. Minor annoyances. My face dripped blood, but it was my ribs on the left side that hurt.