Captured(72)

I can’t be a good supportive Marine Corps wife anymore. I don’t want you to go. I’m angry that you’re going. I’m angry at you for being a Marine. I’m angry at the government for sending troops over there. I support the Corps. Of course I do. My brother is a Marine. My husband was a Marine. You’re a Marine. But I just can’t understand why you—all of you, any of you—keep having to go. And I’m angry about it. I’m angry with myself for falling in love with ANOTHER soldier. I let myself think they’d let you stay at home this time. Considering what you went through, you’d think they’d cut you some slack. But I guess not. And I have to go and fall in love with you. So I get to stay here, on this FUCKING FARM, by myself. Again. And I’m angry about it.

I’m so angry, Derek. And I just don’t know what to do or how to handle it. It’s eating me up inside. And if you don’t come back, Derek, I’m just going to lose it. I’ll never recover if you don’t come back. So you have to, okay? I don’t care what you have to do, but you have to come back.

I need you.

WE need you.





CHAPTER 19





DEREK





Afghanistan, September 2010





The Huey contains eight men: me, a five-man fire team, and the pilot and co-pilot. The side doors are open, the barren, rugged terrain flying by a few hundred feet below. No one speaks. The fire team is relaxed and ready, watching outside, scanning. I’m scared shitless and trying not to show it.

Apparently, some SEALs captured several high-ranking Taliban operatives. Most of them clammed up and wouldn’t say shit. They ended up in Guantanamo. Whatever. But one of them…he didn’t just sing, he talked shit. Bragged about missions he planned, IEDs he personally planted and watched blow us up. His biggest brag, though, concerned me. The American soldier he captured and tortured. He talked about all the videos he shot using me, and how they recruited hundreds more terrorists using those videos.

They want a positive I.D. Seems if he is who they think he is, he’s one of those operatives no one’s ever seen or even gotten a good picture of, wanted in a dozen countries for countless crimes against humanity. So if he’s the one who captured me, I’m one of the only people in the world who can I.D. him. Of course, he could be talking shit, making things up, trying to buy time or make himself seem important. A shitload of people saw those videos and could use them to describe me, but this guy’s been talking in detail about things they did to me. Clearly, the best way to make sure he is who they think he is—a big ol’ fish in the Taliban sea—is to bring me across the world and put me face to face with the man who tortured me for shits and giggles.

So here I am, in a helo en route to some remote outpost in the middle of the f*cking Afghani desert.

Hopefully, this’ll be easy. Fly in, I.D. the guy, and go back stateside. Never see this f*cking country again.

I’ve read Reagan’s letter easily fifty times. It’s odd, that letter. Unfinished. As if there was more she wanted to say, but she didn’t have time to finish it, or maybe she just couldn’t bring herself to write the rest of it. Something. I don’t know what, but I have my suspicions, idle conjecture. But I don’t know. All I do know right now is that I need to do this shit and get back to her. The letter is in my chest pocket, along with the Cubby figure.

I’m officially a noncombatant, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go boots down in Afghanistan without a rifle, sidearm, frags, and spare mags. My heart is palpitating, throat thick, palms sweaty inside my FR gloves.

“Two minutes.” The pilot’s voice comes over the headset, a brief update.

I watch the ground, wiggle my fingers, and pretend they’re not shaking. The helo flares, touches down. Two members of the fire team jump down, take a couple of steps, and then drop to one knee, scanning, rifles up. I jump down, jog toward the single building in view. It’s a rude and crude hut, hastily assembled for this purpose in the middle of nowhere, accessible only by air. Remote, secure. There’s a SuperCobra orbiting around us. I track its pattern as I approach the door to the hut and pound my fist on it. It opens, revealing a sweating face, a man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, gray eyes colder than ice.

“Corporal Derek West, sir.” I salute, although I don’t know who this guy is. If he’s here and dressed in civvies, I don’t think I want to know.

“C’mon in. This won’t take long.” He doesn’t emerge, just shoves the door open wide enough for me to slide through.

The helo is idling, rotors still turning. The fire team is positioned outside the hut and on either side of the Huey. I can hear the SuperCobra somewhere off in the distance, the sound of its rotors echoing off the mountainsides.

It’s dark inside the hut. Hot as f*ck. I pull my balaclava down, let my rifle dangle from the strap, holding on to the grip with one hand. I wipe the beads of sweat off my nose. My eyes adjust to the faint light, and I can make out a folding table with a couple of bottles of water, a liter of whiskey. Ashtray, smoldering butts, a few unopened packs of Marlboros. Coffeemaker, powdered creamer. MREs, both unopened and loose empty wrappers. They’ve been here a while.

A chair. A man, hands cuffed at his sides to the rungs beneath his thighs. Ankles cuffed to the legs of the chair. Shirtless, swollen cheekbones, puffy lip, bruises. Trickle of blood from his nose.