The Missionary Read online

  The Missionary

  Book One of the Rogue Warrior Series

  Margaret Ferguson

  Contents

  The Missionary

  My deepest gratitude to

  For

  Preface

  Prologue

  The Lost

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  The Found

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The Broken

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  En Passant

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Preparedness

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The Journey

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Liberated

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  The End

  Get Involved

  Things that just can’t go without saying…

  The Ex Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  The Missionary

  Book One of the

  Rogue Warrior series

  * * *

  by

  Margaret Ferguson

  Website: www.MargaretFergusonBooks.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/margaretfergusonbooks

  * * *

  Please report typos: www.MargaretFergusonBooks/typos

  ©2018 Margaret Ferguson Books

  Created with Vellum

  My deepest gratitude to

  Cover Design

  Alex Tsatsos

  * * *

  Editing & Proofreading

  Cathy Moeschet

  Marcia Rebrovich

  * * *

  eBook & Print Formatting

  Margaret Ferguson

  * * *

  Technical Consultants

  Bobby Adair

  Anthony Reynolds

  Mike Stanford

  Mark Gerik

  Justin Grissom

  For

  my son, Keith, and his wife, Julie

  * * *

  and all the missionaries that we love and support…

  Travis and Laura, L & family,

  and Jeremy, Erin and their clan

  * * *

  Romans 10:14-15 How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can they preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”

  Preface

  I keep having to pinch myself. I’m a published author. After twenty-five years of dreaming about it, I’m finally a published author, with three books under my wings. The character for this book, and, the fourth book in this series—the entire book, front to finish—was from a dream that I had when I was twenty-two years old. And, like my last book, Destiny by chance, after writing it long-hand, I put it into a box in a closet and haven’t looked at it since.

  My friend, mentor, dystopian/zombie/post-apocalyptic-enthusiast and writer, Bobby Adair, said, “Hey, you need to write a series.” He felt the character was intriguing and suggested I build a series around him. So, I did.

  The idea for this book came to me when my son and his wife served in the mission field in Central Asia. Through their experiences I befriended others in the mission field, learning about being Christians in a Muslim country. With time, when sharing our children’s choice of service, I found other friends and family members had strong opinions about those who chose to serve in environments not friendly to Christians. From those discussions, from the current political climate and from people’s strong opinions on both sides of the issue, The Missionary was born.

  As I started creating the storyline for the main character, the story you are about to read literally unfolded in my mind. So, this tale is new. It’s also the first one I’ve written from the first-person perspective and from a man’s perspective. In it, I will take you places you’d never imagine you’d go; you will meet the poor, the dangerous, the intriguing and the faithful. And, maybe, in the end, if nothing else, it will give you hope. I pray you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it…

  * * *

  —Margaret Ferguson September, 2018

  Prologue

  If you’ve ever eaten in a military mess—aka DFAC or chow hall—you already understand the underlying implications of the word. Although initially termed from the root of the French word, mes—meaning a portion of food—that’s somehow an overstatement when referring to the chow we had just been served. I looked down at my plate, or rather, my tray—which looked more like the cardboard packing from a supply shipment—and wondered what it was, exactly, that I was looking at. Or rather, what they were trying to pass off as meat today. It wasn’t gray, so that was a plus. Or maybe it was, under the creamy sauce generously smothered over it. As I stared down, suddenly I wasn’t as hungry as when I first walked into the dining tent.

  I glanced sideways at Kevan Corson, an older, shorter, scruffier version of myself, as he stared blankly at his food, apparently wrestling with whether or not it was worth a go.

  “I’m not sure what it is,” he sighed, as he plopped his paper tray onto the portable table.

  I turned to him as he continued to look at his meal. Uncertain. “Well, if you’re not going to try it, I’m certainly not going to try it.”

  “Hey, what about Mikey?”

  “He won’t eat it. He hates everything,” I grinned, quoting a commercial from my childhood days, feeling quite proud that I can even remember it, considering how many concussions I’ve had through the years.

  Corson shook his head. “You’re such a sap.”

  As if on cue, Mike Coons, the youngest and biggest member of our unit, dropped into the chair across from me, beaming from ear to ear. “Chow looks good today,” he grinned, as he cut the meaty substance into four pieces and crammed the first bite eagerly into his mouth.

  I turned to Kevan, who was shaking his head. “I guess if you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything,” he exhaled, before turning back to his tray.

  Usually, chow is a little better. Sometimes it’s a lot better. But when the supply trucks are late or hijacked or blown up, the cooks make do with what they have. Though I should be grateful I get a hot meal for my efforts, somehow, I just can’t get past what I’m looking at, to appreciate that it might actually be tasteful. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve eaten steak here. They've even served us lobster. Most days, the cuisine is edible. And plentiful. But today…

  I pushed my tray toward Mike, and he looked up from shoveling food into his mouth, perplexed. I nodded, and he smil
ed, anxiously pulling my tray next to his. Without missing a beat, he cut my meal up and hungrily consumed it as if he hadn’t eaten all week. Or like he was competing in a hot dog-eating contest.

  When you’re in the U.S. Army, you get used to eating in a hurry. In Basic, I remember downing most of my meals in two minutes or less. It was that or wait until the next one, which—if they were running you hard, or you were out in the field—might be later rather than sooner. In Basic, you definitely need the calories, much like you do out here, in the heat of the Afghan desert. Kevan hesitated before taking a bite and chewing slowly, as though unsure if it was safe to eat. Or maybe his taste buds needed time to absorb the flavor and determine what it was, exactly, that he was eating. Before Kevan finished chewing his first bite, Mike had already consumed his portion and mine.

  “Thanks, Cap.” He wiped his mouth with the thin paper napkin, missing what still hung in his beard.

  We’ve all got beards now, but his looks more like Grizzly Adams’. Unkempt and scraggly. The military is still on the fence about the whole beard thing. It seemed like a good idea when we first got here. Blend in, and all. Rumor was that most Muslims appreciate a well-grown beard, feeling it’s more representative of a manly man. Then, there are those here who are offended that Westerners would even attempt to grow one, since it’s not a required part of our culture or an expected part of our faith. Me? I’m just too damned lazy to shave.

  By the way, Ro is short for Roark, my last name. First name Edward. Eddie, to my friends. Serial number 555453545. Nah, just kidding. They haven't issued serial numbers to military personnel for almost fifty years. The only thing anyone has issued me recently is my deployment orders and a medal for the last time I was shot. Bravery and valor in the field, they said. Only, I didn’t feel very brave, or valiant when I caught one in a firefight with the Taliban just out of Kabul, three months in. Can’t complain too much. Got a week in medical—the closest I’ve gotten to R and R since I started my third tour in this godforsaken country.

  All things being equal, it's a job. Not too bad, I guess if you don’t mind being shot at every day. Or looking over your shoulder everywhere you go, wondering if the guy who’s smiling at you is about to blow you to pieces in the name of Allah and all that is favorable in his world. I can’t fault the guy for trying. Heck, I almost understand him.

  We’re in his country; our people are telling his people how best to run it. Like we’re doing such a friggin’ terrific job running our own. Everywhere I look I see casualties of war—in the face of the old man who lost his leg two wars ago when another country tried to show them how it was supposed to be done. Or the young man who doesn’t know who to trust any more than I do, so afraid of his own shadow because his family wants him to herd goats while his best friend encourages him to take up arms against Westerners. Then there’s the uneducated girl who aspires to be more than she’s told she’ll ever be, with a glint of hope in her eyes, masked behind blind submissive obligation to her family.

  I took a long drag on my Marlboro Light. They’re all I’ve ever been able to handle. Honest. For me, it’s as close to not smoking as I’m going to get. Sort of like drinking Coors Light is almost like not drinking. It’s all in the way you look at it.

  I won’t repeat what my dad would have called me for smoking anything less than Marlboro Reds, but I will say he tended to compare me to a particular part of the female anatomy. It would be considered an insult, coming from anyone other than my father. But, he was a drunk and a womanizer—not exactly the upstanding, role model type. Anyhow, I stopped caring what he said long before he died.

  I glanced over at Kevan, who was slowly consuming his meal, pretty much accepting that its only actual benefit was the calories. And with the heat, and carrying hundred-pound packs around, most of us will take those calories however we can get them. I watched as he sprinkled on more salt. I’m not sure if it was for taste or to deal with the water loss. Don’t care. At this point, I’ve moved on to the last of the nutrition bars from the Christmas care package my mother sent.

  “You gonna be ready in the morning?” I asked Mike, who, after wiping his face again with his torn napkin, still missed an annoying glob of sauce that’s settled deep in his brown beard.

  “Hell, yeah! Maybe we’ll even get bin Laden!” Mike exclaimed excitedly.

  Kevan and I exchanged glances. We’ve been at this long enough to know that there’s nothing to get excited about when your mission is to hunt and kill another human being. We both stared at Mike, who leaned back, his chair creaking under the strain of his weight. There’s a widespread belief that a soldier’s odds of surviving in a war zone are better if he—or she—survives four or five firefights. Whoever thinks these things up is so full of it.

  I’m a numbers man. And I’ve done the numbers in my head. What else am I supposed to do when it’s a hundred and twenty friggin’ degrees outside, and I can’t sleep because I’m in a country where every other person wants me dead? And my nether regions are sweating. The way I look at it, any man that can survive the first hundred days has much better odds of getting out of here alive. At least forty percent of the casualties over here happen within the first hundred days; after that, the numbers drop drastically. I actually drew up a chart, in case you’re interested.

  “Gonna kick some ass,” Mike nodded, expectantly.

  I smiled as I stood to adjust my trousers. It was almost that time of day when my boxers started to adhere to my body from the perspiration, and my immediate plan was to shed the pants and play some cards with my bunkmates. I’m down two hundred, and I need a new engine for my GTO. I’ve only been working on it for the past five years, between tours. And after this mission, I’m out of here. Eighteen days to go. So, this may be my last chance to get my money back. I looked over at Mike, who, by the way, is responsible for taking me for at least half of my losses.

  “How many days you been here, Sergeant?”

  “Ninety-eight days, Sir.”

  I dropped my cigarette and smashed it into the hard Afghan sand. Then I glanced at Kevan knowingly before looking back at Mike. I leaned over to pick up the remnants of my cigarette as I contemplated my best advice.

  “Don’t get too cocky, Sergeant,” I exhaled, trying to sound as earnest as possible. “Stay with your training and stay with your unit. Don’t get separated.”

  He looked at me with eyes of innocence, trusting in my words, since he knows I’ve been here longer than most. I smiled a reassuring smile and nodded. Ninety-eight days, I repeated over and over in my head.

  God, please prove me wrong.

  The Lost

  Chapter One

  I’m a simple man, with few needs. Let me correct that. With only a few basic needs. The Army provides all but one, and when you are in the desert in a war zone, you’re lucky if that last need is met at all—if you know what I mean. There are some smart, attractive women in the military, but most of them are taken.

  Please don’t misunderstand me. Most females in the Army with whom I’ve worked have pulled their weight, and then some. Hell, some of the women outwork some of the men. But, in the end, you and I both know what’s under the drab camouflage. And let’s face it. I’m a guy. And we think about sex all the time. All the time. Being out here, on an army base surrounded by barbed wire, well, it’s like being dropped on a desert island. There are a hundred guys, but only one coconut tree, and you can’t eat of the fruit. Without sounding chauvinistic, women in the military are a distraction for many of us. And I, for one, don’t need the distraction.

  I think it would be easier if I still had someone waiting for me back home. But I haven’t had anyone for quite some time now. My last girlfriend, Amanda, is terrific, in every way that a woman can be. I met her after Boot Camp ended, just before heading to Iraq. The first time. She promised she’d wait for me, and she did. But within three months of returning, I was deployed for my next tour. And then, my next tour turned into five. Between tours three and four,
she ended it abruptly, telling me she couldn’t wait any longer. Hell, who could blame her? We’d been together five years and actually seen each other for one, if that. Amanda wanted to start a family, and I was just never there. I think she didn’t want to start one and then do it all alone. I told her I understood—although I didn’t.

  At first, I kicked myself for not proposing. But after I got over being angry and then depressed, I figured she would have left, regardless. So, we just saved thousands of dollars in legal fees and time spent in lawyers’ offices or court by not getting married. Or at least, that was how I justified everything in the end.