The Missionary Read online

  In the end…

  The finality of those words is disheartening. It’s like writing the last line of a great story that has concluded, leaving the reader with some semblance of peace, knowing that (hopefully) things have worked out for the characters involved. Amanda called me, told me she loved me, but… And then, it was over. Only I wasn’t heartbroken, like I thought I would be. That fact alone gave me pause. So, I told her she could keep everything—except my truck and the GTO, of course. Heck, what was I supposed to do? Bring my stuff with me? Pay more money than what it’s worth to keep it all in storage? Nah.

  So, as I packed my gear for my final mission, maybe of my career, I looked down at the picture in my hand. Amanda smiled up at me, her blonde hair swept back, shaping her perfect face. Her blue eyes twinkled, and I couldn’t help but smile. I contemplated packing it, as I have on every mission I’ve been on for the past six years. I mean, it’s not like I still missed her, but having it with me, well, it just gave me a connection to someone that loved me—once. Other than my family, that is. I turned the picture over. “Loving you until the end of time.” I sighed, slid it into the pocket of my fatigues, and then Velcroed it in.

  I looked up as Kevan walked in. This time, he wouldn’t be going with us, but would be coordinating all the international and local forces from the command center. It would be his last mission, too, having spent most of his life serving his country all over the world. He’s seen his years in the field, having served in Afghanistan once before, during Operation Cyclone, one of the most covert operations in CIA and military history. So, for him, this was bittersweet. Coming full circle, since his first mission was on this same soil, thirty years ago.

  Kevan slapped me on the shoulder and grabbed my hand. He smiled and nodded, without speaking. No words needed. In the Berets, there’s a special kinship. A brotherhood. Like all special forces candidates, I began my career with nine weeks of Basic Combat Training, followed by Advanced Individual Training, Infantry School, Airborne School, Special Operations Prep, Special Forces Assessment and Qualification course, yadda, yadda, yadda. Collective Training, Language Training, topped off with LET, or Live Environment Training, otherwise known as Immersion Training in a foreign country.

  My country of choice was the lovely, friendly country of Iraq. Or rather, it was their choice, not necessarily mine. My first day in-country was spent unpacking, unwinding, and gearing up for our primary mission. We were some of the first to arrive. With twenty-six weeks of Language Training, I felt self-confident. Gravely misplaced confidence, at that.

  I’m American, through and through. American Indian. Born and raised on the Chickasaw Nation in the great state of Oklahoma. I’ve been immersed in language training my whole life. When you grow up with a Native American mother—who insists that you know English, Chickasaw and Spanish—and a father who’s everything from Mexican to German to French to who knows what else, compounded by paternal grandparents who refused to speak English—firmly believing in the saying “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks”—you’re sorta stuck. So, like it or not, I knew three languages my whole life. My mom wouldn’t let me play the system in school and take Spanish as a second language. I had to choose a fourth language, despite my stringent objections—stringent for an eighth-grader, flexing his prepubescent muscles against a domineering, overly religious mother. My father was already out of the picture, having died the year before of alcohol poisoning. Alas, there was no one else around to take my side.

  So, leaving it up to fate, and my growing infatuation with Rachel Rogers—who sat in front of me in English class, and had stepped outside the norm herself, choosing French as her second language—I enrolled in the French course. And, after six years I can honestly say, I never used the language at all. Never even been to France. Never been in a French restaurant or even ordered a bottle of French wine. Ever! So, that was five hours a week, not including homework, for six years of my life, shot to hell. To make matters worse, Rachel dropped out after the first year, but my mother wouldn’t let me do the same.

  That being said, after taking those twenty-six weeks of Language Training—having already mastered another language I’ve never used—and, being older and wiser—I felt confident that I had it down. After all the real-life scenarios, which weren’t real-life, that we practiced in class or the field, I knew I did. Checkpoints were a breeze. Only, when I had my first conversation with an Iraqi soldier, he spoke so fast—faster than my grandmother and grandfather when they got going—that I felt like a deer in the headlights.

  Kevan was my first commanding officer in the field. And, when I stumbled on my first assignment, he made it quite clear that I’d better get comfortable with the language fast or I’d be reassigned. He was all business, cutting no one, especially me, it seemed at the time, any slack. Kevan was a hard ass. And, it only took a day in-country to realize that he was a hard ass whose job was not just to keep us on mission. It was to keep us alive. Those are two redeeming qualities that I appreciate in a leader. Determinedly, I buckled down, got focused, and survived my immersion into the Iraqi culture.

  So now here I sit, years later, in another country, having learned another language, feeling somewhat inept, and yet, at the same time utterly confident in my role to help bring an end to the terror that is sweeping across this land. Men who used to look to us with resigned relief, now looked at us with confusion, or often, disdain, unsure if we’ve made their lives better or worse. People you met that used to trust you, now you didn’t know if you could trust. Merciless, brutal Taliban killings steadily increased, rather than decreasing. The horror of war extended further into the countryside each day. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was experiencing a modern-day Vietnam.

  Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not politically motivated one way or another. I don’t think anyone in decision-making roles back home knows what the hell’s really going on over here. And sometimes, I’m not sure if they even care, unless, of course, it affects their pocketbooks or their political aspirations. It certainly has nothing to do with their sense of morality, or they’d look closer at the number of people dying daily, some of whom have died by my hands.

  Unlike Mike and so many others, I didn’t come over here with the delusion that if we capture or kill one particular person, it will end the bloodshed. I fear that the opposite entirely is true. Sure, there may be some lone guy out there motivating his troops. Al Qaeda has turned into the proverbial hydra monster, with tentacle-like offshoots reaching as many countries as we do, trying to destroy the people in them. All while attempting to stay one step ahead of us as we endeavor to stop them by any means. It’s a race, and we’re having a hard time keeping up. The number of people who want to kill us increases daily.

  Seventeen days and counting. At the most, this mission will take maybe three days—four, tops. In and out. The intel is fresh, confirmed yesterday. The sources? Eighty percent reliable. So, the powers that be called our mission a go. And when I say the powers that be, I mean, the powers that be. We’re not here to intimidate, threaten or even capture. We’re here to eliminate. Hit a prime target. To cut the head off of one more snake. That’s what we do. Today’s mission is just another in hundreds that I’ve carried out. Today’s target? Well, let’s just say he’s important, and leave it at that.

  When the team met this morning, we went over every detail. Every scenario. Every outcome. Three units would be involved: ours, the Brits and the Afghan National Army. In thirty minutes, we lift off. Though it’s just another mission, something feels different. I feel unsettled, somehow. Not nervous, just…

  I sensed Kevan’s eyes on me, and I turned. He tilted his head up. One of those manly gestures translated as what’s up? I tilted my head, much in the same way. Nothing. Man-speak. Something women don’t get. While they are falling apart trying to explain something, we can just emit all our emotions with facial expressions and hand gestures. Kevan motioned with his head, so I walked through the door and met him outside
.

  “You okay?”

  I furrowed my brow to brush off his concern. “Of course,” I added a semi-shake of the head with a touch of surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Just checking,” he added, sipping from his bottled water. “You’re the lead,” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

  “I got this,” I assured him.

  I watched as he wrinkled his lips and slowly nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “Okay,” he said. No smile. That’s not the way Kevan does things. Hard ass, remember. He kept nodding, then put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Still nodding, he pursed his lips and sighed. “Okay.” He finally released the death grip he had on me. “Good talk. Be ready in five,” he added, turning and walking back to the command center.

  I sighed as well, squinting under the afternoon sun. Most people would probably say it’s beautiful, but it’s all relative to me. Nothing spectacular or different. Just another day on the job. I looked up into the mountains on the horizon that I will be a part of in a matter of hours. They’ll drop us in the valley miles from where our target is supposed to be hiding out. We’ll hike in, set up a perimeter tonight and first thing in the morning, we go in. We’re heading to a small village in the mountain range between Pakistan and Afghanistan. At least two dozen families, they think. They say his family is with him. His wife, his children. Four of them, all under the age of ten.

  I looked down at the golden sand under my feet and closed my eyes. Collateral damage. We always try and keep it to a minimum, but in a war, it happens. I don’t sit behind some desk, pushing papers and determining if some family will lose their house or their family fortunes. I’m a soldier.

  I rubbed my temples. “Focus,” I told myself. Kevan ingrained in us, “If you don’t focus, you make mistakes. If you make mistakes, the guy next to you might die.”

  Shadows joined mine in the sand, and I looked up. Mike, Russ, Cameron and Banks, a third of my team, gather. All with stern faces. Except for Mike, of course, who was still wearing that same stupid grin. God, how can one person always be this happy? I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him, though he was unrattled. I felt a grin crawl onto the side of my dry, cracking lips. The other guys smiled and then, one by one started to chuckle. Soon we were all laughing. At absolutely nothing.

  As the laughter faded, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tent flap move. I glanced over to see Kevan standing in the entrance. He nodded upward with his head. It’s time. I returned the motion. Got it. He held my stare for a moment longer, nodding upward again. Take care. I nodded in return. Sure thing. Then, before he stepped backward, and disappeared into the drab khaki canvas wall, Kevan did something I was not expecting; something that sent chills down my spine and gave me that uneasy feeling again.

  He smiled.

  Chapter Two

  The noise that encompasses you when you’re riding in a helo is challenging to describe. It’s something like riding a lawnmower…underneath. The roar of the blades and blast of the wind is deafening. So, we didn’t talk. We yelled. But mostly, we sat, solemnly, preparing ourselves mentally for what we were about to do. The variables. The uncertainty and the risk. I looked at Mikey, who was no longer smiling; his jaw was set firm as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. None of us are afraid. It was trained out of us a long time ago. Fear steals seconds from making smart decisions. Fear can get you killed in the field.

  Mike’s eyes met mine, and I nodded. His actions mimicked my own. ‘Nuff said. I reached into my pocket and took out my favorite orange flavored gum. In the field, it’s comfort food. I offered the pack to Mike, who took two sticks and slid them quickly between his teeth before shoving the trash into the pocket of his heavy jacket. The further north we traveled, the more the cold penetrated the open cargo door. One by one, we slid into our thick outerwear, then double checked our packs as the minutes ticked by, though we all had checked them a hundred times back at base.

  I felt the bird drop suddenly, almost like a ride at Six Flags. My muscles tensed, arms and feet bracing and then relaxing as the helicopter leveled off. I got the signal from the pilot that we were close, and I turned to my crew. We flew lower, miles from where we would be discharged, even further from where we’d end up. I don’t pray a lot anymore, but I offered one up. Please, God, let us be far enough away that they don’t hear us, or see us coming. Amen. Quick, sweet and to the point.

  “Aren’t you supposed to cross yourself, or something?” Mike asked.

  I glanced at Russ and grinned. “Did you ever hear the one about the priest and the rabbi on an airplane?

  Mike shook his head as he pulled on his pack.

  “So, a priest and a rabbi are sitting next to each other on a plane. At some point, they start discussing their faith, and their differences. Suddenly, the plane crashes. And out of the rubble walks the priest.” I put on my best brogue accent. “’Blyme!’ exclaims the priest. ‘It’s a miracle!’ he says, crossing himself as he looks up to heaven. Then he sees the rabbi walk from the wreckage making similar motions with his hands. ‘Hallelujah, my friend. You finally saw the light and made the sign of the cross!’ the priest says excitedly. The rabbi shakes his head. ‘You misunderstand, my son. I was merely checking, everything in order.’”

  I quickly made the motions, pausing for effect. Only Mike didn’t get it. He looked at me perplexed, then turned to Russ, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch.”

  Mike looked at me again, confused, as the others started chuckling. Russ crossed himself in a significant motion, repeating the statement. A moment later Mike—without smiling—said, “Ahhhh.”

  I exchanged glances with Russ, who merely shook his head while everyone else was still laughing. Mike playfully chunked the unit’s medical bag at me. I caught it with a smirk, as I turned to look out the cargo opening. It was close to dusk now. We were on schedule, flying low over a river valley, hugging the trees, preparing to climb around the snow-covered mountains. I could hear the blades echoing in the valley below, and, I have to say, that made me a little nervous.

  Choppers have no stealth mode. At least not yet. They say there are some ordered, and on their way, but not soon enough for us. I motioned to the men. There were two units of four men, plus my team of twelve, on two birds. Ten minutes and we’d be on the ground before starting our trek back through valleys and into some of the most dangerous mountains in the world.

  As we made a slight turn to the west, the sun gradually disappeared behind the ridges. The giant, glowing orb slid between white-capped mountains, it’s brilliance pulsing in defiance. Bright yellow light fluctuated around its edges, as it struggled for its last claim on the day. It was mesmerizing. I suddenly thought of Amanda and the last time I was home, sitting on the deck of our rented condo in Port Aransas as the sun slowly disappeared into the water in the distance. I almost asked her to marry me then. Almost. It felt almost perfect. Almost. If I had proposed, it would have only been because I was afraid I would lose her. I think it was at that very moment that I knew we weren’t going to make it.

  The sunset had been so incredible that night. So romantic. I remember running my hand over her slender, tan body, as I looked out over the water, wondering how God could create such beauty—her, the sunset, the moment—and yet, allow so much devastation. Remember, I’d been through three tours at that point. I’d seen my share of destruction and death. It was hard to reconcile the two, while I was sitting there with Amanda, knowing what was still going on over here. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t ask her. Because I couldn’t believe that I could ever be happy, with all the turmoil going on inside of me. Knowing I would be coming back to this place.

  Except now, as I looked into the dwindling brilliance, the word that came to mind was serenity. I closed my eyes, welcoming the warmth of the fading light. When I opened them again, we were so close to the woods that I could see snow-laden leaves on the trees as we traveled the last pass. We were mere minutes away no
w. Only, as we made our final turn, another sound interrupted the rhythm of the blades. A flash of light crossed the bluish sky, blending with the sunset in its graceful attempt to fade from sight. Suddenly, everything felt like it was happening in slow motion as I spied the rocket heading right for me.

  “IDF!” I screamed. Only, the pilot had already seen it coming; because, in an instant—more of a mere fraction of a second—the bird tilted approximately ninety degrees. And, I found myself falling. Not in the bird, but in the air. Much like when I bungee jumped off a bridge in Germany, except this time, there was nothing attached to my legs but my ass. I heard screaming; only I’m not sure if it was me or someone else. I could hardly breathe from the pressure. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the explosion mere moments before I felt it, which only made free-falling that much more terrifying. Think. THINK! My brain screamed. Five seconds per thousand feet. Rule number one. Grab something. Your survival chances are much better if you can slow the fall, and I was running out of—.

  There was tearing and scratching and incredible pain. Everything was a blur. And, suddenly…I understood what it felt like to die.

  Chapter Three

  I remember darkness and pain. Suddenly, I gasped. My eyes darted about— assessing—though it was difficult to focus. Dark obscured with streaks of light. Blurred shadows as the sun attempted another glorious exodus from the heavens.

  I couldn’t move. When I tried, every part of my body ached. I couldn't have been unconscious long. I closed my eyes for a moment trying to remember. It was difficult to concentrate. An explosion. When I opened them again, everything seemed—clearer. I blinked until I could see that the haze before me was wood, the white beneath me, snow. Slowly, I wriggled my fingers one at a time to assure they were all intact. Then my arms. When I tried to move, I heard a crack. Tentatively, I turned my head and realized that I wasn’t laying at the trunk of a tree but hanging about forty feet in the air—in a tree, at a very precarious angle—draped across several larger, sturdier snow-laden branches that had fortunately broken my fall.