Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

They learned self-defense, how to kill an attacker using a knife or a pencil. A loaded automatic rifle was placed in her hands. She was taught to shoot by firing at a dummy. The gun was surprisingly light but the recoil nearly knocked her down.

Later on, during classroom sessions in a small mess hall, theoretical operations and procedures were dis cussed, such as how to ID a U.S. Air Marshal. Weeks passed with the same routine.

Then a rumor floated through the camp.

Someone important had arrived.

That evening, Samara was taken to a secret site, deeper and higher in the hills, where they were escorted by heavily armed guards to a small encampment.

She was introduced to a handful of older men, sitting at a campfire drinking tea. As the flames lit their faces and embers swirled into the sky, they talked quietly for several moments until one stood and embraced Samara.

“Welcome, sister.” His garments smelled of jas mine. Then he held her in his sad, tired eyes. “We know of your suffering. We know of the violations. You honor your family by fulfilling your destiny. Come, share our tea and we’ll tell you something of your purpose.”

He explained how through religious groups and international relief agencies, Samara had been recom mended for a nursing job in a remote American com munity that faced chronic shortages of medical staff. Soon, she would be dispatched to the U.S. to be inter viewed for working and living there.

The man encouraged Samara to blend in with Ameri cans, find an American boyfriend, he shrugged, even marry, while she awaited instructions for her mission.

“Where am I going?”

“Montana.”

“Why there?”

The man looked to a colleague who held several files. One contained a printout from the Web site of Father Stone’s newsletter. The one that had given Wash

Six Seconds 169 ington concern because it had prematurely announced the pope’s upcoming visit to Lone Tree County.

“It is with great joy that we can confirm the Holy Father will visit Cold Butte.”

But the man didn’t offer Samara many details about what she was destined for in Montana.

“It will become obvious to you when you arrive.”

It would take several weeks, months in fact, before all was finalized. Until then, Samara would work with a relief group in Iraq, building credibility for her job in the United States.

“So, we will work and we will wait,” he told her. “Your American operation, like many others we have designed, is being reviewed. The instrument you require will be delivered to you in the U.S. at the ap pointed time. Others will be there to help you. Still others will watch over and protect the operation, unseen at every stage unless it is compromised and must be aborted.

“Your mission, above all else, will change history. It will mark the end to centuries of oppression and hu miliation inflicted by the nonbelievers.”

His eyes bore into hers.

“For you, this sacrifice will guarantee you and your family eternal happiness in paradise. Sister, now, with all that has been thrust upon you, do you accept that it has been preordained?”

Samara fought her tears and nodded.

Again, he embraced her.

In darkness, guided by flashlights, she was taken through the hills, back to the camp and her room.

Lying on her mat, by the pale light of her lantern, Samara stared at photographs of Ahmed, Muhammad, her mother and father.

Tears rolled down her face.

Soon they would be together again.

The frontier beyond Tal Afar, Iraq. Near the Syrian border

Days later, at the convergence of the Syrian and Turkish borders, Samara’s small group stole into north western Iraq.

Supplied with counterfeit documents, they joined members of their network’s relief agency.

A week later, they’d learned that a battle had broken out with a U.S. convoy near Tal Afar. They were close. The carnage was still burning in the market when they arrived. Samara had learned that one wounded Amer ican truck driver had been captured, that the insurgents intended to hold him hostage and make demands.

Ultimately, they would behead him.

Samara’s group intervened and won his release in exchange for cash. They would return him to U.S. au thorities as a sign of goodwill.

But after studying his ID, Samara had an ulterior plan.

Jake was lost.

Disoriented.

On his back, in tranquil light, cool water was sponged on his skin and the smell of flowers perfumed the air. He woke to the dark eyes of the woman tending to him.

His skull throbbed with flashes of Mitchell’s severed head.

Someone was shouting.

The woman calmed Jake, her touch comforting. Her soft voice carried a British accent and soothed him as she explained that he’d been wounded in an ambush but needed rest to survive.

Her name was Samara.

She was a nurse with the relief agency that had ne gotiated his release from the insurgents who’d attacked his convoy.

He was safe now, she said.

They were in an isolated remote reach, near the Syrian border. Messengers had been dispatched to get word through trusted channels to the nearest U.S. camp.

So soldiers could get Jake home to America.

In the days that followed, while Samara helped him, they’d learned something of each other.

Samara was born in London. Her father was a British professor, her mother an Iraqi nurse. Samara had married an Iraqi medical student she’d met at univer sity in London. They moved to Iraq, where they had a son. Both her husband and son were killed in the insanity that had plagued the country, leaving Samara to devote herself to frontline aid agencies.

Now, she was preparing to go to America to start a new life.

Jake thanked her for saving his.

“If you’re ever in California, contact me.” Jake gave her his e-mail address and phone numbers.

He showed her pictures of Maggie and Logan, told her about America, about his love for the open road, football, hot dogs and country music.

Samara never smiled.

She just looked at the photo of Maggie and Logan.

Then she looked at Jake.

She never revealed her thoughts to him.

Samara was amazed by Jake’s resemblance to her husband. He shared his good looks. He also had a young son.

Reflecting on it, as she treated Jake, Samara cautioned herself not to become distracted. But as Jake recovered, as they talked, grew familiar with each other, something happened. Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her, something that had died inside her had stirred.

One clear night when the sky was a sea of diamonds, after the others had gone to the nearest village for food, Samara and Jake found themselves alone.

In his tent, Samara checked on Jake’s condition and vital signs. Her face was beautiful under the dim lamplight. Her touch was soft. Jake searched her face, her eyes flickered like falling stars. Her shirt had slipped, exposing a patch of her bare shoulder. He put his arm around her and she didn’t resist.

He drew her near.

Samara looked into his eyes.

She didn’t resist when he kissed her.

A long, deep kiss.

Which she returned.

She sighed as she grew aroused and began to unbutton his shirt, her hands exploring his hard chest, sending a shock wave burning through him, until he forced himself to break away.

It was wrong.

He thought of Maggie and Logan.

This was wrong.

No words were needed.

Samara left the tent.

They never spoke of it the next day, or the next when two Hummers arrived.

“Sergeant Kyle Cash,” said the U.S. soldier whose grin preceded him out of the truck. “Mr. Conlin, sir, we done thought y’all was dead. Some folks back in Blue Rose Creek, California, are going to be mighty happy. Mighty happy, sir.”