John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

Okay, for Boxers a quarter of his body weight, but it was still heavy. Jonathan drew straws with the Big Guy to see who would carry the long-handled bolt cutters-in case they had to snip a padlock-and the Big Guy lost. Jonathan almost felt sorry for him- almost. While Boxers was two times stronger than Jonathan, he was also the only one among them with a rod in his femur where there should have been bone. Jonathan figured that that was countered by the fact that he, Jonathan, had been gut-shot twice in his career and therefore had fewer functioning viscera. He didn’t know what that meant, actually, but it had sounded good at the time.

For his part, Harvey carried an MP5 machine pistol with two hundred spare rounds, plus a sidearm and a shitload of medical supplies. Jonathan had tried to talk him out of some of them, but Harvey had ignored him. In fact, Harvey hadn’t said a dozen words since they’d left the scene of Josie’s shooting.

Finally, Jonathan had insisted that they “soldier up all the way” for this mission, meaning mandatory body armor and helmets. This mission nearly guaranteed CQB-close quarters battle-and he wanted them prepared. As he’d said, “It’s not about comfort, it’s about professionalism. The only way Evan Guinn finds freedom is if we stay alive. And if we have to carry you, we won’t be able to carry him if we need to.”

Jonathan took point on the walk into the jungle, with Harvey in the middle, and Boxers in the rear. After an hour, Jonathan dropped back to walk alongside Harvey. In a real war zone in a real war, it would have been unforgivable, but out here he thought they could afford a little bunching.

Harvey’s silence was bothering him. He seemed to be struggling with the emotion of the fight with Josie. Jonathan had discovered before that medics were wired differently than other soldiers, equally willing to risk their lives-perhaps even more willing-but oddly disconnected from the real business of war, which was killing. For medics, the line that separated good guys and bad guys was refreshingly blurred by the presence of beating hearts on both sides.

Harvey just walked. He kept his jaw clamped tight and his lips pressed into a thin line, as if forcibly locking his anger inside his head.

Finally, Jonathan had had enough. “Okay, Harvey, spill it. What aren’t you saying?”

Harvey glanced at Jonathan, then returned his gaze to the road. “Anything, so far as I can tell.”

Okay, he’d walked into that one. “I need you to tell me that you’re mission capable.”

Harvey cast him a sideward glance and smirked. “By ‘mission capable’ do you mean ‘not about to wig out and frag the commander’?”

“That’ll do as a start,” Jonathan said.

Harvey took his time answering. “Don’t worry about me knowing right from wrong,” he said at last. “Killing’s never been my thing, okay? If I’ve led you to believe otherwise, I apologize. I’m way more about hiding and healing, so if you’re expecting me to do a lot of shooting, you might be disappointed. I might be disappointed. Who knows? And the part about wigging out? I just flat-out don’t know. I hope not. But if I do, I don’t owe you or anybody else an apology. You invited me to this party, remember?”

“I remember,” Jonathan said. And he appreciated the candor.

“And about your leaving that guy to die, well, it’s done. You didn’t ask my permission, and you certainly don’t need my forgiveness. There’s a reason why I was never promoted to a position of leadership in the Marine Corps.”

“Says the man who won the Navy Cross,” Jonathan said.

Harvey laughed. “A fleeting bout of insanity, I assure you.”

“I read the citation.”

“Then you know for certain that it was a fleeting bout of insanity.”

“I know that you repeatedly exposed yourself to heavy enemy fire to pull three critically wounded Marines to safety one at a time.”

Harvey avoided eye contact. “I feel like I’m repeating myself now. Insanity.”

Jonathan wasn’t about to let him get away with that. “You’re not in a Senate hearing now, Harvey. You’re with a guy who’s been there, okay? I know what you did, and I know what it took for you to do it.”

“Well, that makes you one of about three in the world then. Congratulations.” He fell into silence for a long moment, and Jonathan let him have it. He didn’t want to be too direct in looking, but out of his peripheral vision, he thought he might have seen Harvey’s eyes getting moist. No man wants that button pushed.

After a minute or more, Harvey said, “You know, I can point exactly to the moment when I realized I didn’t give a shit anymore. Want to hear about it?”

If it were anyone else in the world, Jonathan’s honest answer would have been no. All things related to touchy-feely and fully bared human emotion left him cold. But he was devoted to valor, and those who exhibited it. “Sure,” he said.

“I had a buddy in boot camp-John Avery. We got really tight. After basic, we went to infantry training together, and in the last week, he blew out his knee in some dumb-shit PT exercise, so we got out of sequence, him six months behind me. I’d finished my tour and was back in the States when I got word that John had been killed by a sniper in Anbar Province.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said.

“So was I. That was at the height of my crazy period, you know? Anyway, I wanted to go to his funeral. The docs weren’t sure it was the right thing to do, but I was pretty firm, so they let me go.”

He cleared his throat. “You know, he was a young guy. What, twenty-three maybe? He had the kind of service records that they make movies out of. Great guy, terrific leader, and scared of absolutely nothing. So a sniper takes him out while he’s sipping out of a canteen at a roadblock. The funeral was everything you like and everything you dread. Lots of family, lots of tears, lots of townspeople, out in Nowhere, Tennessee.

“The Marine Corps sent an honor guard, and they did their best to make it feel military as they buried him in the yard outside of the Baptist church where his great-grandfather and everybody after him was baptized and married. It was kind of beautiful in its own right.

“And then these war protestor assholes showed up to heckle. At a fucking funeral, man. A fucking funeral. These are third-generation hippie wannabes who’ve never fought for anything, and while family and friends are trying to bury a no-shit war hero, they’re trying to make it about them. I mean, this is what we fight for, right? So that everybody can say whatever’s on their mind? At John’s funeral, the cops who were originally there as honor guard escorts ended up protecting the assholes who had nothing better to do than ruin a mother’s last memory of her son. Would you care to tell me where the sense is in that?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I couldn’t begin to.”

“Well, you see, this is where it really helps not to be crazy. ’Cause from where I sit it doesn’t even make sense to keep trying. Fuck ’em all. Then I got jammed up by some adolescent bitch who knows how the news cycle works, and I just sort of ran out of things worth dyin’ for, know what I mean?”

Jonathan did know. He’d known for decades; but the mark of an American soldier was the ability to push aside the weaknesses of politicians and slothful do-nothings to accomplish the mission within guidelines established by the politicians and slothful do-nothings. Jonathan’s years in the military had shaped his understanding of God and country. He believed with all his heart that civilians needed to be in charge, but he prayed for the day when those civilians would quit using people like him as political chess pieces.

The rain had slowed to an unpleasant drizzle by the time Jonathan and his team arrived at the village, which itself seemed strangely quiet. Clearly, the place was occupied, but the residents were apparently all inside. The three of them gathered in the center of what would be the town square if the village were in Ohio. A face appeared in the window of a nearby hut, and then disappeared.