Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

A primary mission for his A-team was termed ‘public affairs’, which was just another way of saying public relations – helping the indigenous population come to understand that the United States was not their enemy, but was there to help them. His ability to speak their language went a long way toward fostering trust between them. He taught basic English classes to the school-age children, and that placed him right in the beam of the village spotlight because everybody wanted to learn English, even the older folks. It seemed that the whole village knew Sergeant Josh Adams, and most of the people liked him.

Beneath the surface, his work with the villagers had another purpose. As the people came to trust him, he asked them for their help in finding out who was setting improvised explosive devices along the roads to ambush American soldiers. “The sooner we get rid of the insurgents,” Josh told the people, “the sooner life can become safe and normal in your village.”

Most of the villagers seemed to trust the Americans, but there were always a few who held back, keeping to the shadows. The strange thing was that among the friendlies, nobody was willing to talk about those men. Josh saw fear in the eyes of the women and children, and men averted their eyes so Josh could see nothing there at all.

Major Alan Covington, the team commanding officer, found Josh sitting in the shade, his head down, the letter in his limp hand. “Hey!” the major said, “On your feet, sergeant. We’ve got work to do.”

Josh raised his head and stared at his CO, then lowered his head again.

“I said on your feet, soldier!” Covington shouted in his most powerful command voice. “I want you on your feet now!”

This time, without even raising his head, Josh muttered, “Meaning no disrespect, but I don’t feel like it, sir.”

Major Covington squatted down and yanked Josh’s head back so he could look him in the eyes. “You been taking drugs, boy?”

“No sir.”

“You been shot?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s wrong with you? Get on your feet. Show some respect. How do you expect the villagers to respect us if we don’t show respect to each other?”

Josh looked up. “I honestly don’t care, sir. You can take this war and shove…”

“Shut your mouth, son, or I will shut it for you,” Covington warned through gritted teeth. He stood, grabbed Josh by the shirt and lifted him to his feet, then slammed him back against the wall and shoved his nose right up in Josh’s face. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. You got that?”

A small crowd of villagers gathered to watch what was going on. Old men muttered among themselves, and women whispered to each other. Children stood with wide eyes, staring at their trusted teacher being dragged to his feet by the major. Hearing the murmur behind them, Covington turned to look at the crowd. He waved his arm as if to sweep them away. “Go on now. Keep moving,” he yelled in English. But they didn’t move. They just pointed and talked among themselves about what was happening. “Tell them to get out of here,” the CO commanded Josh. “You know their language.”

“You’re so smart, sir, you tell them yourself. The way I figure it, this is their town; they ought to be free to stand there if they want to.”

“I’ll have you up on charges of insubordination,” the major threatened.

“Go right ahead, sir,” Josh said. “I don’t want to be in this man’s army anymore anyway. It’s done nothing but ruin my life.” He waved the letter in front of the major’s face.

“What’s that?”

“A letter from my girl, sir. She’s dumped me ’cause I’m not around much anymore. It’s hard to be there for her and here for you and all of them,” – he swept his arm toward the crowd – “all at the same time. And I sure don’t love you or them as much as I love her. So go ahead and write me up and send me home so I can take care of more important business. ’Cause I don’t care about any of this anymore.”

Major Covington let go of Josh’s shirt, stepped back and dusted the sergeant off. “Listen, kid,” – he changed his tone – “you’re just upset because some cheatin’ chick back home is whining about not having you around. Give it a day or two, you’ll get over it. Take my word, you’re better off without a girl who dumps you just because she’s lonely. If she’s got no more grit than that, you’re lucky to find it out this early in the game. Now go clean yourself up. You’ve got an English class to teach.”

“Yes, sir,” Josh said, putting his helmet on and bringing his right hand up in a slow salute that had no heart in it. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Covington alone on the street where the crowd still stood watching. Shaking his head, the major turned and walked in the opposite direction.

An hour later, Josh sat in a small dusty room, surrounded by villagers of all ages and both genders. One of the women noticed his downcast expression and asked, “What is the matter Joshua?” The villagers always called him by his full first name. It was easy for them, because it was a name right out of their scriptures, the leader who came after the prophet Moses. They knew of his girlfriend, Rachel – another name from their scriptures, the wife of Issac, son of the prophet Abraham. These were links that endeared Josh Adams to the people of the village, because they felt as if he were somehow one of their own.

“Ah,” he said to the woman, “it is nothing to bother you about.”

“Please,” she said, “sometimes a burden shared becomes lighter.”

He hesitated, then took the letter from his pocket. “I received this from Rachel today. She says she no longer loves me and she is going to marry another.”

The woman broke into tears and sobbed, as if she were mourning for her own son. Josh reached out and touched her shoulder. “There is no need for tears. It is something I can do nothing about,” he said.

“What would you do, if you could do something?” one of the men asked.

“Go home and fight for her heart,” Josh answered.

“As any real man would,” the man said, and the crowd murmured agreement.

“As much as I want to help your village, I am sorry to say that I no longer want to be here. I no longer want to be in the army. If it were not for the army, I would be home with Rachel and everything would be okay.” He stopped for a moment, then put the letter back in his pocket. “But right now, it is time for your English lesson.”

Class went well that day, but everyone was a little downcast in spirit. It was apparent that they all felt bad for Joshua, their teacher.

That evening, as Josh was hanging his uniform shirt next to his bunk at the barracks where the American team slept, he faced unrelenting lack of sympathy from his fellow soldiers. The story had gotten around about the incident after mail call that day, and the men were not about to let him off easy.

“Hey Josh,” the weapons specialist Tony Blanco yelled across the room, “what’s the matter, couldn’t hold onto your baby?” The room erupted with laughter.

“Where did you guys get that from?” Josh challenged, knowing full well that Covington must have spilled the story to the rest of the team members. It wasn’t necessarily a cruel thing to do because the major knew that the team came to feel like a band of brothers, and even though brothers give each other a hard time, they still support one another.

While Josh’s attention was focused on Tony, one of the guys sneaked around behind his bunk and grabbed the letter from the shirt pocket. Waving it like a victory flag, he pretended to read it, using a falsetto voice to mock Rachel. “Dear Josh,” he screeched, “I don’t love you anymore.”