David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

A smaller boat was docked at the extreme end of the pier. This craft looked more like a motorized yacht with a long, sleek hull and a broad fantail. Unlike the cluttered deck of the Lumba , this power yacht appeared clean and professional. Rafiq spied a man in a white shirt and shorts making his way across the deck, carrying a tray.

The door to the cabin opened and a woman stepped out. She plucked a pair of sunglasses from a mass of dark hair and covered her eyes as she watched the freighter approach the pier.

The men of the Lumba sprang into action around Rafiq. For days, they had spoken of nothing but women and sex. When the ship had sailed past Buenos Aires, the little Malay captain had a near riot on his hands when he told his men they were not stopping. Rafiq had quelled the issue with a ten percent bonus for the crew, but the tension was still there. These were men ready for shore leave.

The lines went across to the pier and the ship was snugged to the dock in no time at all. The crew of the Lumba was already lined up, ready to go ashore. The Malay captain screamed down at them from the bridge, but the men ignored him.

The brow made a loud clank as the crane dropped it against the gunwale. The two men closest to it secured it with chains, but no one rushed down the gangway. Instead, they stepped back to allow a woman to board the ship, the same woman Rafiq had seen on the deck of the pleasure craft.

The crew looked at her with barely disguised lust in their eyes. The one closest to her sniffed the air as she walked by and licked his lips. If she noticed his behavior, she didn’t show it.

She was dressed in faded blue jeans that hugged her slim hips and disappeared into a pair of worn cowboy boots. A white muslin blouse, open at the neck, was tucked loosely into her jeans, and Rafiq caught a glimpse of white lace in the plunging neckline. He felt a tug in his groin. Maybe the crewmen weren’t the only ones in need of some release.

The woman picked her way across the deck with easy movements, aware the eyes of all the men were on her. It took Rafiq a second to realize she was approaching him.

She stopped in front of Rafiq, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She pushed her sunglasses up into her dark hair. Her smoky gray eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips widened into a smile.

“You must be Rafiq.” Her voice was low and husky, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She put out her hand.

“I’m Dean.”

Liz watched the UH-60 Black Hawk settle to the ground in a cloud of dust. She pulled her shirt away from her sweaty back. Even this early in the morning, the Baghdad heat was already stifling. Between the dust and the heat, she probably looked a mess — but she was only stopping in the Green Zone for a day, and she had to see him.

The door of the helo rolled open and a group of SEALs jumped to the ground. They guided out three prisoners, hooded with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Liz squinted at the SEAL team. They all looked the same, like dusty, well-armed cavemen with scraggly beards and dark sunglasses. The column moved in her direction.

“Alright, gentlemen, let’s get our guests to their new accommodations,” called the lead man. Liz’s heart skipped a beat. That was Brendan’s voice.

All of a sudden surprising him didn’t seem like a good idea. They hadn’t talked in what, six years? And her idea of a reunion was to show up in a war zone looking like something the cat dragged in. Her hand went to her hair, brushing off the fine layer of dust she knew was all over her head and tucking the loose strands behind her ear.

He moved with the quick steps of an athlete; his booted feet seemed to barely touch the ground. SEALs were allowed to customize their battle gear, so he was dressed in a combination of REI and military issue: cargo pants, a bullet-resistant Kevlar vest with trauma plate over a skin-tight Under Armour shirt, kneepads, fingerless gloves, and his beloved Ray-Bans. Dust frosted his curly dark hair and beard.

“Liz?” The line of SEALs and their prisoners stopped behind him. He pushed his glasses up his forehead and squinted in the early morning sun. “What are you doing here?”

His blue eyes met hers and she felt the breath leave her lungs in a rush. That was a great question; one she should have had a ready answer to. She tried to say something, but her voice seemed to be on hiatus. She stepped forward and gave him a hug. His shoulders were knotty with muscle beneath her hands.

“Hi!” she choked out.

He didn’t say anything, but the embrace was longer and closer than she had planned. There were people all around them, for God’s sake. She twisted away and stepped back, taking a deep, shaky breath. Brendan was staring at her chest.

“Sorry, I got you all dirty.”

When she looked down, stripes of dust from his uniform crisscrossed her dark blue polo.

“Skipper?” called one of the SEALs, a grin forming under his shaggy blond beard. “Maybe we can play the dating game later?”

Brendan started and dropped his sunglasses back over his eyes. “Right.” He sharpened his tone. “All right, people. Let’s move.” He stepped back and waved the line forward.

One of the prisoners, the large one in the middle, leaned his hood close to his comrade and whispered. The other man laughed. Liz looked up sharply; they were speaking in Farsi.

The SEAL with the blond beard punched the big prisoner in the lower back. “No talking! Oskot! ”

“Gonzo, that’s enough! Get them inside now.” Brendan stepped close to Liz and touched her forearm. She shivered in response. “I have to go. Can I see you tonight? Cafeteria at 1800?”

Liz still didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded. Brendan flashed a grin and trotted away. Liz looked down to the ruts she had worn in the dirt from shifting her feet back and forth.

She closed her eyes and blew out a deep breath.

Liz decided to wear her engagement ring to her dinner with Brendan. A two-carat, square-cut diamond in a platinum setting, it felt ostentatious when she wore it stateside. Here it felt like the worst kind of bling. I’m engaged. He needs to know that.

She slid into a booth a half hour early and sipped a soda to calm her nerves. She fiddled with the ring. The truth was that she hated her engagement ring. She’d begged James to get something smaller, more tasteful, something more like her . He’d just laughed in that irritating, charming way he had and said, “Nothing’s too good for my Elizabeth.” She’d always preferred Liz. That had taken some getting used to as well.

When she looked back, their engagement seemed fated. Liz had known James for as long as she could remember. His family owned the house across the street and their parents traveled in the same social circles in the Los Angeles Iranian community. They were both caboose children who’d been born in the US and James grew up like a brother to her. Well, maybe not a brother — James was the first boy she’d ever kissed.

They grew apart in high school and completely lost touch when she went to the Academy, but they’d reconnected when Liz was home on leave a few years ago. Her service commitment was ending and she wondered what she wanted to do with her life. James stepped in at exactly the right time. This was a man she could share her life with, a man who understood her as a person, as a woman.

After a perfect long weekend at a Laguna Beach resort, he’d popped the question and put this enormous engagement ring on her finger. There was no reason to say no.