Kathleen Creighton - Guarding The Soldier's Secret

Unexpected pain sliced through him.

Dammit, Yancy. Not like this—this isn’t the way I’d have chosen to break it to you.

An image came into his mind, one of those lightning flashes that stays on, seared into the memory like a brand.

...I’m strolling the boardwalk on the base with a couple of guys from my team, fresh off a successful mission with some leftover adrenaline to dispose of. Every soldier has his own way of dealing with it—that jacked-up reckless feeling you get sometimes when you’ve done your job and come back in one piece. Everything seems sharp and clear and simple. Life and death. You win or you lose. And that day we won. Life was good.

Times like that, some guys head straight for their laptops for a face-to-face with their families. A few go to the chapel, I guess. Me, I get a yearning for a little piece of home, so I hit the boardwalk and the same fast-food places I used to hang out in when I was a kid, growing up in the Midwest.

So my guys and I are debating the relative merits of subs, pizza and tacos, or whether we should go to Friday’s and have all three. And that’s when I see her. Them, actually—the news crew we’d picked up out of that firefight earlier in the day. They’re gathered around a table drinking something tall and cold, all scrubbed and shiny like they’ve just come from the showers. They still have that dazed look civilians get when they’ve had a closer look than they ever wanted at what war’s really like.

She’s impossible to miss, with that red hair of hers, the wind blowing it around like dark flames. I guess I’m looking at her pretty hard and maybe she feels that, because she looks up just then, straight at me, and I see her eyes go big and wide with that look that says she’s recognized me, too. I feel a kick underneath my ribs, which I chalk up to that leftover adrenaline, and I give her a nod. Maybe I smile at her, too.

I’ve worked my way through about half a foot-long meatball sub, joking with the guys across the table, when I hear, “Hey, soldier.” And here she is, sitting down beside me.

The guys, of course, they give me the eye, elbow each other and get up and move to another table.

She says, “I don’t mean to interrupt...”

I chew and swallow and reach for my napkin, wipe sauce off my face and clear my throat good. My heart’s doing the happy-dance and there’s nothing I can do about that, but I keep my voice polite and nothing more. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She winces and says, “Ma’am? Really?” and makes a face.

“It’s a term of respect—like sir,” I tell her. Something makes me add, “From where I’m sitting, you definitely do not qualify as sir.”

She laughs, and I feel a sizzling inside my skin, and I know I’m going where I’ve got no business going. I’m feeling hot and hard and I blame that on the adrenaline, too.

“I don’t know if I even said thank you,” she says. “For saving my—all...of our lives.”

She’s looking at me with big brown eyes, and it occurs to me her eyes seem to match her hair, which doesn’t make sense, because her hair is definitely auburn, and her eyes are definitely brown.

“You did,” I say.

She nods. “And you said you were just doing your job.” She’s studying me, and there’s this kind of a frown making lines between her eyebrows, like she can’t figure me out. Then she turns her face away, but I can see it tighten up and change color anyway. “That’s what it was to you, maybe. But to me it was a whole lot more. It was my life, you know?” She swipes her fingers across one cheek, clears her throat and adds, “And I want you to know I’m very grateful.”

I want to touch her, and I pick up my sandwich so I can’t. I take a bite, chew it, nod to the sandwich and say, “Glad I could help.”

I feel her staring at me again. Softly she says, “I wish I understood what makes someone like you tick.” I turn my head to look at her, and for a long time that’s what we do—look at each other. Or maybe it only seems like a long time. Then she sort of smiles and says, “I don’t suppose you’d consider—”

That wakes me up. “Not gonna happen,” I tell her.

Her smile goes a little sideways. “I was going to say, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider having dinner with me.’”

“No, you weren’t.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, but leans closer and says, “What if I was?”

There’s a long silence while I listen to the voices in my head telling me things I already know, all the reasons I want but can’t have. Then, probably because I’m used to shaking hands with danger, I lean in closer to her and whisper, “It’d still be no.”

She sits back and the contact between us snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight—it stings a little. She tilts her head and asks, “Why?”

I laugh—I mean, she has to ask?

“You’re the media,” I say, “and my job depends on secrecy.”

“I’d never compromise that. You know us media folks always protect our sources.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Too big a risk.”

“I thought that’s what you do—take risks.”

“Not stupid ones.”

She thinks about that. Then after a moment, she nods, gets up and starts to walk away. While I’m silently cussing—myself, her, maybe fate—she comes back, leans down close to my ear and whispers, “If you change your mind, I’d still like to hear your story. Your terms, your rules. My quarters are in the Quonset next to the media’s. You can find me there.”

After she leaves I look at the sub I’m still holding in my hands, and I realize I’ve lost my appetite—for food, anyway. Right then the only thing I’m hungry for is a woman with auburn hair and matching eyes.

His trip down memory lane lasted for the space of the few seconds it took them to get to him. He reached out for Yancy, who staggered and almost fell into his arms, the child sandwiched between the two adults. He caught and steadied her while her eyes searched his face in shocked disbelief. Her mouth opened, but before she could fire off the questions he knew must be piled up inside her, he said in a low, guttural voice, “Go—run. Keep going. Don’t stop for anything.”

He had to hand it to her—no questions, no hesitation. She just nodded and took Laila’s hand in a firm grip.

Hunt shoved the two of them behind him and turned his attention to the would-be abductors, who by this time were sorting themselves out and shouting at each other in fury and outrage. A couple of them seemed to think they might give chase but changed their minds when they saw what was blocking their path. A tall man wearing the elaborately wound turban and embroidered vest of a Pashtun tribal elder would give the average urban Afghan male pause even if he wasn’t portraying an attitude of authority, strength and menace. Hunt excelled at all three. In a matter of moments the men had dispersed and vanished into the crowds, both pedestrian and vehicular.

Hunt waited until he was certain the threat had passed, then turned to follow the woman and child, who had already vanished from sight. He walked rapidly but didn’t run. He knew he’d find them again.

* * *

“Mommy? Who was that man? Who were those other men? Why were they following us? What did they want? Why did we run away?”

Yancy could only shake her head as she leaned against a mud-brick wall and fought to catch her breath. As she waited for her pounding heart to calm itself, her numbed brain struggled to absorb the reality that once again the assumption of Hunt Grainger’s demise had been premature.

She tried to figure out how that made her feel.

I don’t know how I feel!

There isn’t time to feel. Not now. I have to get Laila to safety. Someplace safe...