Lindsay McKenna - Down Range

Turning away, Jake ambled over to his equipment sitting on the polished white floor. No, he couldn’t risk his heart a third time. He simply didn’t have the strength to reach out and try to love again. The potential losses were just too great. And no one knew better than he, there was no promise of happily ever after….

He hefted his ruck, swung it easily across his broad shoulders and then belted it up. An M-4 rifle, barrel downward for safety reasons and safed, chamber empty, was strapped on the outside of it.

He watched as Morgan walked over to her gear, not at all surprised she could lift a sixty-five-pound ruck and make it look light as a feather. Yesterday, as she’d walked into the Pacific Ocean in her purple bathing suit, he’d seen just how fit she really was. Maybe a little too thin, he supposed, but she was all firm muscle, not an ounce of fat. He’d winced when he’d seen those recent pink scars on the back of her left thigh.

Jake was sure those were shrapnel wounds she’d received at that village three months earlier. He wanted to touch them, kiss each of them and remove the pain and memory of how she’d received them. Jake knew he could heal Morgan with his touch, his voice and his hands, if she’d give him a chance. He could be tender toward her. She brought out the best in him, made him feel like a man. Leaning down, he grabbed his eighty-pound weapons bag, slipping it into his right hand. An airman opened the glass doors for them, gesturing for them to go to the parked C-5.

The sunlight was bright, the sky a pale blue. A few clouds were in the distance as Jake walked toward the ramp at the rear of the C-5. A number of nurses, doctors and medics were boarding the largest transport aircraft in the U.S. military. Following Morgan, who walked with an incredible confidence, he compared her to the other women ahead of them.

Morgan stood out. Her red hair was caught up in a ponytail, the strands moving between her shoulder blades. There was just something so damned different about Morgan compared to any other woman Jake had ever known. There was no question, she was a combat warrior. It was in her stride, the way she squared her shoulders, her chin tilted slightly up. Despite the bulky cammies, she didn’t look like a man. Not with the sway of those hips of hers and her natural grace.

Once on board, they stowed their gear in a storage locker below the cockpit area of the C-5. The rest of the crew had already boarded. Jake stood near Morgan. Lights went on overhead, revealing three tiers of litters along both sides of the fuselage. Jake wondered what she was thinking as she watched the medical teams prepare to take on newly wounded men once they arrived at Bagram.

“Morgan,” he said quietly, “let’s crash. We need all the sleep we can get.”

Barely turning her head, she absorbed Jake’s calm, steadying presence. His low voice soothed that anguish they’d shared last night. All Morgan wanted to do was turn around, throw her arms around his solid, powerful shoulders and seek solace against him. It wasn’t protection she had ever sought from him. Jake knew how to hold her.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice husky and sounding far away to her. “We’re going downrange….”

Chapter Six

Morgan tried to tame her excitement as the Night Stalker pilots landed the MH-47 helicopter at the Afghan village of Margha. It was barely dawn, and out the window, she spotted thin Reza in his wool cap, baggy pants, vest and coat, waiting near the few mud houses still left standing. Her heart broke for the Afghan. This had been his home. The place he lost his wife and five children to Khogani’s raid. It had to be painful for him to stand where his life had once been.

Within minutes, the helo was down, kicking up clouds of dust, grit and small rocks into the air as they rapidly disembarked with their weapons and gear. Once they cleared the helo, Jake gave the pilot the okay to take off via the radio. The helo powered up, the thunder of the powerful engines heard for miles across the long, fertile valley that was just awakening for the day.

“Reza!” Morgan shouted, hauling her gear to where the Afghan stood. Reza was five foot six, lean, his skin tobacco-brown from thirty-five years spent in these rugged mountains. The Afghan’s face was deeply etched, smile lines deepening around his eyes and mouth as he stepped forward.

“As-Salāmu ’alayki, Wajiha,” he said, bowing to Morgan as she dropped her gear. The ancient greeting meant “Peace be upon you.” He formally hugged her and then chastely kissed each of her cheeks. Long ago, he’d given her the name of Wajiha, which meant “beautiful one” in Pashto.

His greeting was a very warm, loving welcome bestowed upon family members only. Morgan had been injured trying to save his family. A man was never supposed to hug a woman in Islamic culture, but Reza felt strongly she should know how grateful he was for her willingly putting her life on the line to try to save his youngest child from Khogani’s slaughter.

“Wa ’alaykumu s-salāmu wa rahmatu l-lāhi wa barakātuh, Reza.” Morgan returned the ancient greeting in Pashto. It meant “May peace, mercy and blessing of God be upon you.” She hugged him and placed a kiss on each of his bearded cheeks. And then she grinned, threw her arms around him and squeezed the hell out of the wiry Afghan. He pounded her happily on the back of her Kevlar vest, enthusiastically welcoming her.

Jake walked over, watching the warmth between them. He smiled, glad to see Morgan happy. Her face, even in dawn light, was suffused a pink color. It was her eyes, wide with affection for the Afghan guide, that touched him the most. Jake dropped his gear and Reza released Morgan.

“As-Salāmu ’alayka, Lieutenant Ramsey,” Reza greeted him, placing his palm across his thin chest. “Welcome. I am Reza. I will be your guide.”

Jake returned the proper Pashto greeting and then thrust out his hand to the short, wiry man. Reza eagerly took it, pumping it up and down with unbounded earnestness.

“Come, both of you.” Reza gestured for them to follow him into the nearest mud home that had a huge hole blown through one side of it. “We must hurry. Taliban watch us from the mountains.”

Morgan entered and saw four small, hardy horses munching on some dried grass. One of them had a Western saddle on its back. The other two had the typical Afghan saddle made of wood and nails covered with a rug. The fourth animal was a packhorse.

“Hey, you remembered,” she told Reza, pointing to the Western saddle.

“Of course, Wajiha. You told me to look after your saddle, and I did. You promised to return, and here you are.”

Morgan choked up as she saw tears of gratefulness come to Reza’s eyes. He was the only survivor of his destroyed village. Her smile disappeared as Jake entered. Moving to the Afghan, she pulled the Velcro pocket open on her Kevlar vest and retrieved a number of photos.

“Just a minute, Jake,” she called.

Jake nodded his response, leaving them as she went to Reza’s side and spoke to him in a low voice. He couldn’t hear what she said in Pashto, but the look on the Afghan’s face was one of surprise. Tears began to trail down his high cheekbones as he took the photos from Morgan. She placed her arm around the man’s shoulders, pointing to each one, telling him something about it.

Jake felt like an outsider and busied himself appraising the four animals. They were small bay horses with black manes and tails. Horses in Afghanistan always looked short and stocky, but then Jake knew they ate whatever the barren, rocky mountains gave to them, which wasn’t much.

He heard Reza sob. Turning, he saw the man clasping the photos to his breast, his other hand pressed against his face, crying openly. He gave a quizzical look, but Morgan held up her hand into a fist. It was a signal that said, “stop.” Jake respected the sign and remained with the animals.