Taken With The Enemy
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
www.resplendencepublishing.com
Copyright ©2008 by Tia Fanning
First published in RP, 2008
For my sisters Rachel and Renee...
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
Military Acronyms and Lingo
—Private First Class
IED
—Improvised Explosive Device
ACU
—Army Combat Uniform
The Wire
—The perimeter of a secured site. Used as a reference because most deployed sites lay some type of razor/barb or concertina wire along the perimeter as a deterrent.
Chem Bag
—Short for Chemical Bag. It contains items such as a gas mask and chemical suits to be used in case of a chemical/biological attack.
Ops
—Short for “operations".
MIA
—Missing in Action
CIA
—Central Intelligence Agency
NCS
—National Clandestine Service
RPG
—Rocket Propelled Grenade
List of Ethnic Clothing
—Arabic word for “cover". Is sometimes loosely used to reference the
khimar
, or “headscarf".
burqa
—(Also spelled as
burka
) The all-over garment worn by some woman that leaves only the eyes exposed.
abaya
—A loose fitting robe/cloak worn by some woman over their clothes. It comes in many styles, ranging from a large sheet of fabric draped over the body, to the more modern style that wears like a caftan or long tunic.
khimar
—Head covering
niqab
—Face veil
chadri
—A
burqa
with the grille netting that covers the eyes. Worn by some women in Afghanistan.
The blast knocked me on my ass. Literally. Like slow motion, one moment I was tending a wounded man sitting along the battle-strewn street, the next I was flying backwards.
I hit the ground with a jarring thud.
Opening my eyes to smoke rising in the dusty glare, I struggled to get my bearings. My ears were ringing, my limbs heavy, and I couldn't seem to remember anything beyond the explosion.
Where am I? Shit. Who am I?
The smell of charred rubble swirled around my nose.
Iraq. Sergeant Brenna Mathews. US National Guard. Combat Medic. Assigned ... no, attached ... in support. Attached in direct support of the infantry battalion.
Damn. My head throbbed beneath my helmet.
What the hell had happened? Car bomb? Suicide Bomber?
Trying to shake off the shell shock, I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. Amidst the painful moans and fearful cries engulfing me, gunfire echoed off the war-torn buildings.
"Take cover!” the squad leader, Jackson, shouted.
Soldiers scrambled to their feet. People ran, becoming nothing more than blurs of fabric. There was screaming—directions, orders, and wails of grief—in a meld of English and Arabic. More gunshots pierced the air, closer, rapid in succession, adding chaos to the madness.
Thump-thump-thump.
There were grunts, and then bodies dropped, some collapsing in a mist of spraying blood. Automatically, my hand searched for my weapon.
Cover. I had to take cover.
No. There were still wounded.
Abandoning my weapon in lieu of gathering up my much-needed medical supplies, I quickly low-crawled over to one young soldier. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, his neck cranked at an unnatural angle.
Dead.
Bullets whizzed over my head, hitting the ground nearby. I ducked lower as shots were returned from behind me.
I scrambled to the next victim. Civilian. Male. Bullet wound to the chest. Also dead.
"Mathews, take cover!” Sergeant Jackson hollered. “Now!"
I hesitated. What of the wounded?
Suddenly he appeared at my side. I barely had time to snatch up my med kit before he grabbed my arm and dragged me behind our vehicle.
...tink—tink-tink-tink-tink...
The bullets hit the armored transport just as he pulled me to safety.
Another soldier, Corporal Mollina, was issuing details into his radio. “
IED, taking on fire, soldiers down..."
Sergeant Jackson scooted over to the edge of the vehicle and glanced around the side. “Doc, Big M is hurt. His leg."
I never told any of them what I did back when I was in the civilian world. But out here, all medics were called ‘Doc'.
He looked over his shoulder. “Bee, behind you."
I swung around and saw PFC Michaels applying pressure to his calf. Blood seeped through his fingers.
Shit.
I scrambled over Corporal Mollina to get to where Big M, aptly named due to his size, lay propped up against the side of the tire.
"Is it bad?” he asked, wincing in pain.
"Let me see."
He hesitantly removed his hand. I lifted the torn shreds of his ACU pants out of the way. Shrapnel. Small pieces. Embedded. Oozing, but not spurting.
I dug into my kit. “You'll make it,” I whispered, placing a pad over the wound and tying the bandages firmly around the edges.
"Specialist Pinot ... he's injured too,” he strained.
I glanced up. “Where?"
Michaels winced, then looked past me.
Following his gaze, I turned to the bombed out home behind us, maybe ten yards away.
"He crawled in there. I think he took a bullet."
Gathering my supplies, I held my breath and waited. When Mollina and Jackson rose to return fire, I sprinted toward the old, crumbling shelter.
Off to my right, I heard a loud whistle.
Oh Fuck!
I dove through the doorway just as the shockwaves rattled the area. The lintel came crashing down, taking the doorjambs and the brick mold with it.
I lifted my head, choking on the cloud of dust that stole all the breathable air. My chest burned. God, I felt like I had been tackled by a three-hundred pound offensive lineman.
Rising to my knees, I squinted through the haze, searching the debris-filled room. A couple of feet in front of me, lying on his stomach, was Pinot.
I crawled over to the soldier, fearing the worst.
The ceiling groaned and bowed, raining sand and small chunks of rubble. I prayed that the standing columns would hold out just a few minutes longer.
Pinot was alive, his breathing shallow. The puddle beneath him told me he had lost too much blood. When I rolled him over, his eyes fluttered open.
"Sergeant Mathews,” he mumbled. “I've been shot."
"I know.” His whole left arm was coated in sticky crimson. I felt around, finding the entry hole on the top of his biceps, near his shoulder. No exit. Bullet lodged. “And what did I say about calling me that?"
"Only do it when the superiors are around,” he moaned.
I pulled out my shears and began cutting into the blood-soaked combat uniform. “Right. You can call me Bee, or Doc, or even Mathews. I'm only a weekend warrior, remember?"
He gave a small smile, but instantly winced when I lifted his arm slightly to remove the fabric from around the injury. “Am I going to die, Doc?"
"I don't think so. More troops will be here soon. We'll get you to the hospital."
"What does Bee stand for?"
I pressed dressing over the wound. “Brenna."
"Pretty name,” he mumbled before passing out.
The gunfight grew heavier and loud voices filtered into the building, bouncing off the walls. I crouched low, holding my breath and slowly reaching for Pinot's weapon. Suddenly, a shadow passed over me. Before I could blink, I was hauled off the ground.
Strong fingers wrenched my arm and swung me about, my back colliding into a hard chest. A palm smothered my lips, silencing my cry.
Sandalwood.
"Do not scream,” the deep voice whispered in my ear. “Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
Large vehicles rumbled into the area. Reinforcements.
Another male voice echoed in the room. The man holding me responded in Arabic and shoved me away. I crashed into one of the columns and slid down to the ground.
Rapid dialogue ensued between the two armed insurgents. The older, scarier looking of the two, pointed at Pinot, still unconscious on the floor. The other shook his head.
Outside the front window, shouts and booted feet rang through the air. Both men glanced in that direction and lifted their weapons. The older one said something, glared at me in disgust, spat on the ground, then sprinted out the back. The remaining insurgent aimed his rifle at me.
I met his deep dark eyes before closing my own.
He fired.
I cringed.
A few seconds passed.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone and I was still alive, unharmed.
The chow hall hummed with the din of small talk, but I sat alone, staring at the tray of food in front of me.
Three days had passed since the battle, but he haunted my thoughts, invaded my dreams. Those dark eyes, the deep voice, that scent. Sandalwood, and a hint of something else ... vanilla maybe.
Why hadn't he executed me?
Strangely, I was bothered by that decision.
I replayed his whisper in my mind over and over like a broken record. He had spoken in perfect English, his accent barely noticeable. He sounded ... American.
Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?
His word choice and usage, all grammatically correct and properly pronounced, clearly showed fluency. Native fluency. He didn't say ‘be quiet’ or ‘do not talk’ or ‘do not speak'. No, he used the phrase ‘do not say a word'.... a very American English phrase.
The last thing that bothered me, even more than his surprising act of mercy, was the fact that my dog tags were missing. I tried to figure out how I could have lost them. I knew I'd put them on that morning. Those tags were sometimes the sole way of identifying a person if they should meet a violent end, and a soldier never left the wire without them.
During the gun battle, I knew they were a under my shirt, which was tucked into my uniform pants. Even if the chain had come undone, I would have found the tags when I undressed.
My mind, fueled by the hazy memory of a negligible twinge on the back of my neck, kept asserting only one possible conclusion...
He took them.
It must have happened when he had pushed me into the column. I had felt a small pinch around my neck, like he had yanked my hair. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Now the mystery consumed me.
Why would he want my dog tags?
"Nothing like a late dinner,” Corporal Mollina said, taking a seat across from me. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you since the services."
I nodded, remembering all too well the five pairs of empty boots positioned in front of five standing rifles, the butt of each adorned with the helmets of our fallen comrades.
