Another dozen men dressed as Rangers approached. Eric nodded to them. “Ready?”
“Yes sir,” the lead Ranger said. “On your mark.”
“Ready. Mark!” He kicked the door open and they entered the room as one, rushing through the fake warehouse. The first pseudo-insurgent turned and Eric fired directly at him. A blood squib popped and blood stained the man’s front and back. He fell to the ground, twitching, then went still. Freeman did the same to the man waterboarding Frist.
“Sergeant John Frist,” Eric shouted. “Are you Sergeant John Frist?”
Frist coughed, a wet racking sound. “I’m John Frist,” he managed.
Eric used his knife to slice through the rope holding Frist’s hands to the chair. “We’re here to rescue you. Freeman, help him up.”
Deion grabbed Frist around the waist. “Can you walk?” Deion asked.
“Maybe,” Frist mumbled.
“You’ll be fine,” Deion assured him.
They put their arms around Frist’s waist and dragged him to the door.
As they approached, Eric signaled to Barnwell, who activated the Implant. Frist went limp. The Rangers lifted him, carried him through the door, and dumped him on a gurney.
Barnwell patted Eric on the back. “Very good. Go get changed. Sergeant Moswell will help you with hair and makeup.”
The ‘dead’ insurgents stood and exited. Other men filled the room and tore the walls out. Eric and Deion went through to the dressing room where Sergeant Moswell handed them their dress uniforms and quickly trimmed their hair. They shrugged off their camos and slid on their dress uniforms.
Deion glanced at Eric. “Hah. Makeup.”
Eric grinned. “I’ve done a lot of things since I joined the Army. I’ve gone to strange and foreign destinations, met lots of interesting people. Killed some of them. But I’ve never fired blanks and wore makeup.”
When they were done, they entered another room, this one dressed like a green army tent. They took seats at the folding table and waited. Fifteen minutes later, the Rangers brought Frist to the room and sat him at the table.
Frist stared, drooling, eyes glassy. Eric watched as Frist’s head lolled right to left, his eyes slowly focusing on his surroundings.
“What? Where am I?” he asked.
“Still having trouble, John?” Eric asked.
Frist looked down at the table. “How did I get here?”
Eric nudged a glass of water across the table to Frist, who took it hesitantly. “It’s to be expected. The IED really did a number on you. Take a drink and clear your head.”
Frist eyed them groggily. “I remember you two. You were there. You saved me. It’s like it just happened—”
Eric shook his head. “That was a year ago, John. Don’t you remember? I’m Eric and this is Deion. We’re Delta. The IED hit your Humvee outside Baghdad and the insurgents got you. They tortured you for weeks. They even water-boarded you. They wanted to smuggle explosives into the green zone. You did good. You didn’t tell them anything.”
Frist nodded. “Yeah, I remember. They punched me and kicked me. They put a cloth over my mouth and tried to drown me.”
Eric turned to Deion. “See, this man has the right stuff. I told you. He didn’t give them anything.”
Deion nodded. “Yeah, he’s got the right stuff. John, we’re here to make you an offer. Delta has a new program and we think you’d be a perfect fit.”
Frist stared at Deion, the seconds ticking by. Eric watched intently, looking for any signs that John remembered his previous encounters with Deion at Guantanamo.
First continued to stare.
Deion patiently said, “John, the docs says the effects of the IED might continue for a bit. We’ll take care of you. Plus, your country needs you.”
Frist finally nodded. “Of course. I’d do anything for my country.”
Eric smiled. “That’s what we like to hear. You won’t regret this. You’ll be out-processing in a month. We’ll see you then.”
Frist nodded and smiled back, and then his eyes slowly drooped. He swayed for a moment, then slumped in his chair. The Rangers returned with the gurney and hustled Frist away.
Eric and Deion left as the men returned to take away the furniture and collapse the tent. Dr. Barnwell was waiting for them. “Very good, gentlemen. He now has a framework to build on. His mind will fill in the rest.”
John woke, bleary eyed, the light from the digital clock casting soft shadows across the room. He took in his surroundings. A soft cot. A desk with a laptop. He could see a bathroom through an open doorway. A locker with clothes. He tried to remember where he was, and, for a moment, who he was.
Then it came to him. He was John Frist and he was a soldier.
He vaguely remembered corridors and hallways, entering the room, exhausted, and collapsing on the bed.
He struggled for more and then it hit, a road, more dusty street than pavement. He was hot, sweating. His eyes roving.
Then, a pile of garbage on the side of the street, like a million other piles of garbage. Pieces of stone and concrete littered the roadside along with the Iraqi’s trash. Nothing different this time. Nothing but the explosion. A whump of noise, deafening, pummeling him.
His heart skipped a beat and he trembled as the memory came on in full force. The muffled ringing in his ears. The smell of the explosives and the dust gagging in his mouth, the smell of burning plastic and metal stinging his nose. He wanted to spit, to gag.
He turned and saw O’Neill and Gutierrez slumped over. Gutierrez turned to him, his eyes vacant. Blood ran in sheets down his face, down the coppery skin of his neck, and Gutierrez went still. John smelled the piss and shit and he knew Gutierrez — the man who talked about his wife and two kids, how he couldn’t wait to get out, go home, drive his kids down to the beach, make love to his wife after the kids were asleep and then lick ice cream off her stomach, the man he had come to call friend — was dead. O’Neill didn’t move.
O’Neill might be dead, too.
There were screams from the back, the sound barely audible over the ringing in his ears, and he knew Hernandez was still alive.
Please let Hernandez live.
He screamed and then the pain. White hot pain, burning everywhere, a million little needles crawling through him, no escape, the bright glow spilling through his eyelids, and a voice calling for sedation.
He hit the cot, his heartbeat in his throat, his limbs cold. He trembled, clawing at his wrist, trying to find his heartbeat to make sure he still had a pulse. His tongue was thick and swollen, dry as the desert in Iraq. He had an overwhelming urge to urinate and he staggered to the bathroom, voiding his bladder in to the toilet, the stream splashing wildly around the toilet bowl.
He beat against the wall until he found the light-switch and flipped it, the harsh light shocking him back to reality.
There was a knock at the door. He stopped shaking, forcing himself calm. He made it to the door and opened it. John recognized the man standing there, the kind brown eyes, the commanding presence, and the relief settled his stomach. He saluted. “Master Sergeant!”
“You don’t have to salute anymore, John,” Eric said. “You’re in Delta now. We aren’t big on salutes.” He strode into the room. “What’s wrong? You look like shit.”
John relaxed. “Sorry sir. Bad dream.” He felt his heart slow and the impending sense of doom lift. He remembered the warehouse, glass windows up high, light streaming through the dusty streaks. The two filthy and sweaty insurgents, their stink heavy in his nose, delighting in his pain as they beat him. Then, light and hope, Wise bursting in, the two men shot, and his hand finally cut free.
“I just — just can’t thank you enough for saving me.”