Path of Jen: Bloodborne (27 page)

“Dustin, no, you could get sick!” she
warned.

Deep South ignored her protest and held her
hand firmly. He calmly looked into her eyes. “I’m coming back for
you, Jen. I promise. Whatever happens, I will come back for you. Do
you believe me?”

Jen covered her mouth with her other hand and
cried. “Dustin, I prayed…for two years I prayed for God to save
me…” she choked up and had to stop for a moment. Her whole body
trembled uncontrollably. When she could continue she said, “I
prayed, and he sent me you." Tears flowed freely down her face and
she took her hand back. She used both hands to wipe the tears away.
“I believe you, Dustin,” she finally managed to say. She laughed at
getting so emotional, and Deep South couldn’t help but join in.

Jen knew Dustin had to get going, so she
opened her door and climbed out. She walked around to the driver
side as he started the engine. She stood by his window trying to
think of something clever to say as he put it in reverse and turned
to back out. He looked at her one last time and gave her a wink
with his intense gray eyes.
“Please, Lord, bring him back
safely,”
she thought. Jen turned to walk back to her tent.

“Good morning ma’am,” a Marine said
cheerfully while walking to the other tent.

Jen stopped and said, “Good morn…ing" Her
voice trailed off and her face turned bright red. She quickly
turned her eyes away and hurried to her tent. The Marine who
greeted her was heavily muscled, like a body builder, and he had
large black tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest, and some on
his legs. To Jen’s embarrassment, the Marine was wearing nothing
but a brown towel. She heard him say, “Oohrah,” and chuckle as he
disappeared into the opposite tent.

Hot anger replaced the embarrassment and Jen
stormed into her tent. She was determined to stay away from the
Marines as much as possible. It was the only way she could be safe,
and it was the only way to keep them safe.

Deep South drove deep into the city toward
the Green Zone. He passed the infamous parade grounds where Saddam
had showed off his SCUD missiles and elite Republican Guard to the
world. He saw the monuments to Iraq’s war with Iran. People were
parked near the base of the giant copper statues of raised arms
with crossed swords, forming an arch at the end of the parade
grounds.

When he arrived at the gates to the Green
Zone, Deep South parked the SUV and walked in. He didn’t want to
explain why he was driving a private citizens car. Things were
quite different than they were at the beginning of the gulf war,
when commandeering vehicles was a common and sometimes even
necessary practice. Back then it was rarely questioned. Now days,
it was likely to land him in an Iraq jail before any questions were
asked. Deep South didn’t have that kind of time to waste.

His military ID was enough to get him through
the gate, and he passed through as one of many people going in and
out on official business. Once inside, he walked straight ahead
toward a plain two story building situated across from a series of
street vendors and a small parking lot. Special Operations Command
had one whole corner of the building, and Deep South’s higher
command element had an office there as well. He wasn’t looking
forward to going in. At the very least it would mean hours of
debriefing and pages of report writing. He considered going to one
of the street vendors for a bite to eat before going in, but time
was an important factor. He went inside.

It was early afternoon when he found himself
standing at attention in front of Lieutenant Colonel Griffin’s
desk. “Good morning, sir. Staff Sergeant Parks reporting as
ordered,” he said with a sharp salute.

The officer seated behind the desk returned
the salute and then spit in a Diet Dr Pepper can. He set the can on
the desk next to another and sat back in his chair. He waved his
hand toward the two chairs in front of his desk and said, “Have a
seat Staff Sergeant. It’s Deep South, isn’t it?” he asked. He
leaned forward and took the other Diet Dr Pepper can and took a
drink while he waited for an answer.

Deep South sat at the position of attention
and answered respectfully, “Yes, sir.”

The Lieutenant Colonel leaned forward again
and swapped cans. He spit into the can again and replaced it on the
desk.
“This guy’s gonna mix ‘em up any second,”
thought Deep
South. He watched with interest each time the commander took a
drink or spit. What made it even more interesting is that each time
he picked one up and put it down, he set it in a different spot. It
was a welcome distraction.

“Okay, Deep South; I see why they call you
that, by the way,” he said with a practiced smile. He leaned
forward and retrieved a Diet Dr Pepper can and bravely took a
drink. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell happened out there to
cause the death of your entire team? I’m going to warn you right
now, son; this better be a good story or I’m throwing your ass in a
cell. You got that?”

Deep South nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then,” the Lieutenant Colonel said. He
swapped the cans again and spit. “Proceed.”

The Lieutenant Colonel was starting to seem
less eccentric and more insane to Deep South, but he reminded
himself why he was here and began his story. “We were set up in a
hut just outside of Mosul when I first saw her, sir,” he said. For
the next hour and a half, he laid out the whole story, including
the IED, the farm, and bringing her close to Baghdad. What he
specifically avoided, was telling Lieutenant Colonel Griffin where
he left her or who she was with.

“Staff Sergeant,” the commander said. “You
are playing a dangerous game, and I’m half tempted to throw your
butt in prison right now." Deep South stiffened. “But,” he said. “I
see where your head is at in this." He swapped cans and took a long
drink. Then he smashed the can and threw it under his desk. He
reached into a cube refrigerator behind him and pulled out another.
He cracked it open and set it on the desk.

“I need your official, written report on my
desk in two hours. I don’t want to read any crap about diseases or
crazed infected people either, are we tracking?"

Deep South answered, “Yes, sir."

“Your report will reflect internal conflict
or unidentified enemy combatants. The girl is not going to be in
any official report." Lieutenant Colonel Griffin leaned forward and
took the new can off his desk. He leaned back and put it to his lip
to spit, but stopped suddenly. He moved it away from his mouth and
said, “I’ll make some phone calls and find out what we can do about
her. She’ll have to be dealt with, and soon, but what that means is
not my call." He leaned forward and almost set his Diet Dr Pepper
down, but then sat back again as if pondering something. Instead of
revealing a deep thought of some kind, he simply said, “Now get
your ass to the infirmary before you get gangrene, tracking?”

Deep South nodded and said, “Yes, sir." He
stood and saluted.

The Lieutenant Colonel took a sip of Diet Dr
Pepper and set it the desk in front of him. He saluted and said,
“Dismissed.”

Deep South took a step back and turned around
before walking out of the office.
“So, you want a report that
leaves out all of the important details. Roger that,”
he
thought as he walked down the hall toward the infirmary.

The infirmary was nothing more than an office
where an Army Medic hung out playing video games and listening to
music. Technically, there was also a Physician’s Assistant on duty
to prescribe meds, but he was rarely in the office. The medic, a
Specialist, had a basic trauma kit, but calling the office an
infirmary was a stretch by any standard. Deep South walked in and
waited for the Specialist to look up.

“Oh, uh…good afternoon Staff Sergeant,” the
young soldier said, surprised. “What can I do for you?"

“Do you have any antibiotics?” Deep South
asked. “I have a little cut that went deeper than I thought.”

The Specialist pushed a sign-in roster toward
Deep South and turned around to access a wide filing cabinet. He
pulled open the top drawer and dug around a bit before coming out
with a dark orange pill bottle. “Hang on, I’ll be right back,” he
said. “Doc’s downstairs. I’ll get him to sign off on these and you
can get going,” he said. The Specialist rounded the desk and
hurried out of the office.

“You don’t want to look at it or anything?”
Deep South asked.

“Nah, I trust you Staff Sergeant,” the
Specialist said over his shoulder. “If the Doc wants to look, he’ll
come up."

“Okay then,” Deep South said under his
breath. He sat on a hard plastic chair on the corner. He kept his
right leg straight and checked his bandage for new bleeding.

A few minutes later, the PA walked into the
office ahead of the Specialist. “Good afternoon Staff Sergeant,”
said the squat Hispanic looking Major. His name tag read, “Marcos."
“Why don’t we take a look at that leg of yours,” Major Marcos said.
He reached into the desk to retrieved a pair of blue examination
gloves, and put them on while Deep South unwrapped the bandage on
his leg.

The Major used a pair of scissors to cut the
trousers away from the wound. He placed fingers on either side of
the cut and pulled it apart. “Holy crap!” he said. He gave Deep
South an accusatory look and asked him, “What the heck happened?
Did you get stabbed?”

Deep South shrugged and replied, “I guess you
could say that. I hit an IED yesterday. The firewall peeled back
and punched into my leg. I’m pretty sure nothing stayed in there,
but it’s pretty dang sore anyway.”

“You hit an IED yesterday?” the Major asked
incredulously. “Why are you here? You should be in a hospital!”

Deep South looked him in the eyes. “Major, my
entire team is dead. I have to make sure what happened to them
doesn’t happen to anybody else. Hospitals? I don’t have time for
all that. Can’t you just throw a stitch or two in there and give me
some antibiotics?”

Major Marcos prodded the wound and made
“Tsk,” noises. “Specialist, get me the iodine and some gauze. Then
bring me a suture kit." He continued examining the wound, shaking
his head. A few minutes later, Deep South was hating life as the
Major flushed the wound and wiped it roughly with an iodine soaked
sponge. He put two stitches in the muscle below the skin, and then
stitched the wound closed with six ugly stitches on top.

“Well,” the Major said, standing up straight.
“You won’t be winning any beauty contests, but I don’t suppose that
was likely anyway.”

The Specialist re-wrapped Deep South’s leg
with a clean bandage, and then handed him the bottle of
antibiotics.

Deep South stood up and tested his weight on
the leg. “That’ll work, I guess. Thank’s Doc,” he said.

Major Marcos said, “Try to take it easy Staff
Sergeant. If you don’t, you’ll end up with an infection or worse.
Got it?" He shook hands with Deep South and left the office.

Deep South stood there staring at the
Specialist for a moment. Finally, he asked, “That’s it?”

The Specialist looked at him blankly for a
second, and said, “Unless you have some other issue?”

Deep South shook his head and headed for the
door. He held up the bottle in thanks and stepped out of the
office. He was halfway down the hall when he heard the Specialist
call after him, “Are you allergic to anything, Staff Sergeant?"

“No,” he answered back. The Specialist gave
him a thumbs up and went back into his office. Deep South shook his
head and walked into the office he was to use for his report.

An hour later he knocked on Lieutenant
Colonel Griffin’s office door.

“Enter!” was the greeting from inside.

Deep South walked into the office and
centered himself on the desk. Before he could salute and report
properly the commander waved at the seat and said, “Relax Deep
South. Take a load off." Deep South set the report on the
Lieutenant Colonel’s desk and sat down.

The commander picked up the report and a new
can of Diet Dr Pepper, and sat back to read. After only a few
seconds he tossed the report back onto the desk and burped. He
didn’t apologize. “The report’s fine. Deep South, here’s the deal.
That girl of yours is all of the sudden, the hottest ticket in the
region. You’ll need to bring her in now, no questions asked.”

Deep South frowned and shook his head. “Sir,
with all due respect, I need assurances that she’ll be treated
fairly. She’s not a criminal.”

The commander’s demeanor suddenly changed. He
leveled a stern look at the big southern soldier and said, “She is
now our number one high value target." He leaned forward and set
the can on the desk. He put his elbows on the edge of the desk and
leaned even closer. “She’s one hundred percent, coming in, alive or
dead. Got it?”

Deep South bristled. “Sir, there’s more about
this that you don’t know,” he said.

“Damn it, Staff Sergeant!” Lieutenant Colonel
Griffin shouted. He stood up and slammed his fists on the desk.
“This is not a request! You will put that little traitor in cuffs
or a body bag! Every federal agency with a fancy three letter name
is on this now! They know she’s here! So you get your big southern
ass out there and bring her in, or this is the last day you’ll be
wearing rank on your collar! Am I making myself clear?" He spit
angrily in the can he just drank out of, and then took a big gulp
from the other can. He looked confused, briefly, and then angrily
pointed at the door.

Deep South resisted the urge to punch
Lieutenant Colonel Griffin in the face. Instead, he calmly stood up
and walked out of the commander’s office. “Mess with her and you’ll
be sorry,” he said under his breath. He walked out of the building
and toward the SUV. Once he was sitting in the driver seat, he
pulled out the cell phone and dialed Sergeant Lynch. It went
immediately to voice mail.
“He must have it turned off,”
Deep South thought. He noticed the battery on the phone he was
using was down to ten percent.
“Or his battery died."
He
turned his phone off to save the battery and fired up the
engine.