Path of Jen: Bloodborne (33 page)

Another panelist, a retired intelligence
analyst, countered angrily, “This is the next step in the evolution
of Islamic Terrorism! They’ve graduated from explosives to
biological warfare! This brutal action is entirely necessary in
order to stop them from reaching their goals, which are, the utter
destruction of America and the annihilation of Israel!”

The WHO spokeswoman said, “There is no proof
that this was terrorism or biological warfare! This could just as
easily be a natural phenomenon! The fear mongering and hate-speech
you are using is only making things worse!”

The helicopter zoomed in on an open square,
where figures could be seen running in all directions. It was utter
chaos. As the camera zoomed in and focused, Fouzia screamed. People
were attacking each other! Then those that were attacked, seemed to
change sides and join the attackers in brutalizing other fleeing
citizens. It was the most frightening thing she had ever seen.

Fouzia closed her eyes tightly and prayed for
the people of Al Aqaba.
“Heavenly father, please intervene. Save
the innocents…"
She choked as she thought of the children
enduring that nightmare.
“Would any survive?”

The door to the garage opened and Najid
rushed in. He ran to Fouzia and fell to his knees in front of her.
“I was listening on the radio! Don’t watch it my love!” he said as
he kissed her face and hugged her tightly. “Please, turn it off. It
will only upset you.”

Fouzia hugged her husband and buried her face
in his neck. “What if Jena is there?” she sobbed. “What if she is
trapped in that…hell?”

Najid lifted her face to meet his eyes. “Jena
is safe,” he said. He took the television remote and switched it
off. “I am the doubter, remember? Not you. I’m not guessing,
Fouzia…I feel it, my love,” he said with a forced smile. “She is
alive, and we will see her again." His lips trembled as he
spoke.

Fouzia’s heart melted seeing her husband put
on a strong face for her. She kissed him softly and hugged him
close.
“Dear Heavenly Father,”
she prayed.
“Thank you for
giving me such loving husband. Please, watch over our daughter
wherever she is. Bring her home safely to us, Lord. No matter how
long it takes; please, just bring her home to us."
She knew
Najid was praying in a similar manner, and she knew God was
listening.

They spent the evening close to each other.
They avoided the news, and anything to do with the crisis in
Jordan. Instead, they passed the time reading books, listening to
soft music, and praying together. Physical touch from her husband
was the greatest comfort to Fouzia as the night matured. When they
finally fell asleep, they were in each other’s arms.

Late the next morning, Najid went outside to
collect the mail. Among the normal advertisements, credit card
offers, and coupon flyers, was a beat-up and worn white envelope
sent from somewhere in the middle east. It had been mailed weeks
earlier, but it had no return address, and their last name was
spelled wrong. It was addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Amadee.”

Najid puzzled over the envelope for a moment
and then slipped it between the folded coupon flyers and other
mail. He tucked them all under his arm and returned to the house.
Najid dropped the mail on the kitchen counter and placed a coffee
mug under the Kuerig machine’s spout. He put a k-cup in the
receptacle, closed the lid, and pressed the blinking blue button
for a large cup. While the coffee poured into his waiting cup,
Najid retrieved the envelope and looked at it again. He turned it
over and inspected it from all angles. The handwriting was
unfamiliar to him, and he was hesitant to open it.
“Should I
wait and open it with Fouzia?”
he wondered.
“Should I wait
to call her, and open it first, in case it is terrible
news?”

The Kuerig droned as the pump engaged to suck
more water into the machine. Najid slapped the letter onto the
counter and retrieved his now full coffee mug. He took a careful
sip of the hot liquid, and rather than revisiting the letter, he
left the kitchen. He went to the living room and switched on the
television. He turned the volume down low to avoid waking Fouzia,
and sat in his favorite recliner. The news was still headlining the
Jordanian crisis. New reports were calling the tragedy the result
of sectarian violence and avoiding any mention of outbreak or
contagion.
“Interesting…”
thought Najid.
“The story has
changed dramatically from yesterday and they are working hard to
downplay the initial reports. Obviously, there was some truth to
them. It’s pathetic how blatant the deception is."

The same WHO spokeswoman from the night
before was being interviewed by another news agency. When asked why
the WHO was deploying to Al Aqaba, she said, “We are mobilizing to
Al Aqaba to provide aide to the survivors of government brutality
and a propaganda war, that incited unnecessary panic and caused the
tragedy we all witnessed yesterday. There is no threat present,
other than war planes that drop bombs on innocent women and
children.”

Photos of collapsed buildings, toppled
monuments, and multitudes of bodies covered by sheets and blankets
were shown in the background as she spoke. “It should be known that
the warplanes the Jordanians used to firebomb their own people were
sold to them by the US military,” she added, not bothering to
disguise her distaste for the western superpower.

Najid flipped through the channels and sipped
his coffee. He heard the tearing of paper behind him and looked to
the kitchen. Fouzia was unfolding the contents of the battered
white envelope and staring at the writing intently. “Fouzia?” Najid
called. “Do you know who the letter is from?”

His wife ignored his inquiries as she read
the letter. Her heart began beating faster and joyful tears came
flooding from her eyes, so many that she worried she would ruin the
letter. “Najid!” she shouted, finally. “Our daughter is alive!" She
waved the letter in the air and jumped up and down in excitement.
“Come! Read it with me!”

Najid leapt from his chair and raced to the
kitchen table, where they sat down and read the letter
together.

“
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Amadee, my name is
Dustin. I consider myself a friend of your daughter. I want you to
know that Jen is alive and well as I write this letter. She’s the
toughest woman I have ever met, and I can only imagine y’all are
good people, because she is also one of the kindest people I have
ever met. Your daughter wants to come home to you, more than
anything. She talks about you all the time. I wish I could say that
she’ll be coming home soon, but things aren’t that easy. I’m going
to help her anyway I can, so that she comes home to y’all safe and
sound. I promise you that. The problem is, some bad people have
made her out to be something she isn’t, and now she’s kind of on
the run. I can’t tell you where she is, or even where I am right
now. It wouldn’t be safe to do that. I can tell you that your
daughter definitely has the Lord on her side though. He has his
hand on her, thats for sure. Pray for her, and if you get a chance,
maybe for me too. I’ll write again when I can. - Dustin”

They read the letter over and over. Fouzia
hugged Najid so tightly that he laughed and patted her arm to let
her know it was hurting him. “She’s alive!” Fouzia cried.

“Of course she is, my love” Najid answered
with a genuine smile. “Should we call Agent House and tell him
about the letter?”

Fouzia stopped smiling and gave him a stern
look. “Don’t you dare, Najid,” she said. “This is our lifeline to
Jena. If we share it with him, he might cut it and we’d lose her
again.”

Najid nodded and smiled at her again.
“Perhaps we’ll get another letter soon,” he said. Fouzia’s smile
returned as well. They turned back to the letter and read it again,
together.

The city was ablaze as the merchant vessel
pulled away from the pier and into the Gulf of Aqaba. Jen stood on
the deck with Sergeant Lynch, listening to the distant sounds of
sirens and gunshots. The boats captain nearly left them behind when
the trouble started in the city. Luckily they arrived just as he
was firing up the engines and untying from the pier.

They were about two miles away from the port
city when they began hearing the explosion and saw the jets
shrieking overhead. “What is happening?” asked Jen, frightened.

Sergeant Lynch shrugged his athletic
shoulders and said, “Beats me. Nothing good, that’s for sure." He
swayed with the rocking of the boat and Jen bumped gently into him.
He was planted firmly on the deck and seemed to move naturally with
the ocean.

Jen was having trouble mastering that
particular skill. The next swell set her bumping into him again,
and she grabbed his tattooed arm for balance and laughed, “I’m
sorry! I don’t have my sea legs yet I guess."

“You’re doing just fine, Jen,” he said with a
grin. “I’m not complaining anyway.”

Jen blushed and turned toward the door to the
main cabin. “I think I’m going to go inside and check on Nathan."
Sergeant Lynch nodded and she went inside.

“
What the heck am I doing?”
she asked
herself.
“The world is falling apart and here I am just making
it harder for him to focus on what’s important."
She placed her
hands on either side of the ladder-well, and climbed down into the
lower deck where their living quarters were located. The living
quarters were rows of three-high racks of hammock type bunks,
lining each side along the bulkhead. Jen’s bunk was on the top
about half way down, on the starboard side. O’Bryan’s bunk was the
bottom bunk in the same rack.

“How are you holding up Marine?” asked Jen as
she knelt down beside his bunk. She had to lean down and cock her
head sideways to see him fully. There was just enough space between
bunks for a grown man to lay on his back. If O’Bryan turned on his
side, he would bump the sagging hammock of the bunk above him.

Lance Corporal O’Bryan smiled and gave her a
thumbs up. He winked his one good eye, which made Jen snort with
laughter. “How’s Sergeant Lynch holding up?” he asked. “I worry
that he is blaming himself for all of this. Has he said anything to
you?"

Jen shook her head.

“Maybe you can get him to talk about it,”
said O’Bryan. “Just try not to smile. I don’t think any man could
put his words together when you do that." Jen punched his arm, but
she blushed anyway.

“Matt says there’s a doctor the boat captain
knows at one of our stops. He’s agreed to send for him once we get
into port,” said Jen, trying to change the subject.

“That’s good,” said Lance Corporal O’Bryan.
“I’m not so worried about my leg, but I am pretty sure an infection
in my orbital socket would be…less than optimal." He chuckled and
said, “I am pretty happy about one thing."

Jen raised her eyebrows.

“I wasn’t able to wink before. The best I
could do was a lopsided blink of both eyes, but now…problem
solved,” he said, pointing at the bandage over his damaged eye.

Jen couldn’t help but laugh with him. It was
a terrible situation, but his humor was infectious.
“If only my
infection was humor,”
she wished. “Do you need anything,
Nathan?” she asked. I can hunt you down a snack or a drink if you
like.”

“Nah, I’m fine, Jen. Thank you." When Jen was
just leaning back to stand up, he reached out and touched her hand.
“Hey, Jen…about what I said. You know, about Sergeant Lynch blaming
himself.”

Jen nodded.

“The same goes for you. This wasn’t your
fault. Me getting hurt wasn’t your doing,” he said
emphatically.

Jen pulled her hand back and hung her head.
She shook it side to side, refuting his assertion that she was
blameless.

“I mean it, Jen. Knock that crap off. You
didn’t ask for any of this and you sure as heck didn’t plan it." He
touched her hand again and said, “Remember, I’ve seen you play Halo
and Call of Duty. Let’s just say you’re no great military planner
or operator." He pulled his hand back and laughed when Jen tried to
punch his arm again.

“You’re a brat, Nathan,” she said as she
laughed through the emotions his kindness brought to the surface.
She wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Thank you for protecting me,” she
said softly.

Jen climbed up onto the top bunk and rolled
into her hammock. The steel frame held the canvas hammock taught,
but years of moisture, sweat, and heavy sailors made it sag in the
middle. Even so, it was surprisingly comfortable, and combined with
the gently rocking boat and rumbling engines, Jen fell asleep in
just a few minutes.

Jen’s dreams took her to a place she had been
avoiding. She was traveling down a hot deserted highway, with her
bare feet on the dash and her seat leaned back slightly. She looked
out the window to see rows and rows of palm trees rushing by. The
trees gave way to lush farmland where shepherds walked with sheep
and goats, and young boys bathed in man-made canals. Women dressed
in black burkhas watched over naked toddlers playing in the dust
and dirt near small homes built of mud and brick.

Jen looked to the left and her breath caught
in her chest. Her heart began beating faster, and she felt a smile
appear involuntarily on her face. A big, strong, and ruggedly
handsome soldier sat next to her, driving the SUV they traveled in.
He glanced at her, flashing his blu-gray eyes at hers, and making
her feel suddenly warmer. Deep South reached across the center
console and put his hand on hers. Their fingers interlaced
naturally, and Jen felt an electric current race through her
body.

He turned his eyes back to the road ahead,
but drew their hands toward him. He softly kissed the back of her
hand, and Jen watched his lips curl into a warm smile. Her heart
melted and she sunk back into her seat, overcome with
happiness.