Blaze of Glory (43 page)

She made no complaints. She had been treated far better than she deserved. Perhaps they understood that she was a victim trying to save the lives of the parents she loved. Still, she had participated—unwilling as she was—in an effort to kill not one, but twenty world leaders. Others would consider it a selfish act, and she would agree. Had she been older, wiser, able to think more clearly, she might have been able to make the hard decision to let the two people she loved most be tortured and killed. There was a reason, she realized, why these people selected young, more impressionable, more easily frightened women.

It was no excuse. She had no excuses. People with various badges and identifications quizzed her until she dissolved into convulsive sobs. She knew so very little, had so little to offer. If she could, she’d lead the authorities to the front door of the men who had manipulated her, but she couldn’t.

Her emotions moved like a ball on a professional tennis court. One moment she feared what would happen to her; the next she didn’t care. The only emotion that remained constant was the fear she felt for her parents. Not knowing their fate devoured her strength and hope.

The front door opened and the man she had spoken to many times entered. “Hello, Delaram.” Captain De Luca had always been firm, probing, but polite.

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Does it matter?”

He didn’t respond and she had no idea what she’d expected. He motioned to a padded chair in the living room. Next to it sat a small table with a phone that looked as if it had been manufactured fifty years before. She sat and De Luca pulled an ottoman close and lowered himself until he was seated.

“Delaram, there is someone who wishes to speak to you.”

“Who?”

He raised a finger indicating she should wait. The phone rang a moment later and De Luca snatched up the handpiece. He greeted the caller, then listened for a moment. He handed the phone to her.

“Who is it?”

De Luca waved the phone at her. “Take it.”

“Hello?”

“Delaram, this is Tess. We spoke over a video link the other day.”

She recognized the voice. “I remember.”

“There is someone who wants to speak to you. Please hold the line.”

Now what? What was going—

“Delaram?”

Her heart stopped.
“Mother?”

Sobbing came over the line.

“Mother, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but your father . . . your father . . .” More sobs.

“Is he . . . dead?”

“Yes.”

Delaram slid from the chair to her knees and wept into the phone.

COLONEL MAC LEANED OVER his well-used desk and glanced over the team report. He probed for every detail and knew every word in the document was true. Still, even he had trouble believing it. As far as the world was concerned, two suicide bombers tried to disrupt the G-20 meeting in Naples, resulting in the death of scores of people. What the world didn’t know was what happened inside the
Miramare Hotel Grande.
News of the bomb-laden yacht could not be kept secret. Clearly an orchestrated attack had occurred, an attack designed to disrupt or kill some of the world leaders. What the newspapers and news shows did not carry was Delaram’s nearly successful attempt to assassinate the presidents of the United States and Mexico, as well as other leaders who had declared a war on drugs.

Rumors leaked from a small village northeast of Monterrey, Mexico, but few paid attention. The idea that U.S. military would fly over a sovereign nation as well as wage a ground war seemed beyond the ability of even conspiracy theorists to believe.

But there were several who believed it.

They had lived it.

He was proud of each one.

EPILOGUE

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY IN Arlington, Virginia, smelled of green grass. Row upon row of white headstones bore mute testimony to the cost of freedom, to the price paid by the few for the many. Too many remained forgotten except by family. The public acknowledged their sacrifice on a day or two each year. More than three hundred thousand individuals lay in the 624 acres—some dating back to the Civil War.

Here rested heroes. Here rested men and women who loved country over self. So many gravestones; so many white, rigid marble headstones. Rivalry among the service had no place here. Army heroes were the same as Navy heroes, Air Force the same as Marine.

Eight men stood around one grave. The headstone read SGT. 1ST CLASS BRIAN TAYLOR, UNITED STATES ARMY. Jerry Zinsser stood closest to the covered grave. Taylor had been buried two months before, but Zinsser wasn’t able to leave the hospital until two weeks after and was unable to travel for several more weeks. It had been J. J.’s idea to hold a second service, and his brother agreed to say a few words.

Standing with Zinsser and Chaplain Bartley were men he now counted as friends: Colonel MacGregor, Eric Moyer, J. J. Bartley—leaning on a cane—Pete Rasor, Jose Medina, and Rich Harbison—Boss, Colt, Junior, Doc, and Shaq.

Zinsser kept his eyes fixed on the grave as Bartley read from the Bible. Time seemed to stretch. Seconds and minutes had no value to Zinsser. Time had stopped until he heard the voice of Colonel Mac: “Group ten-
hut!
”

Zinsser straightened his spine and squared his shoulders.

“Present arms!”

With painstaking slowness, the soldiers, dressed in their dress blues, raised their arms in the traditional salute. Zinsser’s hand began to shake. A few steps away a bugler played “Taps,” the mournful tune crossing the cemetery as it did almost every day.

The men eased their salutes then went to “at ease.”

Zinsser lowered his head and began to weep. He was suddenly aware of someone standing beside him. On his left was the massive form of Rich Harbison. On his right stood Moyer. The others gathered behind him.

Rich put a hand on Zinsser’s shoulder.

JERRY SAT AT THE end of the table in the pizza parlor where he first spent time with the team. Moyer sat to his right; the others were gathered around the table. Several nearly empty pizza pans littered the table. It had only been a few weeks since he came to in the hospital. His days had been filled with bag after bag of antibiotics and later physical therapy. Almost every day one of the team members came by to visit. At first he assumed they were there to encourage J. J. who, in some hospital humor, had been assigned to share a room with him. Both had been transported from Texas to the hospital at Fort Jackson. J. J. was released four days later but had to return for physical therapy several times a week. Each time he did, he came by to share his brand of joy and lousy jokes. As time passed, Zinsser began to look forward to the days. He even began to appreciate hearing J. J. talk about his faith.

Much of his focus rested on what the Army would do to him. He had not been forthcoming about his problems; he had even lied on several occasions. The one thing that ate at him the most was how close he had come to harming Moyer and destroying the mission.

The others considered him a hero. Rumor had it that Moyer had put his name in for a commendation. Zinsser hoped it was nothing more than a rumor. Most of his heroics had been done in hope that a bad guy would do for him what he could not do for himself—bring death close and personal.

Yet he continued to survive, and he didn’t know why. J. J. said God had plans for him, but Zinsser doubted it, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. Still he listened.

First time he sat around this table, he saw only a bunch of men, strangers linked only by uniform and training. Now he saw friends, co-patriots, fellow warriors, each willing to die for the others.

Their missions had been largely successful although each man regretted not being able to save the other hostages. They had done their best, saved the lives of their president and a score of other world leaders, but the innocent dead haunted them.

What they did would only be known by a few. Friends and family would be forever in the dark. Just as well. Few would believe it anyway.

“How long you gonna keep us in suspense, Zinsser?” Rich leaned his elbows on the table. “You called this get-together.”

“Can’t a man just want a pizza with friends?”

“Friends?” Rich said. “Now I’m blushing.”

“Okay, Rich, you’re right. I did have a reason for asking you guys to be here.” He looked at Moyer. “Have you said anything?”

Moyer shook his head. “Nope. Not my place.”

“Of course it’s your place, Boss, but thanks.” Zinsser took a deep breath and let it out. He felt less anxiety doing the HAHO jump. “I’m leaving the team.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

“Come on, guys, you knew it would come to this. I’ve been seeing the doctors—head doctors, I mean—and we’ve been talking about my little problem.”

“You have a problem?” Pete looked around. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Then you must be in a coma. Let me get this out. I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Not that that is news to you, but the doctors think it helps when I say it out loud. Things have gotten better. I’m not as depressed and I don’t think about offing myself any more. Still, I’m not cured and there’s a good chance I never will be.”

He leaned over the table and interlaced his fingers. “I very nearly blew everything. I was so lost in myself and in my . . . problems. You’ll be happy to know the voices have stopped.”

“At least you were never alone,” Rich quipped.

“Alone isn’t always bad—at least, that kind of alone.”

J. J. spoke softly. “They’re not drumming you out of the Army, are they?”

“No, but they gave me the opportunity to walk away.”

J. J. looked away. “So you’re going back to civilian life.”

“Nah, I don’t fit out there. The Army is my family. I’m just changing directions. I won’t be going on any more ops—for obvious reasons. Flashbacks tend to be a little distracting.”

“So what are you going to do?” Jose asked.

“I’m going to teach at the Advanced Individual Training Infantry School. Someone has to whip new recruits into usable soldiers.”

“That’s great,” J. J. said. “New guys will love you.”

Moyer pinned J. J. with a look. “Did
you
love your AIT instructors?”

“Well, not so much.”

The others laughed.

“It was Boss’s idea. He put in a good word and so did Colonel Mac.”

Moyer grinned. “As I recall, the president threw his considerable weight behind the idea.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have the influence you do,” Zinsser said.

“That’s true.” Moyer nodded. “It is wonderful to be me.”

“You’ll be a great instructor, Jerry,” Rich said. He looked down. “I’ve been meaning to tell you—”

“Stop right there, big guy. If you’re about to apologize then don’t. I don’t want your apology. I’d rather you paid for the pizza.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” Rich said with a smile.

Zinsser lowered his voice. “I only had the opportunity to do one mission with you—”

“On two continents,” J. J. said.

“True. Now shut up and let me finish. As I was saying: One mission might not be much, but I consider it the highlight of my service. If you guys need anything, then come to me. I’ll do whatever I can. Thanks for being there for me.” He turned to Moyer. “Thanks for the second chance.”

“I knew we’d need you. I’m more than a pretty face, you know.”

“Maybe you should be seeing the doctors I’ve been seeing.”

“When do you start?” Pete asked.

“I still have some physical therapy to do and more psych evals, but soon. I’ve also been talking to J. J.’s brother. He’s helping me deal with some of the guilt issues I have. Among other things.”

“The chaplain is a good man,” Jose said. “He was there for my family when we needed him.”

Moyer picked up his drink. “As far as we’re concerned, Data, you will always be part of this team.” He raised his plastic cup. The others followed suit. “To Data.”

“To Data.”