True Valor (15 page)

“Maybe. Rebel raids at least.”

Syria tended to look the other way as remnants of the Kurdish Workers’ Party fighting Turkey’s control of the southeast districts retreated into Syria and Iraq as safe havens. Turkey had reacted with military raids in the past, going after the rebels, but the politics of the moment were sensitive. Turkey wanted approval to upgrade its roughly two hundred F-16s, and escalating tensions with Syria didn’t help their case.

To keep the tension under control, NATO had extended its ground observations of the Turkish borders with Syria and Iraq. There were too many NATO troops in Turkey not to worry about the constant terrorism threat the rebels represented.

The SEALs were spread out in two-man teams along this particular set of steeps. As Turkey closed off one path, the rebels created another. Locating those new routes was the sole objective of nights like this. Bruce was content to be out with friends; it was a useful exercise to hone his own night navigation skills. They were looking for men and backpacks, the movement of weapons often done by foot soldiers in the rebel cause.

“It’s been quiet lately in this sector,” Wolf commented. “Too quiet?”

“To have percolated up to the highest level of the Syrian government, whatever that defector had to say, it’s going to be something bigger than even a coordinated set of terrorist strikes. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Syrian army realigning itself and shift out of Lebanon, then come north.”

“What a happy thought that is,” Wolf commented, scanning the terrain.

Bruce watched a flight of planes high overhead go toward Iraq. Routine night flights had also been increased, an unusual action that suggested they were monitoring electronic signal traffic much closer than they had in the past. Stepped up surveillance without obvious cause was an indication the military was acting based on possibilities, probing to find out what had concrete underpinnings.

“Did you hear from Jill?”

“I got a care package with a mushy card,” Wolf replied. “Did you hear from Grace?”

“A really nice letter.”

Wolf looked over at him and good-naturedly shoved his shoulder. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Write her back. What are you going to do about Jill?”

“Go home.”

Bruce smiled. “Good answer.” Wolf would be leaving at the end of next week. There was nothing that would make Jill happier. Bruce was heading home in a couple weeks too.

“There.” Wolf lowered his binoculars and pointed to the east. “1.4 miles, past the knoll. Four men.”

TURKEY/IRAQ BORDER

The fighter planes were flying high tonight, mere ghosts passing across the stars. He sat back on his heels when he noticed the formation of three aircraft and tracked them by turning his body as they flew east. He was an old man and he had seen many flights of military planes. There were only three planes tonight instead of the normal four.

One pilot had the misfortune of passing into a thermal temperature gradient, and the jet exhaust left a contrail of ice crystals behind to mark his path across the sky. The moonlight showed the upper winds dispersing it into an ever widening line.

The campfire popped and sparks flew. The gnarled wood sputtered as the small amounts of sap inside sizzled. The warmth the fire reflected was welcome, for the change in temperature from day to night was marked; his bones protested and his joints ached.

He was hungry but he did not reach for the small iron cooking pot. There was enough dinner for only one, and his grandson would need to eat when he returned. The hesitation he had felt about bringing the boy on this reconnaissance trip had faded. His grandson had been useful. The boy could go where the mountain goats ran with an ease he could only envy. Whether the boy’s father could be trusted to remain quiet was another matter.

He thought of his family as he stirred the fire and felt a weariness fed from disappointment. He had hoped in his lifetime to pass on to his children something better than what he had been born into, but his time was almost gone. He had been born in a refugee camp, and it looked like he would die still displaced from a homeland. There was no place for his people in a Europe remaking itself.

He knew the fire made his camp visible to the radar sweeping the ground but he let it burn bright. He was on the safe side of the Turkey/Iraq border, and they would merely note his presence. Each month at the full moon he made this journey, and tomorrow he would have to think about such things as hiding the fire. There were still occasionally Navy SEALs prowling the area stopping the most egregious of the weapons trading that happened throughout this area, men much like those he had escorted a decade ago into Iraq during the war, men he still considered friends. They were to be avoided now if only because he was too old to find a new path each month and so would protect the one he now had.

The Kurdish uprising in northern Iraq, the freedom fighters finding safe haven in Albania: His brothers were all around this area, all fighting for that same sense of homeland. And everywhere his brothers went, the Americans came. They came with NATO; they came with the United Nations. The names changed but not the truth. The Americans came.

Within a few hundred miles of his camp there were three divisions of the Turkish army, two divisions of the Iraqi army, nine terrorist training camps in the desert, two no-fly zones that required a U.S. aircraft battle group to support, and over eight thousand United Nation and NATO peacekeepers. There was room here for everyone but the people who had lived on the land for centuries.

He read the U.S. newspapers and followed the debate on how internationalist a posture America should take in the new administration. He read the opinion pieces and the letters and the editorial pages and he found the lack of understanding amazing.

America had not fought a land battle on her own homeland since the eighteen hundreds. No, the Americans fought their wars on the other side of the oceans, far from their own shores, here on
his
homeland. They came and imposed their no-fly zones and strove to block people’s dreams for freedom.

He turned the stick and the glowing tip turned bright red. He wished he could turn his quest as hot.

He couldn’t bring the war to their homeland; that was the ambition of greater men than himself. But around him the unrest was stirring. It just needed a strong breath to bring the spark to life. He could reach into the sky and pluck down a plane. He could turn their ambition to be everywhere into a liability.

They would leave.

Send a plane, maybe two planes, into the sand or the shimmering sea and the Americans would decide they would move to another place. They would leave the situation on the ground to the Europeans who had long practiced live and let live when it came to territorial compromises. Europeans understood compromise was needed to fix centuries of artificial boundaries in the land. What Russia had done centuries before needed to be rectified, not set in cement lines on a map.

One man, a few missiles. He had no desire to kill a pilot, no desire to see men on the ground sent to hunt for him. But if it would bring peace, maybe it was worth the price. He thought about it as he watched the fire. He would have to disappear as men came on the ground to hunt him. He would need stored provisions, enough for months, left throughout this area.

“Grandfather.”

He looked up and he smiled as his grandson returned. “Bring it to the fire and you may open it.”

The boy carried a burlap knapsack with him, retrieved from under the rock ledge where the desert hawks had once nested. From the bag came a parcel wrapped in gray cloth to protect it. The wooden box was hand carved. The wood top slid to one side to reveal a heavy parchment paper.

He accepted the paper from his grandson and read the request by the firelight. The items his brothers prayed he would bring them were few compared to months in the past. It was yet more tangible proof that their numbers were dwindling. The younger men had given up hope of change and did not join as they once had. His own son was one of them.

“What does it say, Grandfather?”

He ruffled the boy’s hair. “That there is still work for old men to do.”

He proposed to take on a nation. It was the work of younger men, but none were here. He still believed he could change things. It was an act of valor to stand for his people. And the history he studied said, at least for a round or two, it was possible that he might even be the victor.

There were other elders to talk to, consensus to be formed. His actions would affect many. He had time. It was the only thing he truly had. The Maker had given it to all men equally. “Eat. And tell me again about your dreams for when you are as old as me.”

The boy laughed and eagerly began to talk.

TURKEY/SYRIAN BORDER

“What is that they are carrying?” Wolf asked, dialing in a tighter focus, trying to figure it out.

Bruce could just pick out the detail as the single file line of men moved down a steep incline, following the contours of the land. The men in the middle of the line were carrying something between them on a pole. Whatever it was, it weighed enough to bow the pole it was lashed to. “It looks like a sheep.”

“They are heading from Turkey back into Syria. Poaching?” Wolf speculated.

“Food is now something to steal at night from your enemies. It tells you something about the seriousness of the situation within Syria,” Bruce agreed.

They watched the line of men disappear.

Bruce had a feeling they were watching the tip of a coming conflict. Wars had been fought for land, for oil. They were on the verge of fighting one for water if the drought continued. The pressure on livestock, on agriculture, on people’s basic need for water would be the match that ignited it.

Turkey had agreements linking Syria’s antiterrorism efforts to guaranteed amounts of water flow from the Euphrates. But agreements could not dictate drought. Already there were grumbles about the new dam at Birecik, Turkey, and charges of water being unfairly diverted. They could cut off rebel routes and stop weapon sales, but until the tension in the region abated, the odds were better that events would surge toward violence than retreat toward peace.

Bruce lowered his binoculars. “We may be heading stateside, but I’ve got a feeling we will be back.”

Sixteen

* * *

JUNE 12

N
ORFOLK
, V
IRGINIA

“What time is Wolf’s flight getting in?”

“1340—uh, 1:40 p.m. I’m even talking like them now.” Jill flung open the door to her closet. “Terri, can I borrow your shoes, the red flats?”

“You’re going to wear the dress.”

Jill looked with longing at the red and white sundress still hanging under plastic. “It’s for tonight. The new blouse and jeans. The red flats should match.” She’d gone shopping for Wolf’s return, and most items coming home had been red. She didn’t have shoes to match.

“I’ll bring them with me to the office.”

“Thanks. I’ll stop on the way in and check if Jim’s landlord was able to get the water leak fixed. Can you handle the bank deposit today?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a gem. See you in a few.” Jill rushed through getting ready, took the stairs down two at a time, wondering where she had left her purse. “Let’s go, Emily!”

She opened the refrigerator and didn’t have to count juice bottles. There was only one left. She had ordered in several cases early on so she could count down the days with them. Wolf’s flight was coming into Naval Air Station, Oceana. There were several transports arriving with gear and men, and she wasn’t sure if the SEAL contingent had its own flight or was part of a larger group. It wasn’t a matter of if she would be early, it was a question of how early. She hoped she hadn’t overdone the homecoming.

She hadn’t been able to get to sleep last night. She was so nervous about today. Twelve weeks. She hoped the reunion lived up to Wolf’s expectations. She paused to read again the note on the refrigerator. Her mushy card had gotten her a mushy note in return. Wolf had surprised her.

I miss you. I miss your laughter. your perfume. your smiles. your pretty eyes. your phone calls that wake me up. your shoes left under my couch. your lipstick in my car. your purse left wherever we were just at.

I want your company. a long walk at the park. a day at the beach. a movie watched from the back row. a day picking out mushy cards for each other.

I miss you, Jill.

A line of
X
s and
O
s ran in a heart around the words. The reunion almost made up for the separations. Almost.

“Emily! Come on. It’s time to leave, honey.”

She was relieved when the dog appeared from the living room, wagging her tail. Jill bent down and kissed her muzzle. “Good morning, beautiful.” She was half afraid the dog was going to die of old age before her brother returned. “Let’s go.”

NAVAL AIR STATION, OCEANA

Jill was glad she had remembered to bring sunscreen. The sun was hot and the breeze nonexistent. Wolf was coming back as part of a much larger contingent of soldiers rotating between Norfolk and Turkey. The southeast end of the parking lot along the runway had been turned into a welcome home area with a large open side tent and tables to give families a place to wait for the flight.

The plane arrived five minutes ahead of schedule to an enthusiastic chorus of cheers. Her first sight of Wolf was in a stream of guys coming off the transport; he was wearing a floppy hat that had a small American flag in the brim. She laughed at that classic Wolf gesture. He looked good, so deeply tanned it merged with his desert cammies. He was with his buddies, Cougar on one side and Bear on the other.