Veiled Freedom (45 page)

“As to family, my grandfather's still alive and kicking. And my mom remarried when I was in my teens. Not armed forces, a pediatrician. He's been good to her, and they've got a couple kids of their own, a boy and a girl just hitting their teens. I don't see much of them—been overseas since they were out of diapers—but they're decent kids. Blame them I can recognize a
Lion King
soundtrack when I hear it. Now, you did remember your passport?”

They had just pulled up to a security checkpoint. A gate beyond marked the entrance to Camp Phoenix. While an Afghan guard used a mirror on the end of a steel pole to check their undercarriage, an expat soldier with a red, white, and blue flag on his lapel emerged from a concrete guard box with a clipboard. Taking Amy's passport as she dug it from her shoulder bag, Steve passed it out with his own. “Steve Wilson, Condor Security, and party for the Thanksgiving service.”

The soldier ran a pen down the clipboard, then rifled through the passports. “Your outfit's on the list. Go on through.”

Handing back her passport, Steve grinned at Amy as he drove through the gate. “You're not strictly CS, but I was crossing my fingers an American passport would get you through. Now, are you ready for some toe-tapping holiday fun? Because you can count on that from Garwood and crew.”

No man with such capacity for aggravation should have access to that irresistible smile. Amy grinned despite herself. Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and she felt warmed through. Whatever had earlier troubled her companion, he'd evidently pushed it aside to enjoy the day, and Amy made up her mind to do the same. “I'm more salsa than toe-tapping, but lead on.”

On the outskirts of Kabul, Camp Phoenix was as sprawled out as a small town. Dirt alleys between prefabricated huts and shipping containers converted to living quarters were so slick with melting snow that Amy was thankful for her walking boots as well as Steve's firm grip at her elbow. The holiday service was being held in the recreation center, a huge Quonset hut where sports equipment had been pushed back for folding chairs now filled with winter fatigues. Among the uniforms was a scattering of civilian dress, including Steve's contractor friend, Phil Myers. Amy's cheeks grew hot as she intercepted Phil's knowing glance and the sudden ironic line of her companion's mouth.

The uniformed jazz chorus on a makeshift platform was as toe-tapping as promised, and by the time a lively Christmas medley had the audience clapping and stamping along, Amy was enjoying herself. Perhaps one reason she'd pushed Thanksgiving from her mind was the depressing recognition that she'd be with neither family nor friends, the date just another workday. But among these servicemen and women, the snow falling softly in her mind if no longer in sight, it felt like the holidays for the first time.

Maybe they weren't family, but they were her countrymen, and Amy was surprised at a fierce surge of patriotic pride as she looked around. Every soldier here was a volunteer, most so young they could be her college-age siblings, all away from home for the holidays to serve their country. And regardless of political wrangling, no one could deny these men and women as a body had served with dignity and honor and decency unmatched.

“‘I'll be home for Christmas . . .'”

As the audience joined in fervently, Amy found herself swallowing hard. She stole a glance at Steve, whose strong baritone rose without self-consciousness above her soprano. This had once been Steve's world, and despite civilian dress, he still fit into this group as though he belonged in fatigues.

Then as a tall, powerfully built African American man in Army chaplain uniform began to speak, Amy straightened up to listen. This must be Steve's friend. The chaplain might have been anywhere from forty to sixty, his fitness making it hard to estimate age, head and face shaved clean so there was no hint of gray.

“‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' Maybe that doesn't sound like a Thanksgiving theme to you. Me, I'm a Louisiana boy, and I had no idea what that meant until I flew in over the Hindu Kush a few years back in the dead of winter. We were fighting a little group called al-Qaeda who'd just hit our homeland and killed a few thousand of our people. I was edgy and nervous, a feeling you all know, and I couldn't help wondering if our Chinook helicopter was in the crosshairs of some Stinger missile as we dropped into the most desolate country I'd ever seen. Then I saw the snow, mountains of it, so sparkling white it didn't make sense anymore to apply that color to human beings who were tan and beige and pink, but certainly not what I was looking at.”

A ripple of chuckles.

“And I understood for the first time that God's promise meant every bit of ugliness in my life could be scrubbed as clean and white as that snow. Isn't that what the Christmas season that starts today is all about? In the darkest, deadest winter of human desolation, God stepped into our world in the person of Jesus Christ, blanketing the ugliness of our sin and despair with the pure, clean beauty of God's love and mercy and redemption. As Isaiah tells us in chapter 1, verse 18, ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' That's the true promise of Christmas.”

The fatigues poured out of the rec hall after the final song. Steve's hand again cupped Amy's elbow as they waded forward against the stream. Phil had made his way forward too and was speaking to the chaplain when Steve and Amy reached the platform.

The chaplain's face lit up as he saw Steve. “Wilson! Glad you could make it.” A powerful grip almost crushed Amy's hand. “Nice to meet you, Amy Mallory. I'm Robert Garwood, though the troops call me Rev. And I'm glad you've pulled yourselves away from your other Thanksgiving celebrations to drop by.”

The chaplain's wide grin was contagious. Amy smiled at him. “Actually, I hadn't expected to celebrate Thanksgiving, so this is a wonderful treat. And I loved your sermon. I was just thinking of that same passage when it started snowing today. I'm from Miami.”

“Then you know just what I mean.” Rev Garwood beamed at Amy. “I've still got a half hour before liftoff, and I hear they're saving us turkey in the mess hall. You got time to join us?”

Steve's cocked eyebrow her way gave Amy no direction, so she made up her own mind. She liked the chaplain as she'd liked Steve's other acquaintance Phil. Why were the security contractor's friends so much easier to get along with than Steve himself? “I'd love to. Oh, and your singing group was incredible. Are they all armed forces too?”

“You bet—the best Fort Bragg has to offer,” the chaplain agreed. “My first chaplain posting was at Fort Bragg just when Wilson and Myers were coming through. They were both in my congregation till they shipped overseas. Myers here can't sing a note, but Wilson was my lead baritone when he wasn't disappearing on some op or other.”

Steve interjected dryly, “What he isn't telling you is that before he switched sides to a backward collar, he was the toughest, meanest survival instructor in Special Ops, and we were terrified to say no when he ordered us to be in the front row Sunday morning—or sing in his choir. Or that when 9/11 came along, though he was well past recall age, he was first in line to volunteer for Afghanistan with us. There are guys who'll never forget who was with them in the back of an evac chopper, Phil here being one of them.”

The chaplain's chuckle at Amy's disbelieving look was rich and deep. But at the last statement, he sobered and gripped Steve's forearm. “You know all the rocket launchers in the Taliban's arsenal couldn't have kept me home.”

“I know. That's why we're here instead of at DynCorp's beer bash. Just wish you had more time.”

The chaplain's other huge grip was around Phil's forearm. Amy swallowed again as the three men exchanged looks. There was a brotherhood forged under the heat and sweat and adrenaline and fear of battle neither she nor any other civilian could fully understand. But she couldn't miss the almost-palpable bond between these very different men, and it was giving Amy a whole new image of the skeptic with abrupt manners and caustic tongue who'd so unexpectedly invited her here today.

Rev Garwood released his grip. “So who's joining Ms. Mallory and me for turkey?”

Phil shook his head. “I've got a date with my kids on Skype.” He nodded at Amy. “A pleasure to see you again. Steve, about that other, will I catch you later?”

“Count on it.” Something in the two men's exchanged glance carried Amy back to that grim look she'd noticed when Steve picked her up. But the security contractor was smiling as he and Amy walked with the chaplain to the mess hall.

As promised, the chef was keeping hot a food bar of turkey and all the traditional Thanksgiving trimmings.

Rev Garwood led Steve and Amy to a quiet corner. “I sure was tickled it worked out to cross paths with you here, Will. How long has it been since you rotated out? Five years? More? Too long!” The chaplain murmured a short grace, then turned to Amy. “Wilson was one of the most dedicated soldiers I've ever known. We've sure been sorry to lose him from Special Ops.”

As Amy stole a glance at Steve's wooden expression, Rev Garwood turned back to her companion. “Which is why I sure wish you'd come back inside.”

When Steve didn't answer, the chaplain added forcibly, “Come on. You've got to be bored doing guard duty by now. Don't you know we've been bleeding out Special Ops personnel these last years like a slit jugular? We need you.”

Steve's silence dragged out uncomfortably until he lifted his head to meet Rev Garwood's fierce gaze directly. “You know why I got out. I still believe in the team, but I can't support the mission. Not after what I've seen over here. What I'm still seeing. I fought once to put these people in power. I won't lift a finger to keep them there. And if I had my way, we wouldn't spend another drop of American blood doing so. I'd have thought you of all people would understand.”

The force with which Steve put down a fork rattled his tray. “We've talked about this before. We call these people moderates, welcome them as our allies, if they promise not to cross the ocean and blow us up. And yet we're propping up regimes that make it a capital crime for their own citizens to worship God as they choose. You want to call that building a democracy? I don't.”

“You think I don't recognize that?” The chaplain looked troubled, a hand running across his shaved scalp. “There are people in prison and dying in this part of the world for their faith in the name I serve. Believe me, I don't take that lightly. But what's the alternative? The consensus back home is if we can just stay engaged in the zone, things
will
get better as the locals learn by our example what human rights and freedom are all about.”

“It'll never happen,” Steve said. “Not while sharia's the law of the land. Oh, sure, if we throw around enough money and blood, we might eventually bring some lessening of violence, even stability. But freedom?”

Again, Amy caught that harsh bleakness in his tone. “Right here in Kabul this year, we've had journalists sentenced to death. Religious converts arrested for apostasy. And those are just the government-sponsored acts. Forget little things like corruption or drug dealing. Meanwhile, they haven't so much as seen their aid packages skip a beat.

“As long as we keep pumping aid and military support into Islamic fundamentalist regimes without any serious accountability, why should they believe we're serious about optional little items like human rights and freedom? or anything else but catching terrorists in their backyard instead of ours?”

“And letting the region disintegrate into civil war is a better option?” Rev Garwood shook his head. “You know what a bloodbath there'd be if we walked out of here tomorrow.”

“If our presence is the only thing keeping this country from reverting to savagery, what does that say about its people?” Steve asked. “If they want to fight it out among themselves, let them. If they attack us, slap them down hard. But if we don't quit making deals with the enemy, we're going to compromise ourselves literally to death, at least as far as freedom of conscience goes. Because unlike us, they have no intention of compromising. Why should they when we're happy to do that for them? And that's what I can't forgive.”

Steve's mouth twisted wryly. “Which is another reason you wouldn't want me in uniform anymore. I'd never be able to keep my mouth shut about how I feel. Not all superior officers are as forgiving as you.”

“Yeah, well, forgiving is also part of my business. And I can hardly order you to drop and give me forty these days.”

Amy might have thought the two men had forgotten her presence, but as Rev Garwood let out a deep sigh, he turned to her. “As you can see, we'll have to agree to disagree. Forgive us for getting carried away. Now I need to get my crew on the road if we're to catch that chopper back to Bagram.”

As the chaplain rose, so did his entourage across the mess hall. His large hand enfolded Amy's again. “It really was a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Wilson, it's always good to see you. I'd have liked to get into Kabul to check out what you and Myers are up to these days. In Iraq at least I was allowed off-base to visit some historic churches. Not that you'll find those in Afghanistan. And if there are any Christians, they're smart enough to keep themselves hidden well away, especially since that convert you mentioned was arrested.”

“And there you are,” Steve put in forcefully. “Our new allies are happy to have you hold the line against the Taliban and rebuild their wells and schools. But you can't visit an Afghan Christian without worrying about one or both of you being killed. Now why did you say we're staying?”

The chaplain laughed and patted Steve on the back. “No, you're not going to draw me into that again. Fact is, we need men like you. But uniform or not, I haven't the slightest doubt if the time comes that you're really needed, you'll be boots on the ground and running—in the right direction.”