21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (27 page)

Stormer’s mocha-colored skin and Amerasian features combined to make her a stunner. She may have turned down a career as a brilliant runway model, but she made an excellent Marine. Roxy was born in Puerto Rico and descended from Cuban immigrants with a little Russian to give her Latin looks a pair of the most incredible blue eyes.

Jazz took a picture of the three of them and planned to email it the next chance she got. Ten months since she’d enjoyed a rapturous night of fantasy in Las Vegas, she missed Zach and Logan more every day. It might as well have been ten years. She’d managed a weekend escape to Germany. Four days of bliss with Logan spent naked and hot, then another brief three days in Italy, but only Zach made it over for that trip.

Today’s exercise required sitting inside a private classroom at the University of Bamyan. Their audience was a group of Afghani girls whose American counterparts would be trying out for cheerleading at home. These girls and their mothers were as far removed from those experiences as possible. Jazz’s team had been making the rounds throughout the region, inviting women to the university’s slowly restored campus in an effort to engage them with academic possibilities, while learning more about their needs. Stormer led today’s conversation.

Most of the women, even in the larger cities, wouldn’t talk to the U.S. military’s male representatives. The FET relied on the double-X chromosome of its Marines to bridge that cultural barrier. Currently, they experienced a forty percent success rate. They’d invited over a hundred women—forty had shown up.

They’d seen fewer.

“Jazz?” Stormer’s nudge pulled her from her internal musings. Many of the older women wore veils across their faces despite the region’s Buddhist history, thanks to the influence of the Taliban. The younger girls dropped their veils as soon as they had entered the building, but maintained their head scarves or
hijab
. Unlike their mothers, the teens dressed in brighter, vibrant colors—exotic birds amidst the drab.

“We want to help provide the education you wish to have.” Jazz used Pashtu, the most commonly spoken language in the region. Even those who didn’t speak it fluently understood it. Even with her bad accent.

A couple of the younger girls snickered, the sound so reminiscent of the way a teen should sound, Jazz’s heart ached. An older woman silenced the giggling pair with a stern look, but Jazz simply smiled. “We understand that our ways are not yours. While we can make recommendations based on our studies, we believe in self-determination. We want to know what you as mothers wish for your daughters, and what your daughters wish for themselves. We’ve restored much of the university, and we can help arrange for instructors—female instructors, if you wish—in areas of agriculture, writing, reading, science. Whatever you want to study, we can find a way to make that happen.”

Two or three of the younger girls leaned forward. The motion was nearly imperceptible, but she saw interest glint in their gazes. If they reached only one girl, these missions were considered a success. The mothers kept their expressions neutral, save for one, who glanced at her daughter with regret.

She wanted that for her child. An opportunity Jazz might pursue to keep the dialogue open. The meetings always began with Roxy introducing them, describing their mission, and setting the women at ease. She possessed that motherly quality in addition to being proficient with fifty-caliber guns and a master at hand-to-hand combat. After Roxy, Stormer typically took over to work on the logistics of how such an education benefited the girls.

Jazz was the closer. She read people almost as well as she did inventory reports. She knew which girls to target afterward, and when to gently leverage the pressure in order to help them overcome the innate fear of change. The brutal heel of the Taliban continued to press down on their necks long after the regime was on the run.

She could cheerfully string up every hypocritical bastard who’d constructed a system of government that classified its women somewhere below its goats.

Because they sure as hell treated the goats better
.

Focusing on the turquoise-outfitted teen, Jazz leaned back against the desk. Her team tried not to stand or pace. Their standard flak jackets and fatigues created a worrisome enough effect, but their ability to be casual earned them greater access to the secluded minds that fought against hope.

“Badria, your name means moonlike.”

Happiness lightened the girl’s expression. Yes, Jazz had paid attention to their murmured introductions. “The moon is something we study in our science classes and in astronomy. We look to the skies and study the heavens, the stars, the planetary bodies and the universe as a whole, so we can better understand ourselves.”

“The moon is lovely.” Badria’s shy smile widened. “I used to chart its path and its shape to help my mother when I was little.”

“When I was little, I used to climb up onto the roof of my house and stare up at the sky. I would try to pick out all the visible constellations and count the stars. I thought if I could count every star in the sky, I would never be lost.” Jazz gave them an encouraging smile.

“But the number of stars are infinite….” This from the young Anoonseh who wasn’t more than twelve. She ducked away from her mother’s admonishing arm to sidle closer to Badria. “How can you count them all?”

Jazz lifted her hands. “I couldn’t, but that didn’t stop me from trying. In some of our cities, the light is so bright that we cannot see the stars. Sometimes we forget that they are there.”

“You can see them everywhere here.” Anoonseh nodded with the arrogance only a child possessed. “We are better than America, we have more stars.”

Grinning, Jazz slid off the desk and sat down on the floor. “Yes, you do have more stars. Do you like to study the sky, too, Anoonseh?”

“No. I like animals. I want to know how to help them. We lost our cow when her baby would not turn and Tinsah, who knew how to take care of the cow’s problem, was too far away. She is in so much demand.”

“So you want to learn to be a veterinarian?” That didn’t surprise Jazz. In most of the rural communities, the women had more rights than they did in the cities—and in many cases more skills. Since men were forbidden to mingle with women, even in rural areas, the females had to learn how to tend their animals themselves, to care for them and provide medical support if necessary.

“Yes!” Anoonseh bobbed her head but as easily as the excitement rippled across her face, it diminished. “The classes are in Pakistan and I cannot travel that far alone.”

“Perhaps not, but what if we were to bring some female veterinarians here? Would your mother allow you to attend those classes?” It was a careful balancing act to offer freedom with jesses attached. While Jazz addressed the question to Anoonseh and kept her focus on her, she carefully watched her mother staring at the young girl. She definitely wanted it, too.

“If you bring other teachers for science, I will take Anoonseh to veterinarian class, and she can come to my science class and to Shara’s class on teaching. She wishes to become a teacher. Fadwah wishes to learn the counting skills, so she can manage our village’s money.” Badria took a stand and Jazz knew they had them. She’d included many of the girls from her village, creating a community effort. The mothers shifted silently, but hopeful looks passed among them.

They wanted to take advantage of the offers.

“Do any of you know how to write?” As planned, she, Stormer and Roxy stood and collected writing pads and pencils they’d brought with them. Two or three hands rose—including one tentative mother’s—and they passed out the supplies to them. “We will leave you to consider what classes you most wish for, if you will write down your requirements, we can get to work on that for you right away. We would also like contact information. If you write down that information for those who do not know how to write, we can make sure you know when the opportunities will begin.”

No one began writing immediately and likely wouldn’t until they stepped out. Jazz swept another look across the gathering. Gone was the stiff reserve, leaving only wary optimism and curiosity behind. Stormer jerked her chin at the door and Roxy nodded. Jazz picked up her helmet and gathered her gear. They would leave the women to it. The brave and the interested would turn in the information at the designated drop spots, to be gathered later.

Jazz exited the room’s nonexistent air-conditioning and a faint breeze cooled the sweat slicking the back of her neck.

“Nice job.”

“Back atcha.”

The compliments were the only pats on the back they allowed themselves as they donned helmets to match their flak. They’d been closeted with those women for most of the day and had a long drive to get back to base, report in and clean up. Roxy shipped for home in three days for a well-deserved, two-week leave with her kids. Jazz and Stormer would work recon in the villages they’d been to previously, reconnecting with potential students. So far of the five hundred or so women they’d engaged in the last four months, thirty were signed up for the first round of university classes.

“Sar-shent Wind-ers!” Anoonseh raced up the hallway toward the courtyard they were exiting. Jazz waved the other two women onward and turned back to the girl. “My list. I wrote it myself.”

She skidded to a halt a couple of feet away, waving a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, her excitement dimming as she took in the full picture of Jazz’s uniform. The helmet’s rounded head gave her a harder edge and helped to disguise her feminine features. From a distance, the only thing that distinguished her from her male Marine counterparts was her height.

And only if the guys with her were giants—like Logan and Zach. Pushing aside that thought, Jazz pulled her helmet off. She wasn’t quite outside yet, but the tension in Anoonseh’s expression immediately relaxed. Jazz didn’t take a step toward her, or the scarlet bird might race back the way she came.

“May I see it?”

Stormer and Roxy retreated to a safe distance and would wait for her before entering the MRAP, giving Anoonseh a modicum of privacy. They were alone in the silent hallway with only a breeze for company.

The young girl edged forward shyly and held out the list, a single, crinkled sheet written in Pashtu. Jazz spoke it better than she read it, but she recognized several words. The items nearly covered the length of the page.

“Thank you. I will work on this for you,” she promised.

A vibrating buzz whispered in the air. Ice clutched her heart and she reacted, lunging forward and scooping the little girl up and flinging her through an open doorway. Blinding light filled the shadowed hall and darkness swallowed her.

***

Whistle balanced between his lips, Zach blew a warning as Fin body-blocked third base with his foot on the sandbag. The third baseman caught the ball and tagged Jace as his scrawnier opponent slid in, riding a wave of red sand. The collision ended with Jace leaping up and throwing the first punch and the boys pummeling each other. Zach shot forward from his position between third and home plate on the intercept and blew the whistle again.

Son of a bitch
.

With nearly fifty pounds on the batter, Fin was more wrestler than pugilist. He pinned the smaller kid. But Jace’s Navy SEAL father apparently taught his son more than one trick, and the kid flipped the older teen and blocked a punch beautifully with a slide of his forearm to turn the fist away.

Unlike most teams that might have started the rallying cry of
fight, fight, fight
, their teammates fell back a step as Zach waded in. The stiffening of shoulders and spines coupled with the rigid hold of their positions were a credit to their military parents and the rules of the game.

Jace and Fin were about to be in the boob box, and no one else wanted to join them. Zach easily caught Jace’s next punch, twisted the fourteen-year-old’s arm behind his back, and planted his free hand against Fin’s chest.

“Stand down.” His order rang across the rapidly warming May morning and echoed with command. As coach, Zach was a favorite among the players for his cheerful, encouraging attitude, and firm patience. He didn’t bend rules and he didn’t give them slack. Teenagers needed boundaries and expectations. His kids knew what would happen and respected those rules.

Most of the time
.

Fin drove forward against the hand on his chest and challenged him. It was Zach’s job to hold that line and he twisted, using Fin’s own weight against him as he flipped and pinned him.

“Stand. Down.”

The order penetrated that time. Panting for breath, Jace held up his hands and backed off. Fin opened his fists, palms out, and Zach released the pressure on his chest. He rose from the crouch and folded his arms across his chest. Fin’s glove lay next to third base, ball still cupped in the mitt, their caps three feet away. He surveyed their red-dusted uniforms with a hard, critical eye.

“On your feet.”

Fin scrambled to stand. They stayed away from each other. Jace’s right eye looked puffy and showed the early signs of bruising. Fin’s split lip dripped blood onto his white uniform top.

“He blocked the base—”

“The little prick was out—”

Zach raised his hand and the deluge of words cut off as quickly as it began. “Explain honor, Jace.”

The young man sucked in a breath. Thirty teenagers ranging in age from thirteen to seventeen were on campus at Mike’s Place for the summer. Zach had invited them to sign up for the baseball team over spring break, and training began the first of April. They planned games against other regional boys’ teams to kick off in two weeks. He’d demanded only three very specific rules from his team and its motley crew of military sons.

“Honor requires the ultimate standard in ethical and moral conduct.” Despite his slighter build, the boy’s voice was deep.

“Which means what, Fin?” Zach flicked a look at the taller boy.

“We must never lie, never cheat, never steal—” Fin squirmed and hesitated.

Zach waited, never relaxing his expression. “And…?”