Angel of the Night

Angel of the Night

By: Jackie McCallister

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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August 12
^th
, 2011

Brains are called “gray matter.” That may be correct when they are where they belong. But when brains reside outside of the body, they’re red…and white…and greenish. Brigadier General Cole McKillop’s brains were laying on the floor of a storage unit on the northern edge of Kabul Air Base in Afghanistan.

A shadowy figure crept up to Gen. McKillop’s lifeless body to make sure that the job had been completely successful. Stealth wasn’t necessary. Gen. McKillop had entered the storage unit at 5:52 p.m. local time. He never saw 5:53. The shadowy figure started to check for a pulse, but when it was apparent that a portion of Gen. McKillop’s face was also scattered about the unit further inspection was deemed unnecessary. In less than a minute, the slain general’s pockets were rifled, and a slip of paper was taken out of the right pants pocket. Satisfied with both the handiwork done to the General and the paper treasure taken from the pockets, the shadowy figure left the unit. The door clicked quietly as it closed on the room’s grisly contents.

The General’s assassin had considered stashing the weapon in the bottom of a dumpster to avoid being spotted with it after the job. But that wasn’t going to work. The death of an Air Force Brigadier General was going to make some major news. The Air Base would be combed for clues and the murder weapon would likely be found no matter how deeply it was buried in the camp’s refuse.

That’s why the SigSauer P938 9 mm. handgun had been selected. It was easy to conceal until it could be taken off of the air base and disposed of in a proper manner.

“I believe I thought of everything, but mistakes happen when people get cocky. Stay sharp.”

The various mess halls of the air base were beginning to empty as evening chow was just about complete. There would be a brief period of time when foot traffic would be light. Then it would pick up again when the soldiers would begin to congregate at the few bars and night spots that the air base had to offer. It was in the high traffic before the lull that the shooter hoped to bl
end in.

“Just on the off chance that anyone gets suspicious, I’m just another soldier ready for an evening off.”

No one gave the shooter a second glance as the foot and pedestrian traffic swirled about. It was just another hot desert night, and in a part of the world where the war never slept.

The nickname had been fine when it had first been invented. Second Lieutenant Wendy Shafer and Pfc. Chelsea Bannister had worked a ruse against a philandering lieutenant named Matthew Clark. In the aftermath of the sting operation Wendy and Chelsea had joked that Wendy was a brazen hussy. In that regard, it was probably Wendy’s own fault. She had taken to calling herself Lt. Hussy.

But now it was out of hand. It was said when she was at The Afghan Saloon after work, at the gym working out, and even at meals. Today was the last straw, though. This nonsense had to stop when her boss, well-respected military surgeon Captain Edward McGuire, called her “Huss” during surgery!

Wendy waited until Captain McGuire, and his top aide Lieutenant Alice McKay, were finished with the last tasks of the day. She approached them when they were till together, hoping to put an end to that particular nickname.

“Captain, Lieutenant,” Wendy said in a crisp voice that always showed that she meant business. “Could I have a word with both of you, please?”

“Why certainly you can, Lieutenant Shafer. What can we do for you?” Captain McGuire said with the easy smile that made him a favorite among the nurses; in particular the single ones. For his part, Captain McGuire was oblivious to the attentions that the nurses paid to him. His heart belonged to Margaret Mary McGuire, holding down the fort stateside in Portsmouth New Hampshire.

“Sir I would like to talk about how I would like to be addressed.”

Captain McGuire looked at Lieutenant McKay with a puzzled expression. Alice McKay put her hand on his forearm. “I think I know what Lt. Shafer has in mind, Captain McGuire. I believe that you called her by her nickname while we performed the appendectomy just a little bit ago. Or at least you called her by a form of her nickname.”

When Captain McGuire’s face showed no comprehension at all, Lt. McKay said quietly, “You called her ‘Huss’

Captain McGuire’s face turned beet red. He rubbed his hand over his blonde hair, a sure sign of embarrassment, as friends of Eddie Mac (as they called him) knew.

“Miss Shafer, I’m terribly sorry if I did that. I often call the nurses ‘Miss’ as a short form of address when we’re all working together. I’ve heard the other nurses, and a few of the doctors, tease you with… that other name, but I would have never called you anything like that in surgery. At least I never would have done that on purpose. Please accept my apologies. It won’t happen again.

Lt. McKay was known as a hard-bitten taskmistress to the rest of the staff. Wendy herself had been known to conjecture whether or not Lt. McKay was even human. If Wendy had taken the time to look at the older nurse very carefully, though, she would have seen a look of extreme merriment in Lt. McKay’s eyes. The older nurse couldn’t get enough of the scene before her. The younger nurse with serious eyebrows running straight across her pretty face, giving what-for (respectful what for but what for nevertheless) to the base’s head doctor who was backpedaling as fast as he could go.

Wendy was mollified by Captain McGuire’s response but wanted him to know that his wasn’t the only breach of etiquette that she felt that she had been experiencing.

“It’s okay, sir. I appreciate your time. I’m going to talk to a few of the other folks around here, as well. I want to be respected and to be known as a hussy won’t get me there, will it?”

Lt. McKay decided that she needed to bail Capt. McGuire out of the mess he was in. “No, indeed, Lieutenant Shafer. It will not. Have a good night.”

Wendy turned on her heel in a precision about-face and left. Lt. McKay walked away with the discomfited doctor. “Well, that was about embarrassing,” Captain McGuire said. ‘Are you sure…”

Lt. McKay smiled, “I’m sure.”

Captain McGuire shook his head, “Oh dear.”

Wendy had time for a quick shower and a 90-minute power nap before she went back to work. She was pulling a split shift in surgery due to a staff shortage. Pfc. Chelsea Bannister was gone, having become Chelsea Giacomo a week prior. She had met Gerald Giacomo when he was a patient in the Glynnis Unit of the hospital complex at the Air Base. He had gone home for a couple of months of training to become a Chaplain’s Assistant. Three months after Specialist Giacomo’s return, he and Chelsea were pronounced man and wife by Chaplain Boyd Dalrymple. It had been a beautiful ceremony, attended by Chelsea’s mother Linda, who had been flown in by the Giacomo family who had attended as well.

Wendy walked into her living quarters, anxious for a rest before going back on duty. Living quarters (known as CHUs) at Kabul Air Base are hardly The Ritz-Carlton, but are considered adequate for a combat zone. A CHU (pronounced phonetically…Chew) is an aluminum box slightly larger [22'x8'] than a commercial shipping container, with linoleum floors and cots or beds inside. This insulated CONEX shipping container has a door, window, top vent, power cabling, and an air conditioner. One version houses four people while another is split into two, one person rooms. The version with a shower and toilet shared between two rooms is called a "wet chu", which provides less crowded latrine and shower conditions than tents.

Wendy had a single accommodation in the smaller CHU, which suited her well as she valued her privacy. Quiet by nature Wendy was more of an observer than a joiner, which only served to make her confronting Capt. McGuire that much more surprising to the older man.

Wendy’s CHU-mate, Private Sophia Nolan-Hart was listening to her iPod when Wendy walked in. The two hadn’t gotten to know one another very well seeing as Sophia had only arrived in the last week. As far as Wendy could tell, Sophia seemed nice enough, but the younger nurse (Sophia was 22 to Wendy’s 29) was just getting settled into camp routine. Wendy remembered what that was like three years earlier when she had just arrived.

“Hi Wendy,” Sophia said, turning her music off when she heard Wendy come in the door of her half of the CHU. “Do you remember if I start at 1700 or 1800 hours?”

“You start at 1800 and work until 0530 if I remember right. You need to write this stuff down, though. I won’t always be around to tell you when you have to go in.”

“All right, all right! No need to go all McKay on me. I’ll start writing it all down,” Sophia said, sporting a pouty lip.

“Was I like that when I was 22? Was I like that when I was 12?”
Wendy thought to herself. It seemed unlikely. Friends had told Wendy that sometimes it seemed as if she had been born grown up. Wendy had a few real friends (and the ones that she had held her dear), but they totaled only about 10 in number. That is if she only counted really close friends.

As Wendy settled down for her hour and a half power sleep, she found herself missing some of her close friends. She thought about Sally-Ann Havre who had been her best friend in her hometown of Racine, Wisconsin. She thought about Miss Eversham, who had been Wendy’s third grade teacher and with whom she had developed a friendship when Wendy had gotten older. But mostly she thought about Brad Nicklaus.

Brad Nicklaus had been Wendy’s first love. While other girls seemed to make the transition to womanhood with grace and aplomb, Wendy had grown into her body awkwardly. She watched other girls brush their manes of hair until they shone; Wendy was constantly fighting with a mass of strawberry blonde curls. Her hair later darkened to a medium brown, but it never became any more manageable. Wendy was never at peace with her hair; or her looks in general for that matter.

But Brad saw her differently than she saw herself. He told her that he loved the curls. He told her that she was cute when all that she had ever considered herself was “Just okay.” He took her out on the town and seemed genuinely proud to have her on his arm.

When Brad asked her to be his date to the Senior Prom, Wendy couldn’t have said yes any faster if she had reached in his mouth and pulled the invitation out herself. She pored over magazines, in an effort to form the perfect ensemble for the big night. Wendy’s Mom, Sue, bought her daughter a beautiful necklace to go with the prom dress that Wendy had finally decided to wear. It was going to be a perfect night.

Brad showed up at the house with 25 roses. One was a corsage for Wendy. A dozen of them were presented to Wendy in a box (her first time receiving a dozen flowers of any kind), and the second dozen were presented arranged in a vase as a gift for Sue.

Sue Shafer knew that teenage boys will do whatever is necessary to impress their girls’ parents. Even so, she found herself a little overwhelmed. This seemed a little over the top. Sue’s eyes welled up in spite of her best efforts. Not since Wendy’s father Shane had died of pancreatic cancer, had anyone given her a gift. She hoped that Brad Nicklaus would be in her daughter’s life for a very long time.

He likely would have been in Wendy’s life for a very long time if he had survived Prom Night. On the way home at 1:00 a.m. Brad’s Toyota Prius was slammed into by a drunk driver on the way home from the very same dance. The driver’s side door was completely crushed, and Brad was killed instantly.

Wendy only suffered cuts and bruises from a physical standpoint, but she was distraught beyond words. She was sure that her life would be devoid of love.

It was shortly thereafter that Wendy had decided to train to become a combat nurse. Her psychologist suggested that it might be, in part, a desire to help where she hadn’t been able to help Brad. Nevertheless, he supported her goal in the weekly sessions that he had with Wendy for almost a year after the accident. Sue Shafer supported Wendy as soon as she saw how determined her little girl was to pursue that particular path. Wendy completed a three year training program in just less than two years, participated in further training of a non-medical nature and was off to a land as different from Racine, Wisconsin as it could be. She had just turned 26 when she arrived in Kabul.

Even though she was a little hard to get to know, Wendy easily gained the respect of her co-workers. She was fast and accurate in the surgical theater and a quick study in the training classroom. It wasn’t long until she was being asked to assist with some of the complicated injury cases that came along. Lt. McKay, always sparse with a compliment, nodded approvingly at the progress that Wendy showed shortly upon her arrival in Kabul.

Away from work Wendy kept largely to herself, at least initially. She had engaged in the “almost” fling with a married lieutenant (who didn’t wear a ring for “nurse pursuit” reasons), but was warned away by Chelsea Bannister. That evening became a turning point of sorts for Wendy Shafer. The camaraderie and trust that developed between the two young nurses helped Wendy to come out of her shell. Though there were aspects of her life that she preferred to remain just her own (occasional panic attacks being one), Wendy lowered her guard when she and Chelsea became friends.

One of the things that had slowed her down was the occasional struggle with panic attacks. Wendy’s panic attacks were a fact of life that she had chosen to keep a secret. They had been something that she could keep under control in her younger years, and they had nearly disappeared just before she enlisted. Lately, they had come back with a vengeance. There had been an episode during surgery that was embarrassing to recall. She had frozen in place. No amount of will or determination could shake her free from the paralysis of panic. Chelsea was asked to take her place beside the patient as Wendy was led away. Though that had only happened once, Wendy lived in fear that she would be sent home before she completed her task.

One night Mark Driscoll, an occupational therapist on base, asked Wendy a question. “Why are you always so serious, Shafer? This is a hard place to work. Can’t you loosen up and have a laugh?”

Wendy looked back at Mark and deadpanned, “It’s all I can do not to jump your bones, Mark. It takes concentration just to keep my scrubs on around you.” The table at large burst into laughter at the way that Mark Driscoll’s red face suddenly matched his red hair. Wendy Shafer had experienced a social breakthrough.

The next morning Wendy took a bath while listening to Sophia’s tunes through the wall. The separating walls in a CHU are extremely thin. Though they provided a modicum of privacy, it wasn’t as if Wendy and Sophia had separate apartments. Wendy shook her head as she listened to the hip hop music that Sophia favored. It was enough to give Wendy a headache, but she didn’t feel like making a fuss over it today. She was in too good of a mood after she had knocked Mark Driscoll down a peg.