The Colonel's Daughter (27 page)

“Ooh. We’re out-a here.” The soldiers responded in unison. They shook hands and congratulated Dallas. “We’ll be seeing you brother.”

“Thanks for coming by. I really appreciate it.”

Javi approached Dallas in low voice. “Have you told her yet?”

“Not yet, man.”

“You need to do it soon.”

“I know.” Dallas sighed. “I know.”

Still cooing, Jasmine hesitated then gave up her newborn niece to the nurse who turned and nestled the bundle in her mother’s arms. “We’ll be right outside,” Jasmine motioned to her sister then took Samantha by the hand and they tiptoed out.

The newborn gripped her mother’s finger. “Dallas, I think we should go with the name you suggested, Grace. She’s definitely a Grace, don’t you think?”

Dallas picked up a handful of greeting cards and shuffled through them. He chuckled at one, “Who sent this?” He examined it. “This is a nice—“

“What’s the matter? You didn’t hear a word I said. Why are you so distant?”

Placing the cards back on the table and scratching the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. “The commander extended my tour. I have to go back.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I just got notice of it earlier today. I didn’t want to stress you, Abby.”

The newborn was fast asleep so she placed her in the bassinet. Dallas leaned into the tiny crib and gave baby Grace a peck on her rosy cheek. Taking a seat beside his wife on the bed, he gripped her hand and brought it to his heart. In silence, he brought his other hand to her face then tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t go, Dallas. Don’t go.” She pouted.

He softly gripped the back of her hair and brought his nose to hers in a profound exhale. “I will do everything in my power to get back to you as fast as I can.”

“You’re not Superman, Dallas.”

“My Grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

She smiled, “You sound adorable quoting the bible.”

Lowering his head in defeat and revealing his dimpled-smile, “I wasn’t exactly going for adorable.”

Removing her single pearl childhood necklace, the one her father carried with him in the war, she placed it in the palm of his hand as a token of her love. “Just be safe please.”

He buried his face in her neck then rubbed his cheek against hers as she caressed his burr cut blond hair.

* * * * *

Firing several rockets into the shadowy mountains of Kunar Province, the coalition aircraft plotted, then after some quiet, more rockets. A Black Hawk made its way into the dangerous valley dropping off the battalion commander, Colonel Posada to meet with Dallas who had already been waiting with the Chief and his tribal security.

“Colonel Posada,” Dallas shouted over the rotor noise, “We’ve been listening to enemy radio chatter all morning, sir.”

Colonel Posada, a six foot five inch burly man walked towards the makeshift conference table protected by a wall of sandbags. “Any mention of the hostages?”

“No sir.”

They stood around the wooden table with the local Afghan Chief and his tribal security aiding in the translation of the radio chatter.

Colonel Posada pointing to a laminated map on the table tapped his finger above a heavily wooded area. “From what we know, this is where they’re holding the British journalist and her photographer.”

Dallas walked over to the Afghan interpreter who stood out among the others in prominence. “The Chief here has word from some of the locals who tried to help the hostage and they confirmed the location to be here, sir.” Resting his index finger on the map, he measured the short distance between the two marked spots.

“Alright Dallas take two of your best men and head down there.” Colonel Posada pointed to Dallas’s mark on the map, “Scope out your area and come back with a better plan.”

“Yes sir.”

At midnight, with their night vision gear, Dallas led his men, Hulkow and Vasallo down a steep hill through a holly forest then followed a stream to the base of another hill. Hidden in the foliage, at dawn, they watched a goatherd going uphill. With a pair of binoculars, Dallas studied the villagers who had already begun their day. He signaled to Hulkow then Vasallo standing a few feet away to head west of the village for a different view of the hostage location.

Hiding underneath the holly oaks behind a large rock, Dallas fixed his gaze on the rooftop of a particular building where two men paced back and forth. Suddenly a pack of dogs barking and growling hot on Dallas’s trail was released into the wooded area and their position was compromised.

Dallas radioed, “We’ve got a situation here,” sprinting and out of breath, “We’ve been compromised.”

Outnumbered by fighters and their ravaging dogs, Dallas and his two men were forced into the village. Vasallo was shot in the back of the neck, falling first to his knees, and then his face. Being sprayed with bullets, Dallas ran for the building containing the hostages.

Hulkow shouted, “Watch your six, Lieutenant!” as he witnessed Dallas falling down and a cloud of dust rising over his body. After throwing a grenade and then emptying his magazine, Hulkow radioed, “KIA,” and before he could give a name or an accurate account, he lost consciousness.

* * * * *

Storm-filled skies cast a shadow over the small burial ceremony in Austin, Texas. A tailspin of emotions from shock to numbness to denial plagued the jet-lagged Abigail. She wiped her grieving face with a handkerchief. Jasmine stood by her sister clutching a bundled baby Grace. Javi stood in uniform at attention facing the pallbearers as they lifted the burial flag waist high. The bugler concluded Taps and they meticulously folded the flag into a triangle.

Dallas’s mother, who had not been present at her son’s rather improvised marriage ceremony, stoutly held her wallet handbag as well as her composure. Having remarried into money shortly after her late husband, retired Colonel Joseph Star died of complications from a stroke, Dallas’s mother became a well-known socialite. Every keynote address at a luncheon or dinner benefit included her patriotic speech about being the sort of citizen everyone should be. She would go on and on about living the military ideals that her beloved son had been defending. On the outside she sounded like the ideal mother-in-law for a new military widow like Abby but Mrs. Billingsworth, formerly Mrs. Star was simply cold and snobbish with a condescending undertone in every word she uttered. Dallas’s two blond sisters mimicked their mother’s stately persona not even flinching at the gun salute.

Not in attendance at the small funeral were General Brown, Colonel Johnston and many of the military brass who had served with Dallas and Colonel Star, but were still in active duty serving on various posts fighting for freedom.

Tugging at the hem of her mother’s jacket, Samantha stood on the tippy toes of her ballet flats. The ribbon in her hair had come undone.

Bouncing the fussy baby, Jasmine whispered to her daughter, “Just put it in your coat pocket.”

Javi received the folded flag from the uniformed pallbearer. He turned about and placed the folded burial flag in Abby’s hands. Gripping it tight against her heart, she lifted her somber gaze to his salute.

A uniformed officer read, “The United States of America, to all who shall see these presents greeting.” His forceful voice resonated across the gravesite. “This is to certify that the President of the United States of America has awarded the Purple Heart established by General George Washington at Newburgh, New York on August seventh seventeen hundred and eighty two to Lieutenant Brian Star of the United States Army Special Forces First Battalion Seventy Fifth Ranger Regiment for wounds received in action in Afghanistan resulting in his death.”

By the casket, Abby studied a portrait of Dallas in his dress uniform adorned with medals, his dimples slightly showing.
How could they not have found your body, Dallas?
She thought.
Why couldn’t they bring you home?
She was haunted by the incessant thought of having given up on her husband.
Your status may be KIA/BNR, killed in action/body not recovered but your body is out there somewhere and I will not have closure until you are found.

* * * * *

While being sprayed with bullets and with his body armor having taken the brunt of those bullets, Dallas was thrust to the ground by shots to the helmet and shoulder. He plummeted, and concealed by the rising sand cloud, an insurgent kicked Dallas’s radio and grabbed him by his boots dragging him into the building. Regaining consciousness, he kicked the guy in the face and jumped to his feet. Pointing his rifle, he found himself face to face with a high-ranking Al Qaeda commander recognizable by his defined unibrow.

The commander motioned to his men to barricade the door and then nonchalantly took his seat behind a wooden desk while the barrel of Dallas’s rifle followed his every move. The commander’s right hand man pointed his weapon at Dallas.

“All I have to do is squeeze the trigger.” Dallas said moving only his mouth.

The commander asked Dallas questions in a foreign tongue. Highly skilled in precision shooting, Dallas didn’t waiver even upon hearing a woman’s voice coming from the other end of the room.

Daphne Mellinger, esteemed British journalist had been tied to a chair in the back of the room. She translated, “He wants to know your name.”

“You speak Arabic?” Dallas asked with his eye fixed on his target.

“Yes.”

“Tell him my name is infidel redeemed by Christ.”

She addressed the commander in his own language and he responded while Dallas watched his hands reach under the desk for a gun. And without hesitation, Dallas squeezed the trigger sending a single bullet through the commander’s throat hitting the base of his skull killing him instantly. In a split second and before the right hand man could react, Dallas shot with precision, severing his spinal cord and killing him.

Daphne spoke, “He was saying you are a walking dead man.”

“Yeah, well, now he’s deader than I am and so is his friend.” He turned in the direction of her voice then swiftly using his serrated knife, unbound her.

Daphne brushed the dust off her blouse as Dallas grabbed her arm and yanked. “I need to get you out of here. Where’s your photographer?”

“They killed him. And I certainly do hope you’ve got a plan.”

“You hear that? Those are Apache pilots. How’s that for a plan?”

Dallas tried to open the door. He pulled and pulled, “Shit.”

“Well that’s just grand. Now we’re stuck.” Wiping her brow, she sat back on the chair.

“With all due respect, can you do me a favor and shut up?”

“I will not be treated this way. I am a professional journalist and I will not stand for your lack of respect.”

Taking a step towards her, Dallas let his gun hang at his side while pointing his finger. “Listen lady, I got a newborn daughter that I left back home so I can fly out here and risk my life for you and your trashy articles.” His jaw tightened as he exhaled. “I read that story you wrote about the Colonel’s daughter Abigail Johnston,” and pointing to his chest, “…my wife. Now I’m going to extend to you the same courtesy you showed Abby.”

“She’s your wife?” Her British accent thickened and as if speaking to herself she mumbled, “I wasn’t aware that Abigail Johnston was married. It all seems to make sense now.” Then she looked at Dallas, “At the time I met her in Dubai, I honestly believed she was rebelling against her own father and was after Maurice Shahrivar’s money and I wasn’t the only one. Many people read my article and agreed with me.” She looked at Dallas’s squinting eyes and crossed her arms, “Well I had to provide that boorish boss of mine with some kind of story.”

“At the expense of my wife’s reputation, you’ve got some nerve lady.”

“So you’re Lieutenant Brian Star?”

“That’s right, I am.” Dallas searched the room for another way out.
This guy barricaded the entrance because he planned a different escape route, but where is it?
He thought.

“Well, Lieutenant Star, are you aware that you are the most wanted man by all of Al Qaeda?”

“And where did you get that Intel, one of your tabloids?” He kicked the dead commander’s body out of the way and finding a fissure in the cement behind the chair, he lifted the tapestry rug. He followed the cracked floor to its end underneath the wooden desk.

“For your information, I have been working on a two year investigation of Afshin Shahrivar and his connection to at least ten Afghan government officials, senior policemen and not to mention the entire Iranian government.” She recounted touching the tips of her fingers.

“I hate to break it to you lady but Afshin Shahrivar is dead. Now can you come over here and hold this?” He grabbed the latch. “There’s a trapdoor and that’s how we’re getting out of here.”

“Of course I know he is dead, you killed him. And do you know who else knows you killed him? Everyone! Faisal Shahrivar has sent your picture and your personally identifiable information through the wire to the entire Arabic speaking world.”