Hostage Zero

“I had a buddy in boot camp-John Avery. We got really tight. After basic, we went to infantry training together, and in the last week, he blew out his knee in some dumb-shit PT exercise, so we got out of sequence, him six months behind me. I’d finished my tour and was back in the States when I got word that John had been killed by a sniper in Anbar Province.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said.

“So was I. That was at the height of my crazy period, you know? Anyway, I wanted to go to his funeral. The docs weren’t sure it was the right thing to do, but I was pretty firm, so they let me go.”

He cleared his throat. “You know, he was a young guy. What, twenty-three maybe? He had the kind of service records that they make movies out of. Great guy, terrific leader, and scared of absolutely nothing. So a sniper takes him out while he’s sipping out of a canteen at a roadblock. The funeral was everything you like and everything you dread. Lots of family, lots of tears, lots of townspeople, out in Nowhere, Tennessee.

“The Marine Corps sent an honor guard, and they did their best to make it feel military as they buried him in the yard outside of the Baptist church where his great-grandfather and everybody after him was baptized and married. It was kind of beautiful in its own right.

“And then these war protestor assholes showed up to heckle. At a fucking funeral, man. A fucking funeral. These are third-generation hippie wannabes who’ve never fought for anything, and while family and friends are trying to bury a no-shit war hero, they’re trying to make it about them. I mean, this is what we fight for, right? So that everybody can say whatever’s on their mind? At John’s funeral, the cops who were originally there as honor guard escorts ended up protecting the assholes who had nothing better to do than ruin a mother’s last memory of her son. Would you care to tell me where the sense is in that?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I couldn’t begin to.”

“Well, you see, this is where it really helps not to be crazy. ’Cause from where I sit it doesn’t even make sense to keep trying. Fuck ’em all. Then I got jammed up by some adolescent bitch who knows how the news cycle works, and I just sort of ran out of things worth dyin’ for, know what I mean?”

Jonathan did know. He’d known for decades; but the mark of an American soldier was the ability to push aside the weaknesses of politicians and slothful do-nothings to accomplish the mission within guidelines established by the politicians and slothful do-nothings. Jonathan’s years in the military had shaped his understanding of God and country. He believed with all his heart that civilians needed to be in charge, but he prayed for the day when those civilians would quit using people like him as political chess pieces.

The rain had slowed to an unpleasant drizzle by the time Jonathan and his team arrived at the village, which itself seemed strangely quiet. Clearly, the place was occupied, but the residents were apparently all inside. The three of them gathered in the center of what would be the town square if the village were in Ohio. A face appeared in the window of a nearby hut, and then disappeared.

“I’m taking theories,” Jonathan said.

“Maybe they’re all just staying in out of the rain,” Boxers offered.

“Or maybe they’re scared shitless because we’ve got enough guns and bullets to take over the country,” Harvey countered.

Jonathan leaned more toward the latter than the former. He shouted, “ Hola! Hay alguien aqui? ” He meant that to be, Hello, is anyone here?

More faces appeared in windows, but no one stepped out to greet them. Jonathan tried again. “ Me gustaria hablar con su lider, por favor. ” I want to speak to your leader. “ Somos amigos. ” We are friends. Then, to drive the point closer to home: “ Estamos aqui para herir sus enemigos! ”

Boxers chuckled. “We’re here to hurt your enemies,” he translated. “I like that.”

And so did the villagers. Two and three at a time, they wandered from their huts to see. They didn’t draw closer, but they didn’t run away, either. They gathered in clusters, talking among themselves but watching the newcomers.

“There are no men,” Harvey said.

Jonathan called out again, “ Me gustaria hablar con su lider, por favor. ”

A woman stepped forward. She could have been fifty or eighty. “Our leaders are dead,” she said in Spanish. “ El Matador killed them.”

Jonathan removed his helmet and offered his hand. “How do you do?” he said, also in Spanish. “My name is Jones. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Many losses,” she corrected. “I am Isabella. Is that man a doctor?” She pointed to the medical emblems on Harvey’s equipment pouches.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jonathan said.

Harvey doffed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. “Hello.”

“They attacked my daughter today,” Isabella said. “I think she needs a doctor.”

“Show me where,” Harvey said. “I’ll be happy to help.”