Body

DISCLAIMER: This story was written in response to a challenge that was posed to me to write an event that might bring the cast of Tour of Duty together for a "Reunion Movie." Although these events occur during an actual time in US Military History, the following story is a work of fiction.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: This is a collaborative effort which could not have been written without the help of the following individuals. Although I typed in the words, their input was invaluable to the development of characters, plot and setting. Leslie White was with me from the very beginning, not only encouraging me to go with my ideas but offering wonderful suggestions to get me past the roadblocks. She gave so much input that I give her great credit for this story. David Shaw, my brother and military advisor, took my sketchy ideas and made them fit into something that was feasible, if not necessarily probable. As much as my insistence on using artistic license kills him, he always finds the best way to make the story as realistic as possible. He is also a great inspiration and my hero. My brother, Danny Shaw, saw my vision and made it real. He took an idea and gathered the pieces to make an incredible artistic statement. I can't thank him enough for that. His creativity has made all the difference.

TOUR OF DUTY: BETTER CIRCUMSTANCES Part 1

Over 40,000 US military women served in key combat-support positions throughout the Persian Gulf Region.

"You know, Sergeant, one of these days you really ought to invest in a phone out here."

Zeke Anderson shot his head around to find the source of the unexpected interruption to his meandering thoughts. He had been enjoying a lazy afternoon of fishing and had not heard the approaching footsteps, but the voice was familiar and welcome and Zeke allowed a huge grin to spread across his face.

"Well, now, Major Goldman," he beamed, picking himself up from the wooden stump on which he had been perched, extending a large, callused hand to his friend. "One of these days, you really ought to invest in a cowbell to hang around your neck before you give somebody a heart attack."

Myron Goldman took Anderson's hand and shook it vigorously. The two men had not seen each other in some time--since Jennifer's funeral--but their friendship had never wavered. The moment their hands touched, the intimate bond that had formed between them over twenty years before fell seamlessly in place, as if they had never left the hell called Vietnam.

Goldman gave the only man with whom he had ever been truly close a lopsided smile, but Zeke was able to see a shadow of grief in the major's eyes. "Sir, is there a problem?" Anderson asked, perfectly comfortable in addressing the seasoned officer with the title of respect. Although the sergeant-major had been retired from active duty for some time, he continued to follow Goldman's career with interest. Zeke always found it amusing that the kid he had not expected to last fifteen minutes into his first tour of duty in The 'Nam had gone on to become a decorated war-hero and career soldier, not unlike the major's long-ago deceased father.

The disheartened smile faded from Myron's face as he transferred his gaze from the pensioned soldier out to the calm waters of High Rock Lake. His intention was not to prolong conveying his report to his friend, but of all the "We Regret to Inform You" letters that Goldman had written over the years, this was the most difficult to deliver.

The officer saw Anderson's attention suddenly focus on the small fishing cabin that was tucked into a thickly wooded lot not far away from where the two men stood. "Is that Da...uh..Den...Dave...dammit! Is that Percell?" he spat, struggling to connect a first name to the last. After three tours of duty in Vietnam and over twenty years of active duty, the sergeant-major had served with hundreds, if not thousands of young men and women. As was frequently the case for any soldier with this kind of tenure, names and faces rarely stayed together. The men would never be forgotten, but their names so often were.

The troubled look in Goldman's eyes warned of the impending assault of bad news and served to muddy Anderson's memory even more, making it impossible for him recall Percell's first name.

Discarding the quandry for its lack of importance, Zeke squinted to get a better look at the figure that was standing on the rickety porch of the rustic shanty. The man who had accompanied Major Goldman to this unpleasant reunion lowered his eyes and turned away as Anderson's bewilderment shifted to understanding.

"Myron?" Zeke's tone changed. Goldman could hear a quiver to the man's voice as the realization came that the major's visit was not merely a social call. "Percell's with the Red Cross, now, ain't he? What is the Red Cross doing here? Is it Katie? Is something wrong with Katie? Come on now, Son. What's happened to my little girl?"

Major Goldman hesitated for only a moment as his thoughts lingered on Zeke's use of the word "son." After so many years of friendship and all that they had been through together, Anderson had never let go of his paternal instincts toward Goldman, and it never failed to humor either man. Until now.

Drawing himself back into the moment, Goldman locked eyes with the sergeant-major and steadied his voice. "Katie's MIA, Zeke." Myron paused to watch the horror fill the other man's eyes. "There was an incident."

Zeke dropped the fishing pole he had been holding and squared his shoulders. The struggle to remain calm raged within him as he prompted Goldman to continue. "What kind of incident, Myron?" he asked, his voice faltering as his emotions threatened to overtake him.

Without waiting for Major Goldman's response, Anderson spun around so that he was facing the calm waters of his favorite fishing hole. He reached down and seized his tackle box, heaving it as far into the lake as his aging muscles would allow. Bits of tackle floated through the air and plunked into the water, looking conspicuously like rounds fired from an M-16 machine gun.

"Dammit, Myron!" Zeke yelled, swinging back to face the stunned officer. "You said you would take care of her! You gave me your word and I trusted you."

Major Goldman absorbed the impact of the man's harsh words, trying to remember that they were said in fear and grief and not true hostility. "Calm down, Zeke," the officer soothed, hating himself for his own anger at the burden of responsibility that his friend had just laid upon him. Myron licked his suddenly dry lips, a nervous habit of which he had never been aware until his wife had pointed it out to him one day. "That promise was made before Sadaam Hussain decided to take over the world," he continued, his voice conveying a composure that he did not feel. "I'm doing the best I can, but I have a job to do...and so does Katie."

The tense silence that filled the moment was interrupted by the loud screech of an unseen bird. Neither man flinched, but the sound broke the tension and prompted Major Goldman to resume his duty. "She's not KIA," he explained, forcing a tone of hope into his statement. "We know where she is and we're going in after her, but it's going to be tough and I wanted you to know before we attempt this. That's why I came here to tell you myself."

Anderson was breathing heavily, but the rage faded from his eyes. "What the hell happened?" he asked more calmly than before.

"We were moving tanks for the 24th Infantry to the assembly area in Vanguard" Goldman explained, placing a comforting hand on his friend's broad shoulder. "Katie was driving one of the Heavy Equipment Tank Transports...that little girl of yours is quite the driver, my friend. She worked thirty hours straight through the night loading the tanks and Bradleys to get them moved into position. She reminds me a lot of her old man."

Myron smiled at the beam of pride that winked in Anderson's eyes, but the officer's humor quickly vanished as he hastened to continue his report to Specialist Anderson's father. "Iraqi aircraft began flying night missions over Kuwait on defensive patrols a few weeks ago, but now they've really picked up their air patrols over Southern Iraq and Central Kuwait. An SU-25 targeted the HETT convoy."

As Major Goldman spoke, the two men began a slow walk toward the cabin. Danny Percell descended the stairs and took a few steps toward them, hesitant to intrude but wanting to show his support in this tragic time of crisis. His crystal blue eyes betrayed his worry as he listened to the major's brief summary of the events leading to the capture of Katie Anderson.

"The details of the attack are classified, Zeke, but I can tell you that the bomb didn't do as much damage as it could have. We only lost a small amount of equipment in the attack...and the two MIAs."

Anderson's eyes widened. "Two MIAs?"

Goldman nodded. "First-Sergeant Taylor was with the advance detachment from the 24th Infantry in Dehrahn, but he's been reassigned to Vanguard. He was at the refuel-on-the-move when the convoy was scheduled to receive Class 1 and 3. The Frogfoot came in and attacked the desert logger taking out both the HETT and the HUM-V. The Bradley was destroyed, and in all the chaos after the explosion, Taylor and Katie disappeared."

Anderson interrupted the report. "What do you mean? How does somebody disappear in the middle of a desert?"

"The desert isn't just sand, Zeke," Goldman explained. "There are rocky cliffs and caves and a thousand places for the enemy to hide. Their convoy was near that kind of location when it was hit. It's no accident the Frogfoot hit them where it did." Goldman was clearly upset that this incident had occurred under his command. His voice conveyed a regret and an anger at himself for having not been able to foresee and prevent it.

Percell, who was now close enough to interject himself into the conversation, offered his limited knowledge of the events to allow Major Goldman time to collect himself. "Sarge, they didn't find any bodies, so we're confident they just got lost in the confusion."

"Intelligence thinks they've located them," Goldman said, placing a hand on Percell's arm to reassure the Red Cross worker that he was able to continue. "We think they were captured and are being detained in Al Wafrah, near the southern Kuwaiti border. Special Forces is putting together a search and rescue operation to get them out of there ASAP, before the press gets a hold of this."

Anderson looked at the major, puzzlement filling his deep blue eyes. "Katie is the first female to be captured in this operation, Zeke," Goldman justified. "The politicians want her out of there before it becomes a public issue, since they're still fighting for political support for Desert Shield. If SF does their job right, they'll be in and out with Katie and Taylor before anyone even notices they're missing."

Retired Sergeant-Major Zeke Anderson gave his friends a halfhearted grin and warned, "They better. I don't reckon I like the idea of my little girl being within twenty feet of Marcus Taylor without an armed escort."

*************

First-Sergeant Taylor groaned as he awoke to an instant assault of blinding pain behind his right eye. He was lying on the hard floor of a small, dark room that was seemingly void of furniture or decoration. He tried to raise a hand to rub at his throbbing temple, but having no recollection of where he was or how he had gotten there, he was dumbfounded to find that his hands were firmly fixed behind his back. "What the hell?" he muttered, struggling to loosen whatever it was that was binding him.

When his efforts yielded nothing more than a pulled muscle in his shoulder socket, First-Sergeant Taylor relaxed his body and exhaled a long, hot breath as he contemplated his situation. Still feeling the strain in his arm, he rolled onto his stomach, hoping a change in position would relieve the discomfort. After turning his head to rest his cheek against the cool slab of the cement floor, Taylor was shocked to learn that he was not alone in the room.

Lying on the floor next to him was a female Army specialist, dirty and unconscious but obviously very pretty. Like Taylor's own, the woman's hands were bound behind her back and her exposed arms were covered with cuts and bruises. Her short, dark hair fell across her ivory cheeks covering much of her face, but Taylor was able to see a small stream of blood trickling from the corner of her parted lips. She was too pale--even for a white girl, the first-sergeant mused--and the bloody patches dotting her sandy camouflage fatigues warned Taylor that her injuries could be severe.

Forgetting his own soreness, Taylor rolled his body toward the specialist until he was close enough to feel her breath caress his cheek. Satisfied that she was still alive, he used his head to nudge her upper body in an effort to bring her to consciousness. "Specialist," he demanded in a low, stern voice. "Wake up soldier. Come on. We got no time for this." Seeing no response, Taylor turned onto his back and looked at the ceiling. "Shit," he vented as he began rolling his body to the side of the room.

Using the wall for leverage, the first-sergeant was able to get himself standing. "Dammit!" he spat as the ache in his head protested the movement. Taylor paused for a moment to allow the pain to pass before walking back over to the injured soldier who had still not moved. With the toe of his boot, Taylor carefully moved the spec4 onto her back and took a better look at her. Examining her insignias, he quickly learned that the soldier was part of the Vanguard convoy regiment that had been hit at the fuel on the move. That makes sense, nigger, he scolded himself. Who else would it be?

Turning his attention back to his comrade, Marcus looked at the woman's embroidered name tag. Anderson.

*************

Goldman, Anderson and Percell sat on the battered steps of the fishing shanty sharing a twelve-pack of Busch Beer. Myron had been nursing his can for too long and winced as the last of the warm ale trickled down his throat. "Geez, Zeke. How the hell do you drink this crap?"

Anderson smiled, finished off his own brew and crushed the can in his large hand. "After drinking 33 for three years in-country, this stuff is practically gold," he declared wryly.

None of the men could manage anything more than an uncomfortable smile at the forced humor. Major Goldman sighed and set his empty can on the bottom step of the porch. After a moment, he stood up and turned to face the other two men. "Guys, I'm sorry, but I have to go," Goldman said as he swatted at a mosquito. "I have a plane to catch. We're hoping to get the operation under way within the week."

Danny Percell looked from Goldman to the sergeant-major but, understanding that Goldman required a few minutes alone with the other man, he stood and walked over to the two vehicles that were parked at the edge of the dirt path leading down to the main road. Myron watched in silence and when he was certain that Percell was out of range of audibility, he turned back to his longtime friend.

"Zeke," the major said, his eyes conveying his deep compassion, "if it's okay with you, Percell's going to stay here for a while until we're done with the mission. I don't want you to be alone. In case..." His trailing words were met with nothing but the sound of crickets chirping their endless greeting to the growing twilight.

"God," he continued, "You don't need this. I know it's been hard for you ever since Jennifer's death. That should have never happened. Fontaine was a maniac. We all knew he was going to go ballistic sooner or later. Jenny was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." Anderson continued to maintain his silence, making Goldman suddenly regret his decision to bring up the murder of the sergeant-major's beloved wife. Unable to wish his words away, Myron placed a hand on his friend's still muscular arm and offered mildly, "I'm sorry I haven't been here for you, but if you need me..."

Anderson took his crumpled beer can and tossed it into an open garbage can that sat beyond the porch. "I'm all right, Myron. Just get my little girl home, y'hear?" He stood up and extended his hand to the officer. "You make sure they put together a team that can bring her out of there."

"Only the best, Man," Goldman promised as he shook Zeke's hand. The two men walked down to the road where Major Goldman nodded to Percell and opened the door to the black rented Cadillac the two had used to drive up to Zeke's cabin. Goldman slid onto the plush leather seat, but before shutting the door, he offered the sergeant-major one last word of encouragement. "They've assured me they'll assemble the best A-team the Special Forces has to offer. She'll be in good hands."

"I got your word on that?" Anderson asked as Goldman closed the door.

"Zeke," Major Goldman smiled as he turned the key in the ignition, "the only thing this team will be missing is you."

*************

First-Sergeant Taylor was sitting in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall under a window that was too high for him to see through, even when standing. He was sweating profusely and needed a drink of water, but his focus remained on the injured soldier who shared his cell. He watched for any sign of movement, but as the minutes faded into hours, his eyes became heavy and sleep won the battle to overtake his body.

*************

Zeke watched the dirt road long after the shiny black Cadillac had disappeared beyond the wooded acreage that surrounded the tiny fishing cottage. Haunted by the raging silence that lingered through the forest, Zeke kept his eyes fixed on the settling cloud of dusty smoke left behind by the car's spinning wheels. His mind whirled in a dizzying cascade of anger, fear and frustration as his blood pumped wildly through his body. The tremendous feeling of helplessness grew more intense with every passing second until, out of his periphery, Anderson saw Danny Percell shuffle his rawhide boot through the gravel in the road.

Suddenly amused by the boyish display, Zeke tucked his tongue inside his cheek and turn to watch Percell as the man endeavored to break the awkward moment.

Looking every bit as youthful as the day Sergeant Anderson had first laid eyes on him so many years ago, Danny's clear blue eyes displayed the same patriotism and compassion that had carried him as a young man to the brink of despair and back again. Danny's struggle to find his place in The World had always been difficult, but with Sergeant Anderson's consistent guidance, both during their shared tour in 'Nam and for awhile after, Percell had finally found his calling.

As a volunteer for the American Red Cross, Danny had specialized in providing emergency assistance to veterans and for a short time, had even returned to Vietnam to serve alongside America's military during the final troop withdrawal in 1975. When he was offered full time employment in Emergency Communications, Percell seized the opportunity and became heavily involved as a liaison to and from overseas locations using secured military networks. Notification of casualties to military families was nothing new to Daniel Percell, but he had never expected tragedy to strike so close to his heart.

"Um, Sarge?" Percell tried, slapping at a mosquito that was feeding hungrily at his cheek. "Maybe we ought go inside. I kinda had my fill of bloodsuckers, if you catch my drift." Danny knew his remark was out of place, but he knew nothing else to say and the bugs were in fact getting to be a nuisance. He scraped a fingernail across the welt left behind by the now pulverised insect and was disgusted to feel his own sticky blood running down his face from the splattered remains. Wiping his hand on his black jeans, he looked at Zeke, his eyes pleading for mercy.

Anderson turned around and looked at the other man, a mischievous twinkle finding its way into his indigo eyes. "Percell, I got me a better idea, Son. C'mon." Without explanation, Zeke opened the door to his brand new red Ford F250, turned the ignition and, with his foot on the brake, threw it into reverse. Seeing that Percell had made no effort to join him, the older man leaned his head out the window and with a smirk on his face, compelled Danny to join him. "C'mon, Percell. Trust me."

************

When Marcus Taylor opened his eyes, the only indication to him that any time had passed was the placement on the wall of the yellow beam of sunlight filtering through the unshaded window block. It had moved about ten feet to the right, indicating to the sergeant that some time had passed during his nap, but not much.

Taylor blinked several times, trying to wash away the sleepiness that had accumulated in the corners of each eye but the dry Kuwaiti air had reduced his body's natural moisture and he did not have enough tears to rid himself of the tiny deposits. Bothered by the discomforting feeling of sand in his eyes, he rubbed his face against his shoulder, wondering if he was only making matters worse, but too stubborn to give up hope.

When his eyes started burning, he forced his lids shut and lifted his head away from his shoulder. He leaned back against the wall, still holding his eyes tight in an effort to force some moisture into his dehydrated sockets. He gritted his teeth and held back a scream as the burning sting only intensified.

After several long, excruciating minutes, Taylor could feel his welling tears and dared to loosen the tightness of his closed lids. Still afraid to open them, he allowed the overflow of moisture to wash down his cheeks and relaxed his rigid posture to slump back into the wall.

When he finally decided that his eyes were moist enough to be opened, First-Sergeant Taylor was surprised to find that the pretty, dark-haired specialist had also opened her eyes and was staring directly at him.

*********************

Danny Percell hung his right arm over the door of the truck and leaned his head out the open window looking pale and green at the same time. He found some comfort in the wind whipping his face until a big unseen bug splatted against his chin. Pulling his head back inside the cab of the truck, Danny furrowed his brow and glared at Zeke Anderson who caught the look out of the corner of his eye.

"What's the matter, Percell," Zeke asked taking his eye off of the road only long enough to look curiously at his driving companion. "You get car sick, Son?"

"Only when you're driving, Sarge," Percell said with a grimace.

The 350 mile drive from Anderson's fishing cottage in Linwood, North Carolina to Washington, DC should have taken over seven hours, but after only five and a half, the driver was already closing in on the outskirts of the nation's capitol city. Percell never would have thought that a pick-up truck would be capable of such velocity, and had found himself silently praying on more than one occasion that somewhere along the 140 mile stretch of I-95, a highway patrol officer would slow the retired sergeant-major's breakneck speed.

To Percell's dismay, no such intervention occurred, and with the low volume of traffic on the interstate, Anderson had been able to make the nighttime trip in near-record time. The wild venture up the East Coast unnerved the vehicle's reluctant passenger, but Danny had promised Major Goldman that he would stay with Zeke until the mission to rescue Katie had been completed, one way or the other. Reckless driving or not, the Red Cross liaison refused to bail out on his friends.

Anderson grinned, but his eyes held a seriousness that Danny had seen many times before, usually just before a Huey helicopter entered a hot landing zone and a much younger platoon sergeant readied himself for battle.

"Sarge?" Percell said, trying to ignore the swiftly passing mile markers that reflected against the blackness beyond the vehicle's open window. "Just exactly what do you have in mind? I mean, what's in Washington that ain't in North Carolina?"

Without taking his eyes off of the towering white needle of the Washington Monument just coming into view over the treetops, Zeke Anderson tilted his head and smiled. "Politicians, Daniel Percell" he said matter-of-factly, smiling at his sudden recollection of the other man's name. "Politicians and Marvin Johnson."

"Johnson?" Danny asked, scowling in his confusion.

Broadening his grin, Anderson returned his focus to the road ahead of him and drove.

*************.

"What are you looking at, Girl?" Taylor snapped, his stress and discomfort making him forget his rank and the responsibility that came with it. He had become a top-rated NCO, and with Zeke Anderson as his mentor, he usually tried to remember that his men came before his pride. Unfortunately, his sudden status as prisoner of war had flooded the first-sergeant with too many torturous memories and for a moment, he forgot himself.

The injured specialist rolled her eyes and tried to say something, but her mouth was dry and the words were assaulted by a violent, hacking cough. Katie Anderson drew her legs into her chest as she tried to dispel her pain and her body's spontaneous rejection of consciousness.

Sergeant Taylor stood up more easily than before and rushed to the specialist's side. He needed his hands, but he was grateful that his feet had not also been bound. Kneeling down, Taylor bent forward and tried to get the other soldier to refocus her attention away from her distress. "Anderson," he urged, nudging her with his shoulder.

Katie responded with a horrendous attempt to draw in air, but her eyes were glazed and Taylor knew without a doubt that she was choking on something, probably her own blood. She needed medical care. He sprang to his feet and moved across the small room to the windowless wooden door.

"Hey, out there!" he bellowed. "We need some help in here!" When no reply came from the other side, he threw his body against the wood, not surprised when it refused to yield. He glanced back at his comrade and saw that she had spit out a pool of blood onto the concrete floor and, although she was no longer coughing, she looked dangerously ill. With his frustration mounting, Taylor again lunged at the door. "Goddamn towel-heads! She's gonna die if you don't get in here, now!"

Taylor's breathing was heavy and labored, but he was, in fact, breathing. He was no longer sure he could believe the same of Specialist Anderson. The first-sergeant had leaned his back against the door and was attempting to plan a course of action when he heard voices on the other side of the wall. Before he could step away, the door was sprung open, flinging Taylor aside as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. Without the use of his arms, Taylor could not control his balance and sprawled to the floor next to his cell mate.

"Damn, you crazy sand-niggers. Watch it," he snapped, always ready to do verbal battle. His next words caught in his throat when one of the two militants who had entered the room raised his weapon, and Marcus Taylor found himself looking up the barrel of an AK-47 machine gun.

*************

"You can't be serious!" Marvin Johnson challenged, springing up from his modest desk chair and scanning the equally modest room to see if anyone had overheard Anderson's absurd request. "Come here," Johnson demanded, grabbing Zeke by the arm to lead him through a doorway to a smaller, more private area of the office suite. Zeke shrugged his shoulders and grinned as he nonchalantly obeyed. Danny Percell rolled his eyes and followed the two old friends, closing the door behind them.

When he was satisfied that no one would overhear their conversation, Johnson continued his retort. "Zeke, I can't do that. He can't do that. What makes you think he can?"

Never faltering in his conviction that Marvin Johnson was just the man who could make a difference, Anderson smiled and said, "Well, now, Johnson, this is just the kind of thing he can do. I seen him on the TV lots of times, negotiating hostage situations and whatnot. I ain't askin' him to go over there, just talk somebody into letting me go."

Johnson shook his head.

He had been an active supporter of the Reverend Jesse Jackson during the candidate's run for the presidency, and had since been inspired himself to join the political process. After joining the National Rainbow Coalition, Johnson had quickly become an eager, and well-respected activist, working alongside the Reverend on many political movements. Johnson was gratified to hear that Anderson paid attention to the political arena, but he was unhappy about the sergeant-major asking him to use his connections in this way.

"Look, Zeke," Marvin began his losing argument, "we're here in Washington right now trying to set up negotiations with Iraq. Give us time and we'll bring Katie out of there peacefully. Reverend Jackson secured the release of 48 Cuban prisoners just a few years ago. He can do this, too."

Zeke Anderson had every confidence in Johnson's convictions, but as a father, he was unwilling to abide. Negotiations took time, and Zeke refused to sit back and play the waiting game. "Johnson, it's Katie we're talking about here. Not some Cubans. Go ahead and negotiate, but they're not going to wait for you. Goldman's setting up the mission now. Help me get over there so I can do my own part. Y'hear?"

Johnson and Percell exchanged a grievous look. They recognized the determination in their former platoon sergeant's voice and were certain that the man would find a way to Kuwait, with or without their assistance.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Marvin sighed. "But all I can do is ask. I can't go talk to the President myself, you know. I'll ask Reverend Jackson to speak on your behalf, but if he says no, the answer is no. You understand?"

Zeke flashed a crooked grin. "That's all I'm askin', Johnson."

*************

First-Sergeant Marcus Taylor had been rendered helpless when the Iraqi soldiers carried Specialist Anderson out of the room. He didn't speak the language but he was damned sure he was being told to stay down and keep his mouth shut or he would be introduced to the same bullets he had spent two years in Vietnam successfully avoiding.

"You bastards better get her a medic," Taylor had scolded. "I don't intend to be in here forever and I will kick some Iraqi butt. Don't be pissing me off any more than I already am. I ain't kiddin'."

The Iraqi soldiers had either not understood his threats or chose to ignore him, since they said nothing as they removed the injured soldier from the room and closed the door, leaving the first-sergeant alone to spend the night in the dark, little cell. "The least you could do is give a brother some water, you know!" Taylor called after them.

This was going to be one hell of a long night.

*************

"Captain Ruiz, reporting as ordered, Sir." Alberto Ruiz raised a perfect salute to the senior officers who were gathered around a large table inside the CP. The commander of the Special Forces A-team that had been assembled for the operation suppressed a grin as Major Goldman looked up from his maps to return the gesture.

"I'll be damned!" Goldman exclaimed, as he forgot his salute and extended his hand to the captain instead. "Alberto! What are you doing here?"

Ruiz widened his eyes in mock disbelief that the major would ask such a question. "You sent for the best, didn't you, Sir?" he asked as he shook Goldman's hand.

Myron couldn't help but laugh. He eyed the captain and allowed himself to smile. Alberto Ruiz had gone to Vietnam with much the same self-assured attitude, and although it had sometimes wavered, it was surely the force behind Ruiz's outstanding military career. "Percell told me you'd re-upped when you got back to The World, but Special Forces?"

"That's right, Sir," Ruiz agreed. "SF."

Alberto Ruiz had left Vietnam after his tour of duty, but realizing that he would never reacclimate to civilian life, he had eventually re-enlisted. His experience with MACV had led to an interest in joining the Green Berets and Ruiz enthusiastically endured the intensive program required to become a member of the elite fighting force.

Under the tutelage of First-Sergeant Earl Ray Michaels, Ruiz not only survived a second tour in 'Nam, but he was single-handedly responsible for the rescue of three American marines during a covert raid on an NVA POW camp. After advancing to the rank of staff-sergeant, pressure from the brass convinced Alberto to enter the "Green to Gold" Program which resulted in the NCO becoming a commissioned officer and, eventually, the captain standing before Major Goldman.

"It's good to see you, Captain," Myron said, an unmistakable hint of pride touching his voice.

Ruiz allowed his grin to explode across his congenial face. "It's good to see you again, too, Sir," he said. "Real good. I just wish it were under better circumstances."

Goldman's smile faltered as he released the captain's hand. "Yeah, me too," Myron admitted in a soft voice. Shaking away the melancholy that threatened to consume him, Goldman took a quick hit off his Marlborough Light and tossed it to the ground, extinguishing the flame under his heavy boot.

Reverting his attention to the dangerous mission that was laid before them, the major made quick work of introducing the men to one another and proceeded with issuing the OP Order that would initiate the rescue of the desert's first prisoners.

***************

When the OP Order had been delivered and all questions were answered, the gathered officers dispersed to begin rehearsals and other preparations for the rescue mission.

"Ruiz," Major Goldman called, stopping the junior officer at the edge of the CP tent.

Captain Ruiz stepped back into the shadows, happy to have a few more seconds in the shade before being blasted by the glaring desert sun. "Yes, Sir?"

Goldman licked his lips and, stepping around the table he had used to spread out his maps, he approached the other man. "Ru, I have a favor to ask. I can make it an order, but I won't..."

Ruiz smiled broadly. Anticipating the major's question and eager to accept, he interrupted, "Roger that, Sir. I wouldn't have it any other way!"

Surprised, Goldman chuckled. "But you haven't even heard the favor, Captain."

"Don't need to, Sir," Ruiz replied matter-of-factly. "You want me to lead the team in the field instead of the CP. Like I said, Sir, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Major Goldman had not laid eyes on Alberto Ruiz in over twenty years, but time and space melted away into a familiar, comfortable trust. Goldman smiled and accepted the other man's offer. "All right then, Captain. I promised Zeke the very best. I think, now, I've got it."

The captain opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by an unexpected interruption.

"Damn, did you ever see so much sand in all your life? All we need is Baker and some water and we got ourselves a hellava beach party?"

Major Goldman and Captain Ruiz spun around to face the source of the sarcastic commentary on the dusty terrain of Saudi Arabia. Goldman thought he recognized the voice but dismissed it as being an overactive imagination combined with the incredible stress of his command. He shook his head and blinked, not believing what he thought he was seeing--the silhouette painted against the bright desert sun looked exactly like Sergeant Zeke Anderson, complete with fatigues and bandanna and an M-16 rifle perched on his hip.

"Do you see what I see, Ru?" Goldman asked the junior officer.

"I'm not sure, Sir," Ruiz replied, squinting into the sun. Venturing a guess, he addressed the intruder. "Sarge?"

The figure stepped into the tent, banishing any doubt the other two might have had of the soldier's identity. "I heard you were an officer, Ruiz," the freshly reactivated sergeant-major joked. "I just had to come on over here and see for my own self. And looky here. I'll be damned if you ain't."

Before Alberto could reply, Major Goldman stepped forward, the deep crevices of his frown conveying his opinion of his friend's appearance. "What are you doing here, Zeke?" Goldman demanded, not bothering to extend his hand. "I don't believe this. What the hell are you doing? I thought I left you with Percell."

Bewildered by the lack of enthusiasm, Anderson shrugged and offered his friend a who me? smirk.

Goldman furrowed his brows as an unmistakable illustration of his lack of amusement. "Well?" he snapped, not at all charmed by Zeke's attempts to lighten the mood. "Where's Percell and how did you get here?"

Anderson resigned himself to the fact that the major was going to make this difficult, so he postponed his response long enough to acknowledge Captain Ruiz. "Sir, if you don't mind, can I talk to the major in private?" He grinned as he patted Alberto on the shoulder, and nodded his head to indicate the problem would be handled. "It's all right, Son. We'll be with you in just a minute."

Ruiz glanced from Anderson to Goldman and back again, deciding he would reserve his many questions and give the men their privacy. "Roger that, Sergeant-Major," the captain replied. "It's good to see you again." Ruiz nodded to Goldman and retreated from the tent, leaving Zeke and Myron alone.

When the captain was out of sight, Goldman returned his attention to Anderson and barked, "I'm waiting, Zeke. What the hell is going on?"

Anderson took Myron's arm to lead the officer deeper inside the tent. Inviting his friend to sit down, the NCO withdrew a bottle of scotch from its concealment inside his tan fatigues, and held it up as a peace-offering. The gesture did nothing to alleviate the perturbed major's frustration.

"I don't want to sit down, and I don't want a drink. If you don't start talking right now, Sergeant-Major, I am going to call the MPs and have you arrested. Do you understand me?"

"Now, Sir. There ain't no need to call the MPs. I have authorization to be here from the President hisself."

Goldman did not reply verbally, but the incredulous glare he delivered to the sergeant-major was unmistakable. Without realizing he had done so, Myron plopped himself down onto a large wooden crate that sat in the corner. A gust of wind blew through the open flaps of the tent, pelting both men in the face with a burst of fine desert sand.

"Sure you wouldn't care for a drink, Sir?" Zeke again offered as he watched Goldman swipe a hand across his mouth.

"Fine," he snapped. "I'll take the damned drink. Now would you mind clueing me in? What's going on, Zeke?"

"Well, Sir, first of all, Percell is driving up to Dansville to stay with Ri An for awhile. He'll be letting you know just as soon as there's some news. Second, I come to get my little girl out of here," Anderson explained as he looked around the CP for something to use as a cup. Finding nothing suitable, he opened the bottle of scotch and raised it to his lips, taking a short, burning swig. When he was done, he handed the bottle to Goldman who mirrored the sentiment and set the bottle on the table.

Unsatisfied with the response, Goldman continued to pry. "That doesn't explain how you got here, Zeke. You're not only retired, but you're too old for this kind of thing. What do you expect to accomplish?"

Anderson looked wounded. "I may be retired, Myron, but I ain't too old. Experience is half the battle. You know that better'n anyone."

Unwilling to waiver for this particular argument, Goldman replied, "The guys on this A-team are all experienced in this sort of thing. They're not a bunch of cherries. This isn't the first hostage situation since Vietnam..."

His words were cut short by an unexpected outburst from Katie Anderson's father. "No, Myron, it's not. But it's the first one that has my daughter involved and I aim to make sure it don't end in a major SF screw up that gets them all killed. If you don't mind." Moderating his emotions, the sergeant-major lowered his voice and made his final plea. "You're wife...Ri An, is about to have your first baby, now ain't she, Myron?"

Goldman offered a reluctant nod, knowing where his friend's argument was leading.

"Well, Sir?" Anderson finished. "What would you do if it was your kid?"

Major Goldman licked his lips and helped himself to another short sip of the incredibly smooth scotch. Avoiding Zeke's pleading eyes, the officer slammed the bottle back to the table and gave his reply. "Dammit!"

************continued part 2****************