Chapter 3
Olive slipped her uniform cap onto her head before getting out of the car, then grabbed her travel mug of coffee and a backpack containing her scrubs.
The early morning held a quiet stillness, as if taking a moment in preparation for the day.
Once she crossed the parking lot, she looked up at the sky, savoring the view of the bright blue and purple sunrise.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the morning, smelling the crisp bite of dew-kissed grass and distant pine, saying a silent prayer for her day.
“Most people look at the sunrise with their eyes open.”
Startled, she turned and spotted Staff Sergeant Gerald McBride, the gunshot wound to the left biceps from yesterday. He sat on a bench, wearing an Army PT uniform. His left arm, bundled in layers of bandages, rested in a sling.
“Sometimes things are better when your eyes are closed,” she said. “Smells, tastes, you know. Vision tends to dominate your other senses.” She crossed over to the bench and gestured at the seat next to him. “May I?”
“Oh, by all means.”
She set her backpack on the ground and sat next to him, turning sideways to face him. The metal bench was cool, a faint chill seeping through her uniform pants from the morning dew.
When she took a sip of coffee, he said, “I’d still like to buy you that coffee.”
With a smile, she said, “Ah, so you remember that, do you?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, you left an impression.”
Flirtatious soldiers were part of her day. She didn’t even get embarrassed anymore. “Are you headed home?”
He nodded. “Just waiting on my medic. He’s finalizing some paperwork.”
“Where’s home?”
“Fort Bragg for now. Center of the universe in case you didn’t know.”
Memories of the two years she spent in North Carolina flew through her mind. “Oh, I know. I was stationed there right after school.”
“Not my favorite place,” he said. “But I have a good team, so that makes it palatable.”
“Why not a good place?”
He shrugged. “A lot of training happened there. Like, a lot. Hard schools, harder instructors.” He paused. “Better chow than at Benning, though. I’ll give them that.” His words slurred, and his eyelids drooped.
She gestured at his arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Kind of like I got shot in the arm.”
“Really? Get shot often?”
He stared at her silently for one heartbeat, then two, clearly deciding what he was allowed to say. “Maybe.”
“That so?” She giggled. “Why get shot so much?”
“Thought it would be a good way to meet hot chicks.” He scrubbed his beard. “Turns out I was right. Still, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She chuckled. “So, I’m a hot chick, am I?”
“Hotter than a jalapeno pepper in a sauna,” he said with absolutely no irony.
“Well, Staff Sergeant, I am also a commissioned officer.”
All dry humor, now, he replied, “Oh, ma’am, yes ma’am, I am aware. But I would never hold that against you, ma’am.”
The doors to their right swished open, and a man in clean ACUs marched out.
As he walked, he effortlessly donned his green beret and straightened it.
She recognized him as part of the crew who brought Sergeant McBride in.
She stood and scanned his uniform rank and name before she said, “Good morning, Lieutenant Osbourne.” She found it curious that a medic held an officer’s rank and wondered about the story behind that.
He glanced at her nametag. “Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant Duncan.” He stopped in front of Jerry. “Ready to roll, Jerry Maguire?”
“Maguire?” she asked. “I thought it was McBride?”
He grinned, a twinkle in his eye, “You had me at hello, ma’am.”
Relentless flirt!
Lieutenant Osbourne asked, “Oh, did I come at a bad time?”
“Not at all. He’s just enjoying the excellent narcotics provided to him post-op,” she explained.
Lieutenant Osbourne scoffed. “Should have flown here with him. He was all over me. I am not just a piece of meat, lover-boy.”
Jerry said, “You know what I think? I think my spotter should have been up in that tree with me. That’s right. Right there by my side, tucked in right next to me all lovey and snuggly, right where you belong, Oz.”
Olive rarely saw an interchange like this between a Staff Sergeant and a First Lieutenant. Clearly, Special Forces had its own culture of respect that did not necessarily always conform to the norms and standards of the regular Army.
“Well, I would have been. But then that clown might have shot both of us.”
“Fair.” Jerry conceded. “What’s all that?”
Osbourne looked elaborately surprised as he held up the thick presentation folders and small decorative boxes he carried. “This? Oh, you don’t want any part of this.”
“Is that a medal?” Jerry’s voice sounded suspicious.
“No,” Osbourne said firmly.
“Oh, thank you Lord, thank you Jesus!” Jerry declared.
“It’s actually two medals,” Osbourne announced with malicious delight.
“Oh, then no,” Jerry said. “And also no.”
“Come on, now, hero. Somehow, the President of these United States—well, we’re in Germany, but you know what I mean—our Commander-in-Chief decided you merit a Purple Heart.”
Jerry shook his head. “Not again.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Osbourne said with barely contained glee. “You, my friend, have been honored with the Homeland Security Distinguished Service Medal from our wonderful friends and fellow patriots at the Department of Homeland Security.”
Jerry gave him a look of unabashed astonishment. “You, sir, are a liar and a scoundrel.”
Osbourne couldn’t contain his laughter now.
“You can’t make this up, Jerry. Look. Look here.
This is the highest DHS honor for exceptional meritorious service or achievement in a duty of great responsibility, and it can be given to any member of the Armed Forces—across all branches—for actions supporting homeland security missions,” Osbourne had to stop and chuckle, “such as joint operations, or disaster response. Or, you know, when some DHS knucklehead shoots you.”
Olive could not believe what she had just heard. Friendly fire? How could that even happen anymore? Should she have heard that?
Jerry sat back further on the bench. “Ozzy? I hate you. I really do. You know that, don’t you?”
Osbourne slid the medals into his kit bag. “Well, I love you, brother. And I am so thankful to our heavenly father that you still have that arm. Now, let’s make tracks. Whatta ya say?”
“Yeah.” Jerry slowly rose to his feet.
Olive could tell the movement hurt despite the painkillers. “Take it easy, Sergeant. Give that arm time to heal.”
He studied her for a moment before he said, “Keep those eyes closed, ma’am. Never know what life might show you when they’re closed.”
Port-Au-Prince, Haiti
Marie Desalin pressed her back against the wall of the adobe building, praying that her black dress and black head scarf would hide her in the light of the new moon. The Kenyan soldiers strolled by, and she held her breath, keeping perfectly still. They looked neither left nor right.
As soon as she felt safe enough to dart, she ran across the street and tapped the secret signal on the door.
It opened to a dark room. Once inside, the door shut behind her, and a flame lit a low lamp, highlighting her brother Jean’s face.
The air inside carried the faint, acrid bite of kerosene from the lamp, laced with the earthy damp of rain-soaked adobe.
“News?”
She shook her head. “Nothing good. Kenya is bringing in more troops. I saw Americans there, too. Not in uniform, though, so probably CIA.” They spoke in Haitian Creole, voices low so as not to carry out of the thin walls. “They’re going to come for you, Jean. They think you’re the problem.”
Jean’s wife Daphnée slapped the table with her hand. “The only people who think he’s the problem are the ones we’re trying to overthrow.”
“Yeah, the ones with the guns.” Henri Desalin, Jean’s oldest son, spat on the ground. “We cannot fight all of them with what we have.”
Julien Desalin, the youngest son, laughed. “We can one at a time.”
Marie looked from one nephew to the other and finally settled back on her brother. Her breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, too.”
Her mind went back to her tenth birthday.
She went with her family to church, but the American soldiers burst in, screaming in English.
Her mother had grabbed her and held her against her while they searched the men.
Out of the service, they took seventeen men, including their oldest brother, Marcus. They’d never seen him again.
Jean put a hand on her shoulder. “We will prevail. I’m working out the plan now. In the morning, I’ll make contact with the Chinese spy. I’ll find out what they want from us and hash out what I want from them.”
Marie waved her hands in the air. “Why bring more foreigners in? Huh? Other countries have stepped in and tried to solve Haiti’s problems for decades. Can’t we, as Haitians, just be the ones in charge of our own destiny?”
Jean laughed low and opened up his leather-bound notebook.
She knew how intricately he planned, and how he organized the lists and diagrams in the pages of his precious journal.
“I can assure you, sister, that I will be the only one in charge in this situation. Anything I offer will be only what I’m willing to give and nothing more.
The people of Haiti deserve true power and true independence.
I will not negotiate that away like this current fool. ”
He pulled her into his arms. “Go with Daphnée to the estate. Prepare the meal. The boys and I will meet him there.”
She looked up at him. “You all risk capture if you go to the estate.”
He shook his head. “No danger. I will be giving a speech in Cap-Ha?tien. We found a double to serve as a decoy.”
Daphnée grabbed her shoulders. “We must persevere, sister. Even when we’re scared.”
Marie took a deep breath and slowly let it out. The lingering salt of unshed tears coated her tongue,
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
She went to the door and put her hand on the handle. “Liberté ou la Mort,” she whispered, quoting the early nineteenth-century slogan from the Haitian Revolution. “Liberty or death.”
“Liberté ou la Mort,” he replied. “Be well, sister.”