Blood Contest Read online

  “I don’t like it either, but that’s what it is. The outpost is in a bowl, surrounded by towering cliffs. We have lots of local intelligence, and we have our own eyes on the cliffs all the time. And we have our own armament. If needed, we have air support from attack helicopters out of Jalalabad and from F-15s and A-10 Warthogs out of Bagram.”

  “You have air support as long as the weather cooperates. I know how that works, and I am sure that those mountains create some very difficult weather conditions for you.”

  “You are right, Pop, but this outpost has been here for four years now. I only need to finish out my tour, and then I think I’ll be coming home.”

  “Coming home? What happened? Did you sour on the Army?”

  “No. I met someone. She is one of the group of teachers whom we are protecting for the coming year. Her commitment expires in a year, around the same time that my enlistment ends.”

  “Isn’t that rather sudden?”

  “We have known each other for only six weeks, but we fit. We simply fit. We see things the same way, and she is a kind soul – just like Mom.”

  “Oh, I see. Why don’t you tell me about her?”

  “Her name is Claudine. She is a French national.

  “Do you love each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then nothing else should matter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you both planning to come to the United States?”

  “Yes. I think I want to try college, and Claudine would like to work with a university again.”

  “I believe that you can still get an athletic scholarship, and I will always be here to help you.”

  “Thank you, Pop. Listen, they are telling me that I have to get off the call. I have to go now.”

  “Okay. Make sure you stay safe. I love you, Son.”

  “Love you too, Pop. Bye.”

  *****

  By the time that JR walked over to the mess hall from the headquarters building, chow had ended. All of the soldiers from Delta Company had finished eating and had left, and the four teachers had finished and were about to leave as well.

  Claudine came over and sat with him as he ate.

  “You know, JR, Odom really does not like you at all.”

  “Well, that’s a revelation,” he chuckled. She laughed with him, and JR continued. “I am much less concerned about Odom liking me than I am concerned about you liking me.”

  “Well, so far so good,” she laughed. Her eyes were very bright.

  “I told my Pop about us, Claudine. I told him that we would come to the States next year.”

  She seemed uncomfortable when he told her that. “I want to see it happen, but let’s go slow. Let’s see what happens this year.”

  He looked like he was hurt now, and she was sorry that she had said it.

  “JR, all that I am saying is that a year is a very long time – especially since we have known each other for only six weeks. We cannot know the future, but I feel very close to you, closer to you than I have been to anyone. We cannot know the future, but this is something that I want to do. At the end of this year, I want to be with you. And I want to be with you for many years after this.”

  She leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. He seemed happier now.

  “Have you thought about what we are going to do this afternoon?” he asked.

  “I have. I want to see the school.”

  “We can’t do that. We are not allowed into the town until tomorrow, but I have an idea.”

  *****

  JR borrowed a helmet and a tactical vest from one of the female soldiers in the company. He showed Claudine how to put on the equipment. Then he put on his own helmet and vest, picked up his carbine, and started on a hike with Claudine.

  It was actually a fairly arduous climb rather than a hike. They were climbing to the top of flattop. Flattop was on the edge of the outpost, but it was perched on the top of a very high cliff. It was the observation post for the outpost.

  Claudine kept pace with JR, but it was a difficult climb to the top of flattop. It was late in the afternoon by the time they reached the top.

  At the top there was a broad flat space that was wide enough to land a Huey attack helicopter. At the front edge there was a 30 foot high observation and radio tower. From there the outpost’s soldiers could keep track of hostile movements and could call in air or mortar strikes on the enemy. There was an additional mortar pit on flattop as well. The soldiers from the outpost manned flattop twenty-four hours a day. It was the lifeline for the outpost.

  When Claudine and JR walked to the front edge of flattop, she immediately looked down at the camp to see where they had come from.

  “You are looking the wrong way,” JR said. He pointed toward the east. She looked in that direction and saw the bridge across the river in front of the camp. On the other side of the river was the town. “The first building past the bridge is the police station, but that building behind it – the new building – is your school.”

  “Oh, it looks wonderful,” she said, but she shivered as the wind blew in from the west. JR wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm, and kissed her on her neck. She reached up and touched his cheek. As she looked back at him, she stopped.

  “Oh my,” she said. They both turned to look toward the west.

  The sun started to dip below the Hindu Kush Mountains. Bands of orange, red, violet, and indigo followed in succession from one ridge to the next. It was the perfect sunset, a once-in-a-lifetime sunset.

  But it was the last sunset that they would see.

  Chapter 15

  Will Cooper sat under the bright lights of his television studio. With only minutes before his live broadcast, he was at the center of a storm of activity. His makeup artist and stylist scurried about him and made their last-minute touchups, while the sound technician performed the final check of his mike. Cooper was impervious to the commotion around him, concentrating on his script, concentrating on the serious task at hand.

  The set director called out. “Clear the set, everyone. One minute until we go live, Will.”

  Will nodded to the director. He smoothed his lapels one last time and looked into the main camera. Will Cooper was impressive on camera. His blue eyes popped against his grayish blue jacket, and his jet black hair, touched with gray on each temple, conveyed just the right blend of youthful energy and seasoned experience.

  The director called out. “Five seconds, everyone.” He signaled to Will with his fingers – four – three – two – one. Then he pointed to Will to take it live.

  “Good evening. I am Will Cooper.” Will’s voice was deep and reassuring. A television critic had once described his voice as velvet gravitas. With his classic good looks and distinctive voice, Will seemed to have been made for television. As an anchorman Will Cooper was close to perfect.

  “Scarcely twenty-four hours ago, Governor Jamie Jamieson sought to do the decent thing. Governor Jamieson sought to lay to rest his only son, who had been murdered in front of his family on Christmas Day.

  “To most of us, burying a loved one would be a sad but simple task. But it is not so simple in an indecent world. It was not so simple for Governor Jamieson yesterday.

  “Yesterday a gunman attacked the train carrying Governor Jamieson and his family to Philadelphia for Trey Jamieson’s funeral. This was a truly despicable act, but it was also an act filled with danger – danger for Governor Jamieson, who was obviously the target of this second murder attempt.

  “We have learned that Governor Jamieson’s security detail had insisted that he return immediately to the safety of his estate in Princeton because of the increasing danger to his life. Returning to Princeton seemed the only prudent thing to do, but Governor Jamieson refused. Under increasing danger to himself, Governor Jamieson insisted on laying his son to rest. He insisted on doing the decent thing for Trey yesterday.

  “At night, after the funeral, the Governor went on television. He del
ivered a personal message to Trey’s killers. He promised that he would use the full power of the State of New Jersey to avenge his son’s death and to bring them to justice.”

  As the camera came in for its close-up, Will’s earnest blue eyes swelled with emotion.

  “On a personal note, let me say that I have never seen a politician display as much courage to do the right thing as Governor Jamieson did yesterday. In my judgment Governor Jamieson is a truly courageous and remarkable man.”

  Will paused for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts before continuing.

  “On the one hand, I am heartened by this uncommon man’s decency and bravery in the face of danger, but I am also worried. I am worried that those who are charged with protecting this man are not doing enough.

  “If the New Jersey State Police had done enough to protect Governor Jamieson, would there have been an attack on his son’s funeral train yesterday? If they had done enough, would Trey Jamieson have been murdered four days ago?

  “Why are the New Jersey State Police not doing more to protect this man?”

  Again Will Cooper paused to emphasize what he was about to say.

  “Although four days have passed since the murder of Trey Jamieson, the NJSP has revealed no substantial information about his murder to the public. Why is this? To me, as both a citizen and a journalist, the secrecy and lack of transparency surrounding this case is very troubling.

  “Apparently this is troubling to you as well. One of our viewers contacted me with evidence from yesterday’s attack on the funeral train. Our viewer contacted me because he was concerned that the New Jersey State Police would bury this evidence. We have sent this evidence to the New Jersey State Police, but we are also informing you about it here tonight.”

  A photo of the shooter’s sedan on the bridge appeared on the screen, with a close-up of the license plate – a diplomatic plate.

  The camera cut back to Will Cooper who now appeared grim.

  “And now we may also know why the New Jersey State Police has surrounded this case with so much secrecy.

  “We have discovered that the license plate is registered to the diplomatic mission to the United Nations for...”

  Cooper paused here for effect.

  “...for the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday, December 30

  It was long past 2 AM when Pete Mueller finally drifted off to sleep. He dreaded this date. It was the anniversary. He knew that he would relive his nightmare again.

  Mueller started to dream about Iraq again. He dreamt he was in Baghdad. It was the middle of winter, but it was warm, about 60° Fahrenheit, and it was oppressively humid, as it always was.

  He was a sniper in the Army again. He was providing cover for a checkpoint in Baghdad and was in his elevated position above the checkpoint.

  A 2nd Lieutenant named Riffee was the officer in charge of the checkpoint. Everyone except Riffee knew that he did not know anything. Riffee had recently graduated from West Point, and that was enough for him. Most officers with any sense – any officer above a 2nd Lieutenant – knew enough to leave the day-to-day ops to his noncoms. But not Riffee.

  Riffee was a moron of the hands-on variety. It was Riffee’s first day at the checkpoint, but he decided to shun the OIC’s customary position in an office behind the checkpoint. He wanted to be close to his men. He wanted to be where he could observe the entire checkpoint. He crowded himself into Mueller’s sniper perch above the checkpoint.

  The personnel at the checkpoint consisted of a few guards, the sniper, and an interpreter who was provided to the Army by a civilian contractor. The interpreter spoke Arabic and sometimes one other dialect. He was usually not the most proficient linguist because the contractor had to make a profit from his services, but the interpreter knew enough to get by on most days.

  Unfortunately this day was not like most days.

  It was late afternoon when Mueller spotted a dust trail moving toward the checkpoint but still a mile out. Within a few seconds, he saw a mud-colored Volkswagen creating the trail. It was the Iraqi version of what Mueller knew as a Jetta. The car was moving erratically and at a very high rate of speed.

  Riffee immediately thought suicide bomber. He shouted, “Take out the driver, Mueller. Now!”

  Mueller was not so sure. At three hundred yards, he put an armor piercing round into the car’s engine block. The VW emitted a grating, metallic moan and came to a dead stop at one hundred yards from the checkpoint.

  The driver-side door flew open, and a middle-aged woman in a heavy coat jumped out. She was very agitated. She was screaming in an unintelligible dialect, and she started running toward the checkpoint.

  Through a bullhorn the interpreter commanded her in Arabic to halt and to get on the ground. The woman looked puzzled but continued to run toward the checkpoint.

  Riffee was panicked now. Beads of cold sweat had broken out on his lip, and his face was red with rage. “Dammit, Mueller. Take her out,” he screamed.

  Mueller fired a round into the ground five feet in front of the woman. She shrieked as the bullet hit the dirt and sent pebbles flying up at her, but she continued screaming in her unknown dialect and continued running toward the checkpoint.

  Again the interpreter commanded her to halt and to get on the ground, but the woman continued to run.

  Riffee was now inches away from Mueller’s face, and he was screaming into his ear. “Dammit, Mueller. I gave you a legal order. Kill that woman, or I will see you court-martialed. Drop her now!”

  The woman was only forty yards from the checkpoint when Mueller sighted her in his scope, squeezed off a round, and saw her face explode on impact.

  “Woo-wee!” Riffee shouted. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Mueller.”

  Mueller turned and looked at the grinning son of the bitch and smacked the butt of his rifle into Riffee’s nose.

  The guards at the checkpoint found that the woman had been traveling in the car with her family – her husband, her young son, and her mother. With the help of an Iraqi soldier who spoke the dialect, they discovered that the family was from a province in the northeast of Iraq. As Sunni Turkomen, they were a minority there and were suffering persecution in the north. They were trying to flee south when the husband suffered a heart attack. Although the husband spoke Arabic, the woman, her son, and her mother spoke only South Azeri, a Turkic dialect that the interpreter had not studied.

  When these facts came to light, the battalion’s Sergeant Major informed Mueller that there would be no court-martial and that 2nd Lieutenant Riffee would be returning to the States.

  Mueller was relieved, but he found that he could no longer sleep. No amount of time would ever scrub that final image of the woman’s face from Mueller’s memory.

  It was 4:30 AM when Mueller woke at last from his nightmare. He was in a cold sweat and had a splitting headache.

  Mueller thought that this was a horrible way to start the day, but he did not realize that his day was just beginning its downward spiral.

  Chapter 17

  It was a few minutes after six when Mueller left for the CSU. A lowering, threatening sky still blocked the first light of day, and an icy rain had started to fall.

  Burton was already in the office when Mueller arrived. Mueller went searching for breakfast – a handful of extra strength Tylenol and a large cup of black coffee. Mueller spent the next two hours reviewing the evidence files and his case notes until Hazel came into the office. She was the department’s receptionist, and she seemed agitated, almost ill.

  “Have you seen the news yet, Sergeant Mueller?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “It’s bad. It’s really bad,” she said. Then she turned on the television in the squad room.

  Will Cooper was on the screen, above a banner that read, “SPECIAL REPORT.”

  “To repeat our top story of the morning,” he said, “Afghan terrorists had infiltrated a forward out
post of the American army in Afghanistan. During their infiltration, the terrorists executed a number of civilians and captured an American soldier. Details are still coming in to us.

  Cooper continued. “The murdered civilians were young, French-Algerian women — teachers who were to open a school for the local Afghan girls this morning. This school would have been a public relations triumph for the Afghan national government and for its allies against the Taliban, but sadly it appears that it will not happen.

  “It has been reported that four terrorists had entered this American military outpost two hours before dawn this morning. Apparently they had assistance from inside the compound, because they were dressed in Afghan National Army uniforms and they went immediately to the dormitory where the female teachers were sleeping. With silencers on their weapons, it has been reported, the terrorists executed the four teachers...” Cooper’s voice cracked as he continued, “shooting them in their heads as they slept.

  “Immediately afterward, a firefight broke out when two American soldiers discovered the terrorists. The Americans held the terrorists at bay, until the Taliban severely wounded one of the Americans. At that point, the other American, a Corporal Odom, went to get reinforcements. In the interval, the Taliban escaped and took the wounded American with them as their prisoner.

  “The wounded American has been identified as a New Jersey man, Corporal Frank Burton, Jr.”

  Mueller turned away from the screen and noticed that Burton had been standing motionless near him. Burton was pale, and beads of sweat were on his upper lip and forehead. He seemed to need the wall of the squad room to support himself. Before Mueller could say anything to him, Burton simply turned and walked back to his office.

  By late morning, they found out that the terrorists were streaming an Internet feed of JR. Mueller located the feed and streamed it on the computer in his cubicle, where he, Hazel, and Ryan watched with dread. Sometime during the broadcast, Burton had walked up behind them and was watching silently from outside the cubicle.

  The feed recorded what appeared to be a trial. JR was in a room with the terrorists, but he was barely recognizable. JR was no longer the happy and confident young man in the photos that the network had been showing through the morning. His face was bruised. His eyes were swollen and seemed mere slits on his face. And every few seconds he spat blood through his swollen lips. The terrorists had beaten him severely, but he was still defiant. He was angry.