Free Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky Page A

“Thank you, sir.”
    The major returned the salute. “Put your men at ease, Sergeant Major. It’s breakfast time here, but I’m betting you guys could use a little time in the rack.”
    “We slept on the plane, sir.”
    The major smiled. “I’ve made that trip a few times. No one sleeps on a plane. At best, we nap. Let me show you the barracks. I have a room for each member of your team. Grab some shut-eye. You have a meeting in four hours and Colonel Tyson doesn’t like to see any yawning, if you catch my drift.”
    “Understood, sir.”
    “You won’t have any trouble finding your way around the barracks. I’ll make sure you have some chow before the meeting. You want breakfast or lunch?”
    “Lunch, sir. It’s best if we eat at local time. Easier to adjust that way.”
    “I’ll take both,” Rich said. He grinned.
    Major Barlow studied the big man for a moment. “I make it a point not to argue with men twice my size.” He returned his attention to Moyer. “Get some rest. Fall out.”
    Moyer thought it the best order he had received in a long time.

CHAPTER 11
    DELARAM DIDN’T SLEEP. AT least not that she remembered. The night crept by, minutes passing like hours, leaving her to stare at the ceiling. Pale light pressed past sheer drapes casting shadow monsters on the wall. The shadows didn’t frighten her; the monsters on the other side of the door were the real ones.
    When she stepped into the room she saw a figure curled beneath a white sheet in one of the two beds. The figure didn’t move at the sound of the door opening and Delaram’s entrance. The guard shut the door with a bang loud enough to wake a corpse, but still the woman on the bed refused to move. For a moment Delaram wondered if the thin woman was dead, expired from grief. Sitting on the second bed in the room, Delaram waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She saw the woman’s chest rise and fall. Not dead; just too scared to move.
    Delaram removed her slip-on sneakers and reclined on the bed. Her mind twisted and turned, unable to form a single line of thought. Emotion boiled just beneath the surface and she fought it, stuffing it into some narrow corner of her being.
    A soft murmur bubbled from the other bed. Despite what must be heroic efforts, the other woman began to weep softly. Delaram wanted to comfort her, to utter words that would give the tortured soul a glimmer of hope, but she had no hope to give, no words of encouragement to offer. After an eon of moments, Delaram said, “Mother and father.”
    Ten seconds passed before the other woman said, “Husband and son.”
    The remaining hours of darkness passed in silence.
    Moonlight surrendered to sunrise; pale ivory light yielded to salmon glow of the dawn. Delaram looked at her watch—6:45.
    The door to the room swung open and a tall man with a ragged beard stepped in. He carried a small machine gun. “Get up.” He spoke Arabic.
    Delaram swung her feet over the bed and slipped her sneakers on. She hadn’t bothered to undress. She stood.
    The woman in the other bed didn’t budge, the sheet covered her head.
    “I said, get up.”
    When the woman refused to move, the man growled, stepped to the bed and pointed the weapon at the woman’s head, gently laying the barrel over her temple. “Do not make me angry, woman.”
    Delaram crossed the room and laid a hand on the machine gun. She didn’t have the courage to touch the man.
    “She’s frightened. Let me.”
    The man jerked the gun away, the front sight scrapping Delaram’s hand. She let slip a cry of pain, then shook her hand. The man smiled at her. He had enjoyed inflicting the pain.
    Using her other hand, Delaram slowly pulled back the sheet that covered her roommate. “You must get up. It does no good to anger—”
    Delaram dropped the sheet and took a step back.
    “Oh no.”
    The woman stared at the wall with unblinking, unmoving, unseeing eyes. An empty, light brown bottle with a white label lay near the