Free Project StrikeForce by Kevin Lee Swaim Page A

trouble, John?” Eric asked.
    Frist looked down at the table. “How did I get
here?”
    Eric nudged a glass of water across the table to
Frist, who took it hesitantly. “It’s to be expected. The IED really did a
number on you. Take a drink and clear your head.”
    Frist eyed them groggily. “I remember you two. You
were there. You saved me. It’s like it just happened—”
    Eric shook his head. “That was a year ago, John.
Don’t you remember? I’m Eric and this is Deion. We’re Delta. The IED hit your
Humvee outside Baghdad and the insurgents got you. They tortured you for weeks.
They even water-boarded you. They wanted to smuggle explosives into the green
zone. You did good. You didn’t tell them anything.”
    Frist nodded. “Yeah, I remember. They punched me
and kicked me. They put a cloth over my mouth and tried to drown me.”
    Eric turned to Deion. “See, this man has the right
stuff. I told you. He didn’t give them anything.”
    Deion nodded. “Yeah, he’s got the right stuff.
John, we’re here to make you an offer. Delta has a new program and we think
you’d be a perfect fit.”
    Frist stared at Deion, the seconds ticking by.
Eric watched intently, looking for any signs that John remembered his previous
encounters with Deion at Guantanamo.
    First continued to stare.
    Deion patiently said, “John, the docs says the
effects of the IED might continue for a bit. We’ll take care of you. Plus, your
country needs you.”
    Frist finally nodded. “Of course. I’d do anything
for my country.”
    Eric smiled. “That’s what we like to hear. You
won’t regret this. You’ll be out-processing in a month. We’ll see you then.”
    Frist nodded and smiled back, and then his eyes
slowly drooped. He swayed for a moment, then slumped in his chair. The Rangers
returned with the gurney and hustled Frist away.
    Eric and Deion left as the men returned to take
away the furniture and collapse the tent. Dr. Barnwell was waiting for them. “Very
good, gentlemen. He now has a framework to build on. His mind will fill in the
rest.”
    * * *
    John woke, bleary eyed, the light
from the digital clock casting soft shadows across the room. He took in his
surroundings. A soft cot. A desk with a laptop. He could see a bathroom through
an open doorway. A locker with clothes. He tried to remember where he was, and,
for a moment, who he was.
    Then it came to him. He was John Frist and he was
a soldier.
    He vaguely remembered corridors and hallways,
entering the room, exhausted, and collapsing on the bed.
    He struggled for more and then it hit, a road,
more dusty street than pavement. He was hot, sweating. His eyes roving.
    Then, a pile of garbage on the side of the street,
like a million other piles of garbage. Pieces of stone and concrete littered
the roadside along with the Iraqi’s trash. Nothing different this time. Nothing
but the explosion. A whump of noise, deafening, pummeling him.
    His heart skipped a beat and he trembled as the
memory came on in full force. The muffled ringing in his ears. The smell of the
explosives and the dust gagging in his mouth, the smell of burning plastic and
metal stinging his nose. He wanted to spit, to gag.
    He turned and saw O’Neill and Gutierrez slumped
over. Gutierrez turned to him, his eyes vacant. Blood ran in sheets down his
face, down the coppery skin of his neck, and Gutierrez went still. John smelled
the piss and shit and he knew Gutierrez—the man who talked about his wife and
two kids, how he couldn’t wait to get out, go home, drive his kids down to the
beach, make love to his wife after the kids were asleep and then lick ice cream
off her stomach, the man he had come to call friend—was dead. O’Neill didn’t
move.
    O’Neill might be dead, too .
    There were screams from the back, the sound barely
audible over the ringing in his ears, and he knew Hernandez was still alive.
    Please let Hernandez live.
    He screamed and then the pain. White hot pain,
burning everywhere, a