A Rock and a Hard Place
JACK WAS READING the newspaper while he waited outside his CO’s office, but he only got as far as the headline before he tossed it aside in disgust.
It didn’t help. In fact, folded on a desk a few feet away, it taunted him.
Finally, he leaned across and picked it up again, reading avidly, a tense frown creasing his forehead. As he continued to scan through the black columns of ink, his blood pressure began to rise.
74 JOURNALISTS KILLED IN LINE OF DUTY THIS YEAR
The organization Reporters Without Borders has stated that nearly three-quarters of the journalists killed were victims of “deliberate, targeted violence”.
Five female journalists were also killed, including 32 year-old Anabel Flores Salazar, a crime reporter for the Mexican newspaper El Sol de Orizaba.
“The violence against journalists is more and more deliberate,” said Christophe, the secretary general of Deloire Reporters Without Borders. “They are clearly being targeted.”
Jack’s heart was racing and he felt the need to point his M40 sniper’s rifle in the direction of . . .
But that was the problem: he didn’t know where the enemy was hiding. Probably in plain sight. Probably within a dozen clicks of where Maggie was currently doing her job.
His knee began to bounce and sweat broke out on his forehead.
He pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket, desperate to hear her voice, desperate to know that she was okay. Or as okay as she could be, given the tightrope of danger she was walking.
He rubbed his sweaty palms over his camouflage pants and took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, then tucked his phone back in his jacket pocket. She wouldn’t appreciate being woken up just to stop him from having a meltdown.
Get a fucking grip, Marine!
This was hard, really hard. In some ways, mentally tougher than boot camp. The Marines didn’t have a ‘Hell Week’ like the Navy’s BUD/S training to become a SEAL, although there was a ‘Crucible’ phase at boot camp. Nope, no single Hell Week, just thirteen really shitty ones.
He’d been a skinny, towheaded kid when he’d gotten through basic training, and he’d believed that he’d survived the worst that could be thrown at him.
That kid didn’t know that being separated from the woman you loved grew more hellish every single day.
Maggie had only been gone for two weeks and Jack had hated every single second of them. They’d agreed to spend Christmas together with Maggie flying out to California for the holidays, but that was still three months away. Three long, lonely months with nothing but memories to hold, memories that slipped through his fingers like mist.
“Staff Sergeant Connor, you may go in.”
Jack’s head jerked up when he heard his name, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.
He nodded at the young Private First Class who was waiting to usher him in to see his Commanding Officer, Captain Joe Richmond.
Jack marched into the office and stood at attention.
“At ease. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, Jack, you and me have been down a long road together, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir. Nine years, sir.”
“So long? And before that?”
“Just your average grunt, sir.”
Captain Richmond gave a brief smile.
Jack thought back to those early days when joining the Marine Corps had felt like the greatest adventure on earth. He’d assumed that it wouldn’t be long after boot camp until he rolled right into scout sniper training, since he could outshoot every recruit he’d ever met. Instead, he’d hit his grunt unit and got hitched in a line company for his first deployment to Iraq. So it was almost two years before he got a shot at a scout sniper screening.
By then, he’d realized that there was a lot more to being a sniper than simply being a good shot. And besides, there was only one scout sniper platoon per Marine Corps infantry battalion—maybe only sixteen men among a thousand Marines and Sailors. A scout sniper had to be at the top of his game, not just physically, but mentally and professionally. Maturity was key, as snipers were trusted to operate outside the wire, sometimes well outside the range of friendly support. Every member of the team had to know their job backwards, forwards and inside-out with a strong core set of infantry skills.
And he’d done it and was proud of it, but now Jack was at a crossroads: professionally and personally. And the two important paths in his life weren’t necessarily going in the same direction.
“Well, Jack, you made Gunnery Sergeant. Congratulations.”
His mind jerked back to the present and he felt the wash of relief and pride flood through him. He’d hoped to hear that news, and all his colleagues had assured him that his promotion was in the bag, but still, it was fucking fantastic to hear it at last. Jack’s smile was genuine and large as he stood to salute his CO.
“Thank you, sir.”
Jack’s head was spinning. He’d gotten his promotion. But in some ways it felt like a hollow victory without Maggie being there to share it with him.
His CO offered a brief smile.
“Here are your orders, Gunny. Do us proud.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Jack snapped a salute and turned around, marching out the door and into the future.
Whatever that would be.
Maggie
Sweat clung to my forehead as I scraped my hair into a ponytail, feeling a momentary coolness on the back of my neck.
It didn’t last. The humidity was at eighty percent and the weather app on my cell phone said 32oC. I converted the figure in my head: double it and add thirty, making . . . holy shit 94oF.
And the air conditioning didn’t work.
But Cairo was very different from the city that I’d expected to find. I’d read stories about Western women being harassed and foreigners being cheated, buying goods at double or triple the prices locals paid, but that hadn’t been my experience so far. On the whole, I found a fascinating, bustling city where history exploded in a thousand colors, accents, religions, languages, skin tones, dress styles, car exhaust fumes and spice.
Yes, I had to remember to check the expiration dates on food and not to drink the tap water, but I found the people friendly and welcoming, eager to share their beloved city with me.
Five times a day the call to prayer rang out simultaneously from minarets across the capital, starting with azan at sunrise. The song-chant rose sonorously in the warm air calling the faithful, and I found it beautiful.
Cairo itself was beautiful and ugly, timeless and ruthlessly modern, and even after two weeks, it was still loud and confusing, but I was beginning to find my feet, aided and abetted by my predecessor’s fixer, Asim, whom I’d inherited along with my tiny office and creaking desktop computer.
Fixers were an essential part of my new world: a local guide who could think on his feet and had hundreds of connections to make things happen. He knew who to talk to and who to avoid, who could be bribed and who shouldn’t be approached. He could find a plumber or a politician and the means to get me access to them. In short, without him, I would have already failed.
Asim was a tall, slim man in his early forties who slid seamlessly between my world and his own, sometimes wearing a turban with the ubiquitous galabiya, a loose fitting ankle length robe, or more usually dress pants with a short sleeved shirt. Once he wore jeans, but apologized all day for being so informal.
He’d also helped me find an apartment, a tiny one-bed place, but newly decorated and without rusting pipes, which Asim seemed particularly pleased about. It was in the busy, metropolitan district of Masr el-Gedida, which reminded me of Manhattan with its restaurants, bars, gyms, and of course, a McDonald’s. It was near the office too, and, Asim assured me, a safe district with low crime. It was all relative, of course.
The previous Christmas, a church next to the Orthodox cathedral in Abbaseya was attacked by Daesh supporters, killing twenty-five people. The shadow of terrorism was everywhere and I couldn’t become complacent. Not when my life depended on it.
Women’s clothes were more conservative and less westernized than the men’s, of course, so I was cautious. I wore slacks and loose-fitting cotton shirts, and carried a headscarf in my purse at all times. Not every woman wore them, but the majority did, and it saved being stared at all the time.
Without Asim’s careful guidance, life would have been a lot trickier.
Only the day before, we’d been driving through a suburb when I heard the sound of firecrackers. At least, that’s what I thought it was. Asim scooted down in his seat and told me to do the same. Somewhere nearby, guns were being fired. I pulled my headscarf out of my purse without being asked and I saw Asim’s dark eyes flash to me in the rearview mirror.
The gunfire started again. It was probably another riot, more people protesting against the present regime.
Asim put his foot down and got the hell out of there. I’d been a journalist long enough to know that you didn’t drive into gunfire unprepared. But I didn’t run away from a story either. I checked out Twitter while Asim made a quick call on his cell. Fast, accented Arabic poured from him, his eyes flicking to me the whole time.
Twenty minutes later, he’d secured me an interview with eye witnesses to the riot, a guy in his early twenties who’d managed to snap photos of armed police assaulting men with placards protesting about Russian involvement in Syria.
I paid a small fee for the pictures, then interviewed a second person to corroborate the story. My Arabic was spotty, but I was learning.
When Asim took me home, the report was sent to the New York Times within ten minutes.
Modern technology had its benefits.
But even with all the new stimulus and the new life, with all the hustle and bustle, and the energy needed to get up to speed with my new job, I missed Jackson. I missed him horribly. Cairo was ten hours ahead of California, so I’d be going to bed when he was taking a lunch break. His favorite time to talk was when he was finishing up for the day and I was still in my tiny apartment before leaving for work.
“Hey, baby!”
Just hearing his voice put a huge smile on my face.
“Hey, yourself! How are you?”
“Good. Missing you. How’s it going?”
“Not bad. I have an appointment to interview a General in the Egyptian Army today.”
“Is Asim going with you?”
“Yes, for the first part of the meeting. Probably not for the interview itself.”
Jack sighed.
“I wish that guy was armed, Maggie. I can’t believe that they haven’t given you armed protection.”
It was a constant grumble, but I knew it stemmed from Jack’s concern, from his love, even though he never said the word.
“What’s new in Pendleton?” I asked, changing the subject.
There was a pause and I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.
“I got my promotion: Gunnery Sergeant Jackson Connor, at your service.”
I screamed into the phone.
“OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD! That’s fantastic, Jack! Congratulations! I’m so proud of you!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” he understated calmly.
“Pretty good? It’s wonderful! Thirty is young to make Gunnery Sergeant, even I know that. It’s amazing! You’re amazing!”
He laughed, happy I was happy, happy to share good news.
“How does it work? Do you have a ceremony?”
“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal.” He paused. “Mama and Lucy are going to fly out.”
It was a big deal, it was a huge rung up his career ladder, and I felt the leaden weight of sadness press on my chest. It was an important day for him and I wasn’t going to be there.
“That’s great,” I said, trying to keep up my previous level of excitement and enthusiasm. “When’s it taking place?”
“A week from Thursday.”
I fantasized about being there, but knew it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t leave Cairo so soon after arriving. Besides, I had scheduled interviews with a senior politician, and it would look very bad to reschedule that at such short notice.
I tried to be happy for him. I was happy for him. I was also kind of miserable.
He picked up on my mood instantly.
“Maybe you can come to my promotion ceremony if I ever make it to Master Sergeant,” he teased gently.
He was trying to make me feel better. Master Sergeant was the top rank a non-commissioned Marine could make, and it was rare. There was no guarantee he’d ever get there, although I had faith that he would.
“It’s a date, Sarge,” I said softly, and I meant it.
His voice held a warm, rich longing when he replied.
“You have to call me ‘Gunny’ now.”
I tested out the word.
“Nah, sounds too much like ‘gummy’. You’ll always be Sarge to me.”
There was silence on the other end, and I wondered if I’d insulted him without meaning to.
“I do have some other news,” he said tentatively.
“Okay?”
“So . . . months ago, before we . . . before you left, I asked about taking leave at Thanksgiving so I could visit with Mama and Lucy. But they usually give it to the guys with families, so I didn’t think I’d get it. But I did . . . yeah.”
“Oh!”
It would have been wonderful to spend Thanksgiving together at his mother’s, sipping iced tea on the terrace, elbow to elbow, making love in the twilight. My voice wobbled when I spoke again.
“Your mother will be so happy to see you for the holidays.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t want to tell you before you left, because I didn’t think I’d get it.”
He laughed without humor.
His words trailed off and I heard his heavy exhalation of breath. I wondered if he’d been nervous about telling me. He shouldn’t have been; I was happy for him, and I was going to see him at Christmas. Besides, the Cairo posting wouldn’t be forever. I’d do two years—that was a reasonable amount of time.
God, two years without Jack.
As if he’d followed my train of thought, Jackson spoke again.
“And there’s one more thing, Maggie . . .”
“More surprises? You do know how to give a woman a rush of blood to the head.”
“Just to the head?”
“Stop it! I have to leave for work in five minutes. I don’t have time for . . . that.”
We’d become very inventive during a couple of our late night calls. Well, late night for one of us.
He laughed heartily.
“Okay, no time for that. Well, I have a seventy-two hour pass for Thanksgiving . . .”
“That’s wonderful, Jack! I’m so pleased they gave you time off for the holidays. You obviously weren’t expecting it.”
“Kinda. But, I was wondering, how easy is it for you to get to Paris? Paris, France, not Paris, Texas, that is?”
My breath caught in my throat.
“It’s a four hour flight. Jack, what is this?”
“I could meet you in Paris,” he said. “With that three-day pass, I could be there for thirty or forty hours.”
My heart leapt with hope and longing. And then dived again. I couldn’t ask that of him.
“Jack, I . . . but that’s so much traveling for you. And your mother will be so disappointed.”
“Just say yes, Maggie.”
“But . . . your family . . . ? Oh, Jack! I feel terrible. I can’t ask you to . . .”
“Don’t, sugar. I’m not sorry. I’ll be able to see Mama and Lucy at my ceremony. I want to be with you for Thanksgiving. Are you in?”
“Yes!” I said happily. “Yes! Yes, definitely! Yes, yes, YES!”
And that’s how I ended up on a date with a sexy, hot Marine in one of the world’s most romantic cities.