Save One Love

Adnan Haddad kicked the ball over the crest of the spur of the hill and left of Rifat, who scampered for it. He disappeared over the lip of the hill. Rifat was fast, and Adnan was sure he was smart. Suddenly the ball came over the lip, straight at Adnan, who played it off his chest and dribbled up to the little crest. Rifat was standing by two rocks. Adnan passed it to him. He stopped it with his chest and the ball settled into a hole between the two large rocks, where Adnan could not see it. Rifat ducked between the rocks, which almost made an arch above him; he was barely visible as he pulled the ball out of the hole, dropped it and kicked it to his father with his left leg, laughing.

The boy loved football. Someday Adnan would find a team for him-somewhere that Christian did not mean enemy.

*

Commander Ormond had the entire unit over to his home for a picnic three days before they were scheduled to fly to the Mediterranean. Leslie and all the members met Julia, his wife, and the two children. It was a group that liked to eat and beer went down like water. The SEALs were on their best behavior (keeping a careful watch on their language) and it was enjoyable. Leslie relished talking with Julia very much; it had been a year since he'd spoken to a woman near his own age. It was good for the sailors to see their officers in a completely different setting; only two of the enlisted men were married and their wives and children did not live near Little Creek, because the unit was new and they were shipping out quickly.

They were in the Mediterranean (not far from Jack's training grounds with Shayetet) a few days later, aboard the amphibious assault ship Bataan. From its flight deck they could be in Israel in five minutes, in Lebanon in four, in Jordan or Syria within 15.

Most of the trepidation at Leslie's assignment to a SEAL unit ended on their second mission

when they discovered an entrance to a basement. Leslie was in command in the house they were searching-Commander Ormond was with the overwatch element. Leslie refused to order a man into a hole-it was just too dangerous. So he ordered his unit to follow once he got down there. He thought his guys were going to object so he dropped immediately the eight feet into the basement, pistol in hand. It was just an empty room, but it could have been an ambush or desperate hiding place or a trap. On another mission, Bassett broke his leg so Leslie carried him a half mile to the extract. That run kicked his butt but he was not about to let them see he was done in. Most muttering about the Marine officer disappeared.

Varmint said to him, after he climbed out of another hole, "Are all Marines like you, Sir?"

Leslie said with a slight smile, "No. Some are shorter."

After eight months, the team had survived mission after mission with no friendly KIA. There had been casualties, one severe, but no deaths. There had been replacements, and like all military units the team carried on. With each replacement, Ormond scheduled rehearsals, classes, practices...to integrate the unit. He did not see it as fitting the new guy in, but as allowing the whole unit to assimilate. To him, each new guy made the whole team new.

Nine-Eleven stunned America. It gave proof to a threat that had been uncomfortably hidden from the public; apparently, the enemy was capable of planning, working in concert, and using civilization against itself. Suddenly, a fight that had been classified-not to prevent the enemy from knowing of it, but western civilization-was thrown into the light. Nine-Eleven brought a shadow war into stark relief.

Within a month America identified Bin Laden with the attacks, soon issued an ultimatum to the Taliban in Afghanistan, and prepared for an invasion. Operation Enduring Freedom began in Afghanistan, but SEAL Squad Unnumbered was given another mission-in southern Syria. It was a mission the world did not notice. When Lt. Commander Ormond was wounded, Leslie found himself in charge.

They were attempting to evacuate an old man who had contacted US authorities somehow from the border region, a huge desert, now threatened by a radical group; there were many reports of the executions of Christians and Jews in this strange group's hands. It was late afternoon, and they had good intelligence that there were no Syrian troops in the area. The Jordanians were looking the other way for this one, and the Israelis were fully informed and willing to help but for the politics of the situation.

Things were satisfactory until Commander Ormond was shot, at which point he handed leadership to Jack. This shadowy radical group saw the helicopters and decided to take some shots, arriving in the area in some numbers. Two SEALs were wounded but mobile and headed to the LZ with the "package" and half the team; the rest blocked the bad guys near the top of a hill and there the commander went down. He lay wounded on the wrong side of the crest, exposed but for a rock between him and the bad guys. He was lucid but immobile; he contacted Leslie, who put out notice.

"Two, Six," Leslie heard over comm, "I'm hit. Down. Under cover. Behind that big rock. Immobile. You're in charge."

Jack was up.

"Six is down. Six is down, on comm but down." Every man on the team heard it over helmet radio. It was Captain Leslie speaking, sounding as he always did-calm, each word distinct.

There was silence on the net. "Is the package secure?" Leslie asked, his voice deep, clear, unhurried.

Varmint (whose name was actually Lansing) said, "Aye, aye, package secure and at extraction point."

"Wounded?" Leslie asked.

Varmint responded, "Mobile, both of them, neither serious, at extraction, and ready to go."

Leslie paused for consideration, and then said, "Take the first bird, Varmint, we can hold them from the hilltop until help arrives."

There was hesitance. "All of us, Sir?" Lansing asked. He did not want to flee an active firefight.

"Someone has to be first, and you guys are there. We'll get the second. Cobras are with our bus, out...two mikes."

"Roger," Varmint said unhappily, but someone had to get out of the battle first. It was apparent they were overwhelmed, but the Cobras should reverse that.

The Six was on the wrong side of the crest of this pile of rocks. They were only a quarter mile to extract, but there were bad guys east and they seemed to have plenty of ammunition.

"Charley, Butterfly, summit the hill. Cover fire asap. On my command unless you have a target. Roger?"

"Aye, Two," came from Charley and Butterfly.

Leslie went on: "Montana can scoot with Hitter, west side of the hill. See if you can make the first bird. I'll accompany Ranger, getting Six. Ranger, secure Six, I cover. You with me, Ranger, Over?"

"Aye, Sir, with you," said McAdam, known as Ranger, perhaps ten feet away.

"Charley, Butterfly, in position."

"Aye, Aye, Two."

"Ready." There was just a moment's hesitance, as was Leslie's custom before a command when he wanted all hands on cue. "MOVE!" Immediately Leslie and McAdam ran for Ormond, cresting the hill suddenly and without notice and finding the commander behind the rock. Leslie was firing where he thought the bad guys were, and then had no doubt so he was able to aim better. Covering fire came then from the peak of the hill to the south as Simpson and Plane fired past them or over their heads, trying to suppress those bad guys that were a threat to their commander. He assumed Montana and Hitter were heading to the LZ.

Ormond had taken a round in the leg, and his knee was mush. He was in a lot of pain, but the blood was not spurting. Leslie and McAdam were behind the rock with him.

Ranger twisted a tourniquet above the knee, tied it, and did not look satisfied-but then he never was. McAdam was probably the strongest man in the unit, so he slung the much smaller Ormond over his back and said into his radio, "Ready, Two!" He was excited and it was evident in his tone, but he was calm and without panic.

"I hear choppers. Popping smoke." Leslie was up, throwing a red smoke canister. "Ready to scoot," hesitation, "GO!" said Leslie. Leslie was up firing through the smoke where he'd last seen a flash, McAdam was up and running to the crest, and Plane and Simpson were putting out two rounds a second or more. Leslie and McAdam carrying Ormond were over the hill then, out of direct fire.

"We're over. Charley, Butterfly, if you have a target hit it in the next five seconds and then get your asses to the extract." Ranger with Six was still running down the hill toward the LZ.

"Aye, Sir," Leslie heard, followed by a flurry of shots and he knew they were running like hell for the bottom of the hill.

Leslie had the Cobras on the radio. He popped another red smoke and threw it to the top of the hill.

"Bad guys just east of my smoke."

"Roger, I see your RED smoke."

"That's us. Hold 'em back, guys."

"Will do. Guys?"

"Sorry. We're on the run down here. Good hunting, Ma'am."

He smiled at that as he heard the guns on the Cobras firing. Buuuuump. Buuuuuump. Buuuuuuuump.

Leslie caught up to McAdam with about two hundred meters yet to the extract. He could see Charley and Butterfly keeping pace with them to his left.

"Ranger, give me your load, and you cover."

"Aye, Sir." MacAdam was flagging with the weight of weapons and equipment and the Commander. Ormond's eyes were tightly shut from the pain and loss of blood, but Leslie was sure he was conscious.

"Luc, it's Jack. I have you now."

"Jack, hurts like hell."

Buuuuuuuump. Buuuuump. Buuuump.

Leslie called Varmint. "Varmint. How are our guys?"

"Horse got one through the upper arm, and Crate got one through his side that isn't leaking much, Two."

Ormond was listening in.

"Good, Roger," Leslie said. He was jogging alongside McAdam, carrying Ormond like a fireman.

"Boarding now," Varmint said. A second later an old Huey took off with half of his men, the old man, and especially his two wounded. Ortiz was at the extraction point; he never left until the last enlisted man.

"Montana and Hitter made the first bird," Ortiz said. A second Huey was putting down as they reached the field. The Cobras were still overhead but seemed out of targets. Leslie unloaded the commander into the side of the helicopter; Simpson (Charley) and Plane (Butterfly) were present and on board, McAdam was covered in perspiration from the run with the Six, and Ortiz and Leslie also dripping followed. The Huey was in the air, wing rotating, and the Americans pulled out of southern Syria.

Twenty minutes later they were aboard the USS Bataan in a glassy sea. It was soon dark, and the moon lit their world.

*

Chapter 3: 14 Years Later: May, 2015 A Good Day for a Ball Game

It was a Saturday morning in May, the sort of day that answered the question: why would anyone settle in Ohio? The sun was shining, there was a cool tinge to the air, and there were white clouds making a blue sky more interesting. Jack Leslie's right leg ached, reminding him of decisions made long ago-and that he had to get up. It ached every morning until he got it moving, but that first move was discouraging. Encouraging was the fact that his 13-year-old daughter was sitting on the end of the bed, ALMOST tickling his foot. He opened his eyes and looked at her, her index finger perhaps a half inch from the bottom of his right foot.

"I'm not touching you," she said.

"You know that drives me crazy," he said.

"Not touching your foot," she said.

"No, you're not," he responded. He hesitated and then moved.

He pulled the foot away and swiftly swivelled, grabbing Hattie, tickling her and tossing her onto his pillows as she shrieked with laughter. She was much more ticklish than he, and sometimes she just sought physical contact by this tickle game. They were both in pajamas.

Hattie was strikingly beautiful, with long, thick, black, wavy hair that was slightly unruly, black eyebrows, and startlingly blue eyes. She was small and thin-Jack wondered how she was able to pitch so fast with those thin arms. She looked Middle Eastern because she was, half, and people remarked on it at times. She was the fastest runner in her eighth grade class, at least in a sprint, and that included the guys. Jack had not seen her thrown out stealing in years-she'd actually stolen third and then home (on a throwback from the catcher to the pitcher) to win a game in the last inning last summer.

"So what's up, child?" Jack asked.

"I'm practically in high school, Dad," she said, hinting.

He smiled. "But not yet. Not yet."

She wanted Jack to tell her the full story of how he'd come to adopt her. She'd been bringing it up for months. For some reason he would not explain, he had always said he would tell her when she got to high school. She still had a month left of eighth grade, a summer of playing ball, and then he'd decide. He wanted her to know the story, but he had not arbitrarily picked high school as the time to do it-hoping she'd understand once she heard it. He wanted her to be strong emotionally, and the story was tough and emotional. Her grandparents knew, her Uncle Craig and Aunt Lisa knew, but no one else. She had always known that Jack had adopted her and that some terrible tragedy had befallen her birth family, but that was it.

Jack, on his part, wanted her to be old enough to hear the terrible story, and the situation to be right: he wanted his parents with them when he told her so she would not feel the terrible loss so devastatingly. She'd turn 14 in September and start at Merciful Saviour (with a u) in the fall.

"Merciful Saviour fired their softball coach after that letter to the editor showed up in the paper," she said, changing the subject.

"Did they? I hadn't heard that. I bet the coach refused to stop what they were doing. Sharon wouldn't fire a guy without giving him a chance. Maybe you can play there next year after all," Jack said.

Apparently the coach had his girls crowding the plate and putting an elbow in the strike zone, hoping to be struck by a pitch. One girl had her arm broken even though she had an elbow guard on-and the umpire called it a strike! The umpire had then written a long letter to the editor about all the unsafe things he'd seen coaches do over the years in various sports, and he'd named names, schools, and years. Many of the coaches had retired over the years, but some-like Merciful Saviour's-were still active.

Sharon Martin-the Merciful Saviour principal-was a friend of Jack's and he was not surprised she or the athletic director had fired the coach. Jack had applied to teach at Saviour when he returned from the war, but he'd been offered a job at the public school and he took the higher salary. He'd later become friends with Sharon Martin when he asked her to serve on his doctoral committee.

"Yeah, the ump who wrote it was suspended as an official-that was in the paper today," Hattie said.

Jack shook his head. Hattie rolled over and pulled his covers over her.

"Who's coaching the team the rest of the way?" he asked.

"Uh, a Mrs. Rinker-a teacher at the school. The assistant coach isn't a teacher and can't get to all the games on time because of work. The paper just said Mrs. Rinker played in college and has coached younger girls over in Greenville."

"Well, we'll see if she comes back next year. Those parents are not real generous since the old coach won the state title a few years ago. I never heard he had girls doing that, though."

"I think he just started when he saw another team doing it, and the umps always gave the kid first base."

Jack shook his head. "I guess this ump was different."

"Yeah."

"When's your game?"

"Gotta be there at 11. Game's at noon."

"You pitching?"

"Yup. Tanya says she hates it, so the coach said I'd pitch all games but a double header."

Jack shook his head. "And you say your arm doesn't get sore?"

"Nope. If it ever does, I'll tell you. But I'd rather pitch with it sore than not play or not be as good."

Jack said, "I always had a sore arm after about sixth grade. Always. But I wasn't a pitcher."

Jack stood up, feeling that first painful stab in his right thigh, and then it disappeared as he hobbled to his dresser, right hip stiff.

"We better get dressed and get going. Meier's for breakfast?" he asked.

"Yeah. That's almost a pre-game ritual on Saturdays, isn't it?" she responded.

"Not too bad as long as you don't get greasy food."

11 o'clock found him dropping her at Merciful Saviour High School field for her game. It was the only game of the year scheduled at a high school field and the girls were excited. Jack limped over to the stands behind the backstop as Hattie found her way through the fence to the real dugout. Merciful Saviour actually had dugouts that were dug into the ground so people could better see the field from behind them-most high schools had above ground dugouts that blocked any view from behind. The field itself was in great shape, but the outfield wall, the bleachers, and even the dugouts were very old and run down.

Having most of an hour, Jack walked around the athletic fields and the school because his gimpy leg would always prevent a jog. It was a constant battle to keep his weight down since he couldn't run. He rowed, he lifted, he bicycled, he swam, but he couldn't step up much or run because of pain and sudden loss of strength in his right leg. It would never be right. So he walked. By the time he finished the mile or so around the school facilities the game was about to begin. He saw Sharon Martin-fiftyish, grey-haired, thin, smart-sitting in the stands alone. She practically lived at her school. He joined her.

"Hello, Sharon. You've been in the paper a lot recently."

She shook her head, and he knew no matter how much he prodded she would say nothing material.

"Hello, Jack, how's the book selling?"

"You mean Mary? Very well, my publisher says." Jack had three books still selling in stores-a history of racist literature which was actually his dissertation from 6 years earlier, and two novels. Mary's Mind was currently on most bestseller lists as a hardback. He'd quit his job as a teacher when his first novel, Caleb and the Colonel, came out. Sharon wondered if he quit because he didn't want to teach any more or because he knew some parents would object to the sex scenes he'd included in his novel. He said the story was based on real people and the sex scenes were included because they must have happened, although he admitted he made up most of the detail.

But she had to concede he seemed happy and was driving a new if not expensive car, so he must be doing alright.

He asked Sharon, "You were quick to hire a new coach."

Sharon nodded. "We didn't have time, and we needed someone for the next weeks. But Louisa is great, and I'd been hoping to get her involved. We'll probably keep her for next season too, if she wants it."

"Unless she tells them to stick their heads in front of strikes," Jack said, and they both smiled.

Sharon asked, "Does it bother Hattie when she hits a batter?"

"Yeah, very much. She cried the first time she hit two in a game. In a row, actually. I had to talk to her about how you handle that, so you don't get to hitting more as you lose confidence. I saw that a bunch in seventh grade. Some parents don't know how to handle it, either. They want to SEE remorse from the pitcher..."

Sharon was nodding. "Which leads to more hit batters..." Hattie was on the pitching plate, preparing to throw the first pitch.

Sharon went on. "Yeah, that ump that called that game actually called it off after four or five of our girls were hit with strikes. He had some guts. He said the opposing pitcher was in tears and had to be replaced."