Still Alive Pt. 01

First, a big thank you to Lit authors PeytonMirabelle, NoraFares, and Chasten for beta reading and providing helpful suggestions.

There is some dark material in this tale, including acts of graphic (combat) violence. There are violations of Article 87 of the 3rd Geneva Convention by parties who don't care how prisoners are treated.

If you're new to our work, this story might not be the best place to start. If that's the case, we recommend beginning with the series that germinates this "Story Within a Story": A Walk Changed Everything, because it will set the stage for what follows in a very mild way.

We thought it might be entertaining to publish the final novel in that fictional author's series, and that is what begins below.

If you're into quick "action," this story might not be for you because it ranks among the slowest of smolders we've written.

If you're still reading at this point, we hope you enjoy:

If anyone had asked me six years ago if a distraction would launch a new career, I'd have laughed without thought.

If anyone had asked me eight years ago if I'd ever find love again, I'd do the same thing for the same reason.

Both were concepts I had believed impossible, but I was proven wrong. Twice.

I did find love again. My wife and I are celebrating our anniversary the very day I am writing this dedication.

What follows is the end of what began as the aforementioned distraction: The Mark Wright universe. This final book in the series is dedicated to you, the reader. It is my utmost hope that our paths cross once again in a new universe and all that follow.

Sincerest thanks and regards,
Grant Robins
March 14, 2023

Yamaguchi Prefecture, Japan
MCAS Iwakuni
Wednesday, July 22, 2015, 1:30 AM

"Someone better tell me what's important enough to bring me here this time of night," Major General Ernesto Ruiz Gonzales said on entering a room too small for the occupants and equipment.

"A BBJ … that's a Boeing Business Jet⁠—"

"I know, Ron," the general said, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the knuckles of his forefingers.

"Yes, sir. An hour and a half ago, one crashed on the southern tip of the Al Bahbijn peninsula."

Gonzales immediately became more alert and focused. "Al⁠— Al Bahbijn? You're sure?"

"More than," Colonel Ronald Getz answered. "The Navy had an E-2C Hawkeye tracking it as a bogie when it departed Doha. Their flight path was what they described as a 'deke,' meaning it was all over the map in an intent to conceal its destination. It was preparing to land at⁠—"

"Al Bahbijn. Alarms are ringing after only ninety minutes? Get to the point."

"It was deliberate."

"What? It was shot down?"

"No. It was crashed."

"How … how the hell could anyone possibly know that so soon? The pilots in that part of God's forsaken planet aren't exactly Top Gun."

Colonel Getz pressed on. "It was a two hundred-million-dollar jet by itself. Add to that all the luxury shit plus military-grade comms? No, sir. There wouldn't be inexperienced pilots on such an airframe.

"The E-2C couldn't listen in on the transmissions from the bogie's encrypted radios. They could tell when they were transmitting, though, and determined they'd ceased shortly after they reached level cruise less than an hour into the flight. It crashed with gear and flaps up. There are so many redundancies that it should've been impossible."

"Conclusions?" the general asked.

"The money is on pilot⁠—crew incapacitation."

Gonzales took a seat along with the other men and women at the table in the briefing room. He nodded and subtly gestured for a cup of coffee his aide then brought.

"Okay, I'm tracking now. Give me more."

"Not much more to give yet, sir. Back home, such a site would be crawling with federal investigators. There? No. There's no similar bureaucratic oversight. No NTSB equivalent or anything even approaching it. I suspect Boeing will at least ask for access to the black boxes, but I doubt they'll get them. Whoever owns that plane will probably make them disappear."

"Were the passengers the ones …" Gonzales asked with vagueness.

"Scuttlebutt says they were."

"Concrete?"

"Of course not, sir."

Gonzales sighed and shook his head.

One of the seven time-zone-aligned clocks on the wall included that of Iraq. The general pointed at it. "The peninsula is a half-hour ahead of Baghdad?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, it happened an hour and a half ago?"

Getz nodded. "Approximately 1830 there, zero hundred here."

"Then the sun has already set. It'll be deep dark soon. I want a recon drone equipped with FLIR sent there, ASAP. Someone might be climbing out of the grass."

"Understood, General."

Gonzales drained his mug of coffee. "I'll rack in my office. Wake me the moment you know … anything."

All rose when the commanding officer stood.

"Sir, do you want me to go get you anything from your home?" his aide asked.

The man laughed. "Son, I've been doing this for more than thirty years. Everything I need is in a file cabinet."

The Al Bahbijn Peninsula
2:00 AM

The night was moonless, but clear skies provided enough starlight for Major Mark Wright to extricate himself from the lea near the airfield. The downed 767 had drawn all attention inward instead of where it should have been. On foot, he could have covered the distance in less than an hour, but it required three for him to crawl in his ghillie suit the six kilometers between him and an agreed-upon road.

He was soaked in his own sweat when he settled in to wait. He swallowed an electrolyte supplement and drained the last of the water from a pouch. He knew he was becoming dehydrated because he hadn't urinated in almost eight hours.

Another hour passed before he heard a vehicle making a slow approach fifty meters away from him.

He chuckled dryly not at the bleat of a goat, but a man mimicking one.

As good a signal as any , he thought.

When he heard the sound of a door opening, Mark stood for the first time in nearly sixteen hours. He shed the sweltering ghillie only after he'd climbed into the cargo area with a clap to his back from the driver.

"You do not die?" a man asked.

"No, bab-aqa . Not today," Wright answered with a chosen diminutive and honorific. Loosely interpreted, it meant "sir/dad." The man seemed appreciative of the informal yet respectful title. Major Wright had tried to learn the language but understood only the barest rudiments.

As the van began to move, Mark stripped to his briefs and lay prone on the metal deck to allow his body to shed heat to the aluminum. In comparison to his camouflage, the floor of the vehicle felt as bracing as a winter breeze.

There were two flasks situated near him which made sloshing noises on every bump. He opened the lid of one and cautiously smelled its contents.

"Drink," the driver urged. "It is cold. Be slow."

Wright gulped the first liter greedily. It was, indeed, very cold, almost making the man regret the speed at which he consumed it. Despite the rough condition of the road adding constant jostles, he was asleep within minutes and out for hours.

Yamaguchi Prefecture, Japan
MCAS Iwakuni
Wednesday, July 22, 2015, 12:00 PM

"What have you found?" the general asked.

"This," a technician answered, pointing to the projection screen. Grayscale video was paused on it.

"Orient me. What am I looking at?"

"The top is to the west. Right side is north. The heat bloom in the upper left is the residual infrared signature from the burned-out airplane and tarmac on Al Bahbijn. The hot spots around it are … well, they're the people recovering bodies. The fire had been extinguished about six hours before this was recorded."

"Okay. Go on."

The technician stood from the table, stepped to the screen, and pointed to the opposite corner. "Wait for it," he said, circling his index finger around a specific section.

"That's a ground vehicle," the general stated when he observed a grayish, amorphous shape appear along the edge of the display.

"Yes, sir. Unfortunately, the heat of the crash site is quashing its signature, so we can't make out the type. It's small, though. Given the shape and size, we can tell it's unlikely to be armored in any way. It's probably less than two tons."

"It's a local going to get himself a piece of meat⁠—"

The general quieted the moment he saw the object come to a stop on the road.

The technician pointed again and whispered, "Now watch here."

Another group of brighter pixels appeared which moved from yards away into the vehicle.

"Talk to me," the general commanded.

"Sir, the difference in nits represented by that signature suggests it's a warm-blooded animal. It didn't appear there miraculously. Recon's take is that it had been covered in a thermal shield of some sort. That it's a person. Also, the report from the E-2C guys said they observed another drone in the area, but it only stayed on station for an hour before it went back. It was launched from the same airfield a couple of hours after the crash, so they might have observed that person themselves.

"Our drone was bingo and had to return home," the man concluded when the video ended.

The general emitted a rueful chuckle. "Getz, my office."

The two stepped out of the room.

"We need to have a little discussion with our contact at Wolfram," Gonzales suggested when they entered another.

"Yes, sir."

The colonel spun the desktop telephone around where he could see its screen. It took only two rings for the call to connect. He put it on the speaker.

"Where are you right now?" General Gonzales asked the person who answered.

"Almost to Shin-Osaka Station. I'm on a train to Kyoto, but based on some news I received twenty minutes ago, I assume I'm going to go the other way."

"You are."

"The next shinkansen to Iwakuni departs at two o'clock. Hopefully, there are seats available."

"I'll meet you at the regular spot near the station."

"Understood."

The line disconnected.

"Well. So. Wolfram," Gonzalez said as he wove his fingers together and popped his knuckles. "How do you suppose they managed to accomplish something like this?"

"No earthly idea," Getz answered, simultaneously shaking his head.

"You're driving. I'm going to grab a quick bite, do some more work, then go back to quarters and change into civilians."

"Yes, sir. I'll pick you up at 1430."

Doha, Qatar
Wednesday, July 22, 2015, 6:00 AM

"No! We are here," Jassim Kahn quietly hissed in the relative darkness of the unlit road.

Mark Wright took a deep breath to calm himself from the startle of being awakened. He'd even grabbed the grip of an M9 he'd stashed within immediate reach.

"Sorry, bab-aqa . I tend to overreact when I'm out of it."

"You come inside. Wash. We eat. You sleep more."

"Yes, sir," Mark said with a light chuckle. He knew he needed more rest even though the sun was beginning to dawn. He was also beyond any doubt he wanted to eat since he hadn't in almost twenty-four hours. He pulled his utilities back on before exiting the vehicle.

The man's home was small and very tidy. Mark followed him inside, and the elder stepped into an unlit room for a few moments.

"Farah will make food," Jassim said when he returned. "You must wash. She will wash clothes you place outside the door. You wear others at my table."

Mark's knapsack was waiting for him in the washroom. When he relieved his bladder, he understood a peril which he had narrowly averted. Though the two liters of water consumed in Jassim's truck would arrest it, his almost-brown urine was indicative of the extent of his earlier dehydration.

He had been nearing hyperthermia in the field, but the hot water which began pouring over him was simultaneously soothing and invigorating as the salt of dried sweat and camo grease swirled down the drain. In less than ten minutes, he was wearing clean white linen pants, a thobe, and slippers, all provided by his host.

"You look okay now," Jassim said, seeing the freshly showered man in customary, casual garb when Mark rejoined him. He gestured for him to sit. Mark chose a comfortable pillow cushion and sat on the floor at a low table in the corner of the largest room.

"How many?" Wright's host asked, sitting across from him.

Mark had dismissed the man's morbid curiosity about headcounts long before. Jassim Kahn had been an invaluable resource and didn't ask for much except a small amount of money for occasional room and board, and untold miles of carriage all over the region in his work vehicle as he had done that morning. Though Mark had never discussed with the man anything he was doing, Kahn had come to see significant things happening nearby when Mark was in the area.

"How many what, bab-aqa ?" Mark asked as Jassim's daughter passed on her way to the kitchen. Her father waited to answer until she was out of listening distance.

"The airplane. It was in radio … is it chatter ?" the man said, pausing at an uncertain phrase.

Mark nodded.

"I take you ten kilometers from place four days past and now," Kahn said with a knowing smile.

"Seven and ten," Mark replied, forming the number the way the man's native language would. "Two tens, or three and two tens if including the crew."

The man grinned broadly.

"Bab-aqa , you must never say anything to⁠—"

"I am no fool. I wish you tens of tens more and do not stop you. You are a man taking … the word is quml . You are a man taking quml from child." The man put his fingers in his hair, demonstrating for clarity.

Mark laughed when he caught the meaning. Jassim was suggesting Mark was delousing the territories, removing unwanted parasites from a greater treasure.

"Was any of men who kill your lady?"

Mark nodded. "He was only a grunt⁠— uh … a low-level rebel then, but rose to become the leader of his cadre."

Farah stepped out of the kitchen and poured Mark and her father cups of hot tea. Mark could smell the fire from the oven in her clothing and suspected fresh bread would soon follow. He smiled at her.

"Thank you," Mark said.

"Tsst !" Jassim scolded and frowned at Mark, then gestured for the woman to depart. "No praise, foolish one. It is her place."

Mark internally bristled at the rebuke. He understood the culture but didn't necessarily agree with all aspects of it. Simply thanking a woman for her work was always accepted with grace and humility in public settings. In a home, though, it seemed unacceptable to express gratitude to anyone other than the host for serving his guest. Mark attempted to save face.

"It is a habit. Please forgive me, bab-aqa . Thank you for your hospitality."

The man smiled agreeably and waved him off.

"May I ask you a question of culture?"

"Ask many," Jassim answered with a chuckle.

"Why is your daughter's name not Kahn?"

"Ah. Wright is your father, yes?"

"Correct."

"Salman is my father. Farah Salman honors her father-father."

Mark's eyebrows arched in understanding. "I must try to remember this."

"And more, friend," he said with a laugh. "When must you work?"

"I am due back before zero hundred local. Midnight." To make sure he was understood, he rose from the table and pointed to the top of an analog clock sitting on a cupboard.

"You rest for many hours. I must work soon. I will take you for your work before then."

The man was employed at an elevator manufacturing company and was often in shafts hundreds or even more than a thousand feet deep, suspended in safety gear. His work was in high demand in a part of the world where skyscrapers were beginning to dwarf those in Mark's home country. The thought gave Mark vertigo in the extreme.

In less than thirty minutes, Farah brought a tray of dishes holding hot bread, hummus, goat milk cheeses, prepared fresh fruits, vegetables, mixed olives, and oil containing herbs and spices. Mark's belly growled at the sight and scents surrounding the table. The woman giggled when she heard it.

"Tsst !" Mark heard Jassim's scold again, but it was directed at his daughter who then sat next to him.

Mark grabbed a napkin to cover his mouth so neither would see his smile. He found Farah Salman to be a beautiful woman. She was twenty-four years old and had lost her spouse in the crossfire of two spatting cadres two years prior but had begun to exhibit again a glimmer he'd not seen in some time. She smiled warmly at Mark whenever Jassim wasn't watching.

When she was permitted by her father to speak with Mark, the timbre of her voice rained femininity and poise. Her command of English surpassed her father's by kilometers. Her accent held his attention in a tight grasp. Their breakfast was one such time as Farah described her upcoming graduation with a degree in electrical engineering. Mark listened carefully, soaking in the pride the woman exhibited in her accomplishment.

As foreign as some of his host's customs were, Mark had no problems engaging in a particular one. He gorged himself on the meal Farah prepared, sighing delightedly and noisily as he ate his first bites. He was ravenously hungry, and the flavor of the warm pita and olive oil sent his senses into euphoria.

A guest taking obvious delight in the food provided was considered a compliment, and Mark was quite happy to see Farah smile at his actions. She soon rose from the table and began clearing some of the dishes.

"Mark, do you see Farah as pretty?" Jassim asked when she was out of the room.

The major almost coughed on the tea he'd just sipped.

He continued. "Your eye and face change when she talks to you⁠—"

"Please, bab-aqa . This is making me uncomfor⁠—"

"Tsst! I wish you to answer."

Mark cleared his throat. "She is an intelligent woman. Her degree will make a way for a strong future. Any man should see her as a gift when she chooses to remarry."

"I said to her it is time."

"Isn't it her choice?"

"You do not know us … my people," Jassim said before a heavy sigh.

"You are correct, bab-aqa . I do not understand."

"It is time. She ask me if I allow you to take her as wife to you."

If Mark hadn't been rubbing the tired muscles of his face with his hands, Jassim would have seen the stunned expression he flashed behind his palms.

"You are asking me to marry her?" he whispered.

"You have much honor. You are strong. You take her to a place of no war. She will be safe."

"I can't, Jassim," Mark argued.

Farah returned to collect the last dishes from the table. Her father remained quiet as she did so. Watching her eyes, Mark wondered if she suspected she was the subject of their conversation.

"I must work. You sleep," Jassim said summarily. "Farah, be quiet."

"Yes, Father," she said.

"Alhamdulillah ," Mark said, standing, too. He'd said it enough it'd become habitual. "May Allah always bless your table."

Mark was shown to a windowless interior room which was used by Jassim as an office of sorts. A pallet with colorful linens awaited. He removed the thobe he was lent, switched off the light, and settled into the makeshift bed wearing only the comfortable linen pants as pajamas. He heard the man talking to his daughter for a few moments, but in their native tongue, before the main door closed solidly.