Read Online The Mormon Candidate - a Novel by Avraham Azrieli - Free Book Online
Authors: Avraham Azrieli
Tags: Mystery
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shooting the enemy.
Jump forward eight months , and I was an old hand at combat, crusty and confident as any of my mates. Victory was sweet, but I missed Palmyra, who was heavily pregnant with our first child . During my rare calls from Kuwait on a field telephone, I could hear the underlying pain in her voice despite her upbeat tone . It was comforting to know that she was surrounded by her large family while I was on the other side of the world, serving our nation . In her letters she described ho w everyone was praying for my safe return .
The thought that I might die in battle had occurred to me, but as the Iraqi army was mostly back behind the border , shamed and defeated, we were engaged i n relatively safe cleanup operations in Kuwait. The liberated country was practically in ruins, and armed gangs roamed the broken highways and bombed-out cities.
On a hot day on February 28, 1991 , everyone gathered around the TV set outside the command tent to watch President Bush declare a cease - fire and congratulate us—the armed forces of the United States and 33 other nations—on our success in liberating Kuwait.
The end of combat operations meant that most Marine Corps units would leave Kuwait soon. There were rounds of high-fives and jokes about lusty girlfriends waiting stateside. For me it was the answer to private prayers for a chance to make it home i n time for the baby’s arrival .
After a short briefing, a group of us was sent on a routine task—escorting a Red Cross team to a small village near by, where a local doctor claimed to have diagnosed a breakout of cholera . Turned out to be a lie, intended to lure us into a trap , but we didn’t realize it until it was too late .
Our destination was a local health clinic. On ly eight of us we nt on this supposedly peaceful errand. We travelled in a small convoy, with the Red Cross truck between two Humve e s .
The clinic was a one-story building marked with a spray-painted red crescent. It was located on a dead-end street , blocked by a round about in front of a school . We stopped at the curb by the clinic. On the opposite side of the street was a gas station, which at the moment was being supplied—or so we assumed—by a fuel truck . The driver was busy with pipes and spigots , and we didn’t pay much attention to him. What did attract our attention was the sight of many women in head-to-toe black burka h s , sitting on the doorstep at the entrance and on all the windowsills, practically blocking every opening that faced the street. A few held infants in their laps.
This odd reception must have seemed normal to the Red Cross team . They proceeded to get out of the ir truck and unload the medical supplies.
Our commander, a young second lieutenant from Nebraska, took their cue and ordered us out of the armored Humve e s.
We were going to set up defense positions on the street, but as soon as we were out in the open , the shooting started—not a few random shots, but a barrage of bullets that rained on our vehicles and hit the road around us . I still remember the initial shock of seeing all those fiery barrels sticking out from the windows of the health clinic over the shoulders of the cloaked wome n , who remained s eated , except that now their hands were pressed to their ears.
Chapter 13
Keera ran into Starbucks barefoot and turned to look out through the glass door. The motorcycle was gone, the street outside dark and quiet. She waited, expecting it to reappear, but it didn’t, and Ben was suddenly beside her, holding her, talking to her. Everyone else—baristas and customers alike, circled her with worried faces. Catching her breath, K eera told them what had happened .
De spite urging from the concerned baristas, she refused to let them call the police. “He didn’t touch me,” Keera insisted. “ Some a ss, showing off, that’ s all. And I ’m almost sure I got him with my shoes.”
After a cup of hot c hamomile, they got in
Jump forward eight months , and I was an old hand at combat, crusty and confident as any of my mates. Victory was sweet, but I missed Palmyra, who was heavily pregnant with our first child . During my rare calls from Kuwait on a field telephone, I could hear the underlying pain in her voice despite her upbeat tone . It was comforting to know that she was surrounded by her large family while I was on the other side of the world, serving our nation . In her letters she described ho w everyone was praying for my safe return .
The thought that I might die in battle had occurred to me, but as the Iraqi army was mostly back behind the border , shamed and defeated, we were engaged i n relatively safe cleanup operations in Kuwait. The liberated country was practically in ruins, and armed gangs roamed the broken highways and bombed-out cities.
On a hot day on February 28, 1991 , everyone gathered around the TV set outside the command tent to watch President Bush declare a cease - fire and congratulate us—the armed forces of the United States and 33 other nations—on our success in liberating Kuwait.
The end of combat operations meant that most Marine Corps units would leave Kuwait soon. There were rounds of high-fives and jokes about lusty girlfriends waiting stateside. For me it was the answer to private prayers for a chance to make it home i n time for the baby’s arrival .
After a short briefing, a group of us was sent on a routine task—escorting a Red Cross team to a small village near by, where a local doctor claimed to have diagnosed a breakout of cholera . Turned out to be a lie, intended to lure us into a trap , but we didn’t realize it until it was too late .
Our destination was a local health clinic. On ly eight of us we nt on this supposedly peaceful errand. We travelled in a small convoy, with the Red Cross truck between two Humve e s .
The clinic was a one-story building marked with a spray-painted red crescent. It was located on a dead-end street , blocked by a round about in front of a school . We stopped at the curb by the clinic. On the opposite side of the street was a gas station, which at the moment was being supplied—or so we assumed—by a fuel truck . The driver was busy with pipes and spigots , and we didn’t pay much attention to him. What did attract our attention was the sight of many women in head-to-toe black burka h s , sitting on the doorstep at the entrance and on all the windowsills, practically blocking every opening that faced the street. A few held infants in their laps.
This odd reception must have seemed normal to the Red Cross team . They proceeded to get out of the ir truck and unload the medical supplies.
Our commander, a young second lieutenant from Nebraska, took their cue and ordered us out of the armored Humve e s.
We were going to set up defense positions on the street, but as soon as we were out in the open , the shooting started—not a few random shots, but a barrage of bullets that rained on our vehicles and hit the road around us . I still remember the initial shock of seeing all those fiery barrels sticking out from the windows of the health clinic over the shoulders of the cloaked wome n , who remained s eated , except that now their hands were pressed to their ears.
Chapter 13
Keera ran into Starbucks barefoot and turned to look out through the glass door. The motorcycle was gone, the street outside dark and quiet. She waited, expecting it to reappear, but it didn’t, and Ben was suddenly beside her, holding her, talking to her. Everyone else—baristas and customers alike, circled her with worried faces. Catching her breath, K eera told them what had happened .
De spite urging from the concerned baristas, she refused to let them call the police. “He didn’t touch me,” Keera insisted. “ Some a ss, showing off, that’ s all. And I ’m almost sure I got him with my shoes.”
After a cup of hot c hamomile, they got in
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