Season of the Witch
You've got to pick up every stitch
~Donovan
I'm not even sure if folks will like this one. At this point, I'm just futzing around with the OC and writing it as I go, instead of making a Grand Plan.
Be aware that I know virtually nothing about the Army or military matters. Those good people guard my freedom to even write this crap and God bless 'em all. Beyond that - please excuse any inaccuracies and stupidity on my part and suspend reality for a bit.
So...we'll see how it goes, eh?
SOMEWHERE IN IRAQ, 2008
Lieutenant Maddie Morgan twirled the tiny yellow flower between her fingers, barely even hearing the thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades as her own thoughts whirled. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and glanced at the pilot, who was asking for clearance below. Sand was everywhere, of course – flying around them, and getting into the chopper itself - and her nose, her mouth, her hair - as it slowly descended to the circle. The pilot settled the Apache down and she breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the flower and watching it disappear into the whirl of dust and sand.
"Here we are, Lieutenant. Camp Hooyah."
"What?" she yelled, not sure she had heard him correctly.
"Hooyah, ma'am. The really tough hombres are here. CO's Colonel Smith. Be sure and duck when you're gettin' out! Don't worry – they're tough guys, but they're gentlemen…kinda…" She thought she heard him say something about watching out for a peck and a crazy man, but his words were whipped away by the wind.
She grabbed her duffel bag and threw it out the door, as far as she could, and was glad there was nothing in there that was breakable. Carefully, she stepped out of the chopper, bent low and dashed across the line and away from the blades. The chopper lifted off almost before she was three feet away, heading back toward Bagdad. She sighed, and immediately realized she had made a mistake doing that – she inhaled a cloud of whirling dust and started coughing.
The camp was actually called Switchblade, according to the orders she had received. She waited until the dust cleared a little before she dug them out of her bag and read them over. Yes, Switchblade. She was supposed to stay here and help Special Forces make final plans for an attack ('Strategic Raid') on a small but deadly group of insurgents. Her main job, of course, was to assist with logistics and make sure the choppers were in good shape for the mission and that supplies were all in order.
Still, she wondered why they called it Hooyah. Maddie threw her dufflebag over her shoulder, hefted it a couple of times, and trotted down the hill toward the collection of tents and makeshift buildings that consisted of her living space for the next God only knew how many days. She wasn't even sure if she had a tent ready, or even a bed. She could only pray it was a few feet off the ground, because one more encounter with a sand spider and she'd end up having a nervous breakdown.
"Fresh meat!" she heard someone say, and a chill of fear went down her spine. Those words weren't cheery ones to hear as the only woman heading into a camp full of men who hadn't seen one in a while. But then she caught the distinctive smell of barbecue being grilled. Texas barbecue, to be exact - as if there was any other kind - and forgot all about being scared. She shaded her eyes and looked around until she saw the source of the delicious scent – a bonafide grill had been set up, right at the end of a series of rough, sand-colored camouflage tents, and at the grill stood a lean, rangy-looking man wearing cut-off Army fatigue pants, an open Hawaiian shirt over a T-shirt that read "Duck Shoe" (with a cartoon image of a pissed-off-looking duck in high heel shoes) and high-top Converse tennis shoes.
What, they imported some version of Bobby Flay to Iraq, she wondered as she continued down the hill. She cautiously approached the grill, to get a better look at the man and the fresh meat he was apparently slow-cooking. He had turned away from her, and she noted wide shoulders and dark, rather shaggy hair under a red baseball cap. Another man was talking to him, placing an order for ribs.
"Ain't got no damn' ribs," the grillmaster informed the soldier. "You want ribs, go to Belton, Texas, or try Kirby's in Mexia. All I got is brisket and goat." He turned away and opened up a piece of foil, revealing a succulent slab of beef brisket that looked pretty well done, but apparently not to his liking, because he closed it again.
"Well, maybe you have goat ribs?" the soldier asked him.
"Maybe. Asador bebé cabra es bueno tan largo como usted hacer desconocer el cabra personalmente."
"Eh?"
"Never mind. Come back in an hour or so. I'll see what I got."
Maddie moved into his line of vision, and was startled by a pair of sharp green eyes. He studied her with almost cold interest, then smacked his spatula on the grill, killing a fly. "Well, well…fresh meat indeed."
"I'm Lieutenant Maddie Morgan," she told him. "Logistics."
"Yeah, yeah…I heard about you." He scraped the dead fly off the grill and threw it into the fire. She winced, which seemed to amuse him. "You're here to see 'bout the choppers an' ammo."
She nodded. "Shouldn't you be in…I don't know…Army-issue fatigues?"
"Nobody tells me what to wear. Not even the damn' Army." He seemed vaguely annoyed by her statement, and his expression hardened slightly. "And I don't take orders from nobody, 'cept my CO."
"Well, I happen to be a Lieutenant and I can say…"
"And I happen to be a Captain," he nodded, cutting her off and grinning at her for the first time. "Went to officer training and ever'thing, right outta college. And don't go salutin' me, either. Those little warts runnin' around in these hills'd love to cap an officer. Lookin' for Hannibal?"
"Who?" she asked, bewildered. She was having trouble believing that this scruffy, unkempt man was an officer. He hardly looked like what the Army was looking for. In fact, he didn't look like anything a barbecue joint was looking for.
"Colonel Smith. Hannibal…John Smith," he said, shaking his head. "You sound like you're from Texas – lemme guess…central Texas? North central – north of Austin…above the Highland lakes, too, right? Got a definite twang in your drawl, and it's not Houston or West Texas, and it's not East Texas. Yeah, central Texas, for sure."
She narrowed her eyes, wondering how he could place her accent so easily. "Morgansville."
"Oh, you're a Morgan of Morgansville?" he grinned, really amused now. "Got a county, a town and a lake named after your family. Good for y'all!" There was a trace of mockery in his voice that made her bristle.
"Yes, and I happen to be very proud of my family, thank you, Captain…?"
"Murdock. James Murdock. Most folks just call me H.M., though." He checked the foil-wrapped brisket and removed it from the grill, satisfied that it was ready at last. "That's Murdock with a 'c' and a 'k', not 'c' and 'h', by the way. If it was 'c' an' 'h', I'd be kin to Rupert and I wouldn't be here in God's wash'n'dry, grilling brisket, that's for damn sure."
"What's that stand for? Helluva Mess?" she said, narrowing her eyes, deciding that she really didn't like this man at all, even if he was obviously a fellow Texan.
"Howling Mad," he said, smiling again, and Maddie batted away the thought that he did have a nice smile, and that his eyes were a really very beautiful shade of green. She had plenty of experience with men who had nice smiles and pretty eyes – they were a dime a dozen. "Though 'Helluva Mess' suits me pretty, well, and I'm sure lotsa folks 'round here would agree. What's Maddie short for?"
"None of your business, Captain," she said, saluting him sharply and stalking away. She heard his spatula smack the grill again, but didn't turn around to see his disgruntled expression. She asked another soldier for directions, and the tall, blond, blue-eyed man eagerly offered to escort her to the CO's hooch.
"What's your name, by the way?" he asked as they walked down the center lane, passing a sign with various city names printed on pieces of wood, pointed in opposite directions. One of the pieces of wood read 'Oatmeal, Texas: 7168 miles', and pointed west.
"Lieutenant Morgan," she answered.
"Lieutenant Peck," he introduced himself with a pearly-white grin. "Welcome to Camp Hooyah."
"I believe it's actually called Switchblade, isn't that correct?" she asked him, as they stopped in front of Smith's tent.
"Well, yeah, but Murdock got into a tussle with a Marine shortly after we got here, and when he finally had the bastard pinned down, instead of making him yell 'Uncle', he made him yell 'Hooyah' instead, and it kind of…stuck."
Peck shook his head, laughing, and nodded toward the Captain at the grill, who was now carrying on an arm-waving argument with another soldier who had had the gall to order North Carolina-style barbecue. She heard Murdock shouting "What kind of uncouth, ill-bred savage puts cole slaw on barbecue? Huh? That's an affront to nature and to nature's God, young man! It says so in the Bible! Look it up – Book of Fannie Farmer, chapter three, verse seven – Thou shalt not put cole slaw on barbecue, as it is an abomination! Now get thee hence to the Devil before I throw you into the latrine, you tar-covered North Carolina twit!"
"Sorry…'scuse me," Peck told her, grinning. "Gotta go calm Murdock down, 'fore he tears that kid's head off. Musta forgot to warn him…" The lieutenant trotted away, toward the grill, and Maddie knocked on the wooden frame of the tent's makeshift door. A moment later, Colonel Smith answered.
She saluted sharply, and Smith gave her an exasperated look. "Haven't you learned to not salute officers this far in country?" he snapped at her.
She sighed. This was going to be a rough God only knew how many days.