One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan
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Название: One September Morning
Автор: Rosalind Noonan
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Триллеры
isbn: 9780758239327
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Chenowith regrets the death of any soldier, but honestly, his job will be easier without Stanton in his platoon. This is Chenowith’s first combat assignment out of West Point, and it hasn’t been easy having the media breathing down his neck, always watching because he had a celebrity soldier in his ranks.
He tosses the books to see what Stanton was reading and notices that some of them are journals—those blank bound books you fill in. Stanton had written in two and a half of them.
Peter pulls out a chair and cracks open one of the journals, starting in the middle.
Many Iraqis don’t understand why American soldiers are still here, and I have to agree with them. We’ve overstayed our welcome. Saddam has been dethroned, and Operation Iraqi Freedom should now be called Operation Colonization.
Chenowith’s lip curls as he remembers the way Stanton always used to talk to the locals. What a schmoozer. You’d think the guy signed up for the United Nations instead of the U.S. Army. Stanton argued that it was good to let people vent, but Chenowith knows no good will come of stirring the pot, whipping these people into a political frenzy.
The more Chenowith reads, the more his teeth grind against each other.
Soldiers are programmed to follow orders without question. But I believe that if a soldier is given an order that he knows is not only illegal but immoral as well, it is his responsibility to refuse that order.
It’s this sort of philosophical bullshit that cripples the U.S. Army, Chenowith thinks, stewing over the pages. Peter Chenowith grew up wanting to serve his country, just as his father had done, and his grandfather before that. He was the third generation of Chenowiths to attend West Point, and he sees this deployment in Iraq as his opportunity to prove himself as a man, as a soldier, as a leader.
Unlike whiners like Stanton, he can handle the pressure. He follows orders, and he has the mettle to push his soldiers to make sure they follow, too. His company has suffered some casualties here—every unit has been hit—but that sort of loss is a fact of war, and a good soldier eventually learns that you carry on no matter what the adversity.
His eyes alight on another entry…his name.
The army wants “yes” men like Lt. Chenowith who do not question the legality of the policies of the administration. These warmongers will have the lifelong guilt of murdering innocent Iraqis on their conscience and the indelible images of seeing their friends blown up in a war whose purpose is illegal.
And if I stay, what am I? No better or worse than these warmongers.
Canada looks better and better every day.
A burn rises and blossoms in Chenowith’s head. So the bigshot hero was thinking of leaving. A sissy. How he’d love to give this to the media. But how can he, when the disparaging remarks about him are laced in those pages.
Goddamned Stanton.
No one is going to see these journals. No one.
This is one time when a rule needs to be broken.
He grabs a few pages and tears them out, cracking the first journal in the seams. The pages fit into the shredder without a problem. It will take a little while, but once he rips these journals up, everyone will be better off.
Stanton is not going to have the last word here. Let the resistance die with the man.
Chapter 12
Fort Lewis
Abby
“I want to go to him,” Abby says. “Wherever he is…in Kuwait? Or Europe? I’ll fly to Iraq if they’re holding his body there. I just…somehow I feel the need to be with him. To meet him.”
Her announcement is greeted with silence in the kitchen. Suz is the only one nodding in agreement, but then Abby knows she can count on her friend’s support no matter what she decides.
Sharice pauses at the kitchen counter where she has been consolidating leftover coffee cake and cookies brought by friends. She does not answer but lifts her head, as if a large knot of disapproval is stuck in her throat.
“Oh, Abby…” Jim Stanton’s voice is laced with worry. “You don’t want to go to Iraq.”
“Iraq is out of the question. He’ll be airlifted to Kuwait by helicopter in the morning,” says Sgt. Palumbo, checking his watch. “Their morning, which is just hours away. The body will probably leave Iraq before any of us turn in tonight. He’ll be on a Hero Flight with other…fallen soldiers. You may have seen the photos. Each case is draped in an American flag with a special light on it. The remains are taken to Dover Air Force Base.”
“In Delaware?” Abby asks.
“Dover, Delaware.”
“Then that’s where I’m going,” Abby says.
“But the facility there…” Sgt. Palumbo strains to explain. “It’s a mortuary. They ID bodies, embalm them, and ship them home for funeral services. There would be nothing for you to do there, Abby.”
“I know it probably sounds strange, but that’s how I feel, and I can’t stay here and just wait for administrative work to be done while he’s over there all…all alone.”
“Abby…” Sgt. Palumbo shakes his head. “This is not a good idea. Dover is a military facility. They’re—”
“Don’t worry,” she assures him, “I’m not expecting any special treatment there. I just need to be there, for John. I’ll book a flight for tomorrow, pack tonight, and…” She turns to Sharice. “You’ll tell me if I’m missing something—something important that I should be doing? I don’t have any experience with…this sort of thing.” And Sharice, she knew, had helped other women through it, more than a dozen times in the past few years.
“Of course.” Sharice’s countenance softens. “But, really, you’re doing just fine.” She looks down at the cake platter. “I suppose there isn’t a wrong or right way to do any of this.”
It’s the first visible streak of compassion that Abby has seen in her mother-in-law all day, and she is reminded that grief strikes people in different ways, at different times. Sharice has just lost her oldest son; who can fathom the emotional journey that lies ahead of her?
By the time the visitors thin out, leaving Abby with an exceedingly clean kitchen and half a fridge of leftovers, Abby is sure she has weathered a month of Mondays. In truth, it’s just after seven.
“I’m taking this one next door for a bath.” Suz nods at Sofia who is playing a game in the living room with a stack of Abby’s coasters, pretending they are plates containing “very delicious foods” that must be kept in a very specific order on the coffee table. “Do you want us to come back and stay with you?”
Abby remembers the night Suz learned Scott had been killed, how Suz had put Sofia to bed, then spent most of the night on the floor with Abby going СКАЧАТЬ