Thank fuck. He didn’t have to field test that plan. His terp had pulled a save from the faded Detroit Tigers hat that never left his head. He wasn’t sure whose pits gave off the worst funk; his, the man hugging him, or the two Afghans bringing them tea, flatbread and lentil paste.
“Told Dostum you’re engaged to a nice girl back home—”
An Afghan with a miraculous mouth of teeth pounded Cruz on the back to dislodge the bread stuck in his windpipe choking him. “What?”
“And because American law doesn’t allow two wives, you regretfully cannot accept this honor, but you’ll bring gifts next week to show how much you appreciate his generosity.”
“Great. We’ll haul a pallet of rice, but don’t let him think he’s getting weapons.” Wily bastard might have set up the incident to bag more rocket-propelled grenade launchers. “If proud papas across Paktia start offering me wives but settle for swag, I know who to blame.”
Abdullah raised his hands, palms out as if to deny his responsibility. “That sounds like poetry.”
Then he laughed as his index fingers made pistols pointed right at Cruz.
“By the way, he expects a photo. He wonders what kind of woman American soldiers marry.”
“No problem.” A fake fiancée. He’d almost rather risk the business end of an AK-47.
A week later, keyboardclicks were the only sound in the Special Ops ready room at Camp Cadwalader. Most of the team was enjoying hot chow before they bugged out for six days, but Kahananui and his laptop had stayed with Cruz.
“Found a fiancée yet? It’s surf-n-turf night.” His best friend unplugged and stretched, ready to desert him for the dining facility’s best meal.
“Deciding between three or four.” The skin and alcohol displayed by women in his social networks would offend Dostum, and he’d dangle from a Chinook by his short hairs before he’d pretend to be engaged to Brittney. She was probably banging SEAL Team Six. More power to her, but he wasn’t using her picture. Last winter when he’d watched his buddy Wulf fallin love with Doc, he’d claimed brains was his new chick criteria, but of course he’d gone right back to ruck-bunnies while home at Fort Campbell.
“You got nothing.” The big Hawaiian stared over his shoulder at the thumbnail photos. “Loser.”
“Give me a picture of Jewel.” Like the rest of the team except for Bama Boy and Abdullah, Kahananui advertised matrimonial bliss.
“No can do, brah. One look at my lady, and Dostum would know your skinny ass wasn’t man enough for her.”
“Whipped.” Married guys never helped a buddy with lady trouble, even trouble with imaginary ladies. Worse, they got laid more often than he did.
“Roger that.” Kahananui gave him a thumb and finger shaka sign and left.
His stomach begged to follow, but he had to identify a plausible fiancée. This trip included embedded reporters accompanying the team, so he couldn’t use a porn star or a celebrity, and picking a random army woman had at least a dozen downsides. He needed a civilian.
Twenty-nine years old, and he didn’t have a female friend to ask for help.
Given he’d spent eleven years in the service, mostly in training or deployed, he quit thinking and searched photos from Salito High.
His older sister’s former volleyball team provided an ideal candidate: Grace Kim. He’d heard she went to the University of Washington for a science degree, maybe a Ph.D. His hometown’s population was less than seven hundred, but he’d bet she hadn’t known him. She’d been two grades ahead and always studying. A girl like her wouldn’t remember a kid who picked apples after school and dropped out to enlist.
Grace Kim,his fingers typed. The internet offered the curious so much more than porn. Imagine, she worked at the National Marine Fisheries Service, part of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in Seattle. The white blouse and navy suit in her biographical photo looked more serious than those old team knee socks. Her dark hair, an even length that just brushed the top of her shoulders, made her face look rounder. She appeared smart, successful and sober, the type of fiancée whose picture wouldn’t insult Dostum.
He mashed her photo and one of his promotion packet portraits in full uniform into a digital layout, then added images of rings and roses to make it almost as elaborate as the celebration banners Afghans made, although without the gold script. The color printer the team had liberated from heroin smugglers last summer did a bang-up job on photos.
Using a blue pen, he personalized the corner:For my dearest Reynaldo. I remember walking under the apple blossoms with you.A woman with a doctorate wouldn’t draw a smiley face like Brittney had on her one and only letter, so he finished withLove, Grace.
Fastest engagement in history. Cheapest, too. Didn’t have to buy a single dinner.
Chapter 2
Seattle
Friday evenings provided timeto finish work uninterrupted by meetings. An hour ago, Grace had completed the employee input portion of her annual performance appraisal to prepare for the third anniversary of her job with Fisheries. She’d earned tonight’s pajama movie fest—that is, if she could unlock the door to her South Lake Union condo before her ice cream melted.
Her cell phone rang mid-twist, so she let the caller go to voicemail. Inside, she shoved her two grocery bags onto the kitchen counter while the landline her father insisted she needed for emergencies rang. Clearly her family wanted to talk to their firstborn.
“When did you get engaged to Reynaldo Cruz?” Her younger sister’s voice came through the old school answering machine,higher and faster than normal. “Umma’s crying because you didn’t tell her, and Appa won’t leave the potting shed, and honestly, I’m annoyed, too. I mean, I’m your sister. You could’ve said something even if you didn’t want to tell them. What should we say to reporters? Should we call his family? He’s got a niece in first grade, but then you know that already, don’t you.”Click. Jenni’s message ended without a goodbye.
