Oh well, she's not my girl back home anyway. Her name is Halamie Tikara. She's Iraqi, and not so far away. So complicated, our beautiful love. Human Intelligence Specialist Joshua Martin lies stranded and severely wounded after a night raid on an al-Qaeda hideout in Samarra. He spends a long night alone remembering-not only intense combat but also growing up conflicted in Oklahoma. As he prays for a rescue at dawn, Joshua, the son of an evangelical minister, recalls his foray into first love at a church summer camp. A scandal while attending a Bible college drives Joshua to join the War on Terror. But he is really seeking true love abroad, not martial glory or divine forgiveness. It is a difficult search. Then he finds the spirited Halamie. The young couple must hide their budding romance from hard men. The Book on Joshua is a captivating exploration of a foreign war and forbidden love. A Christian boy and Muslim girl test their faith in each other against the backdrop of sectarian violence in 2005/2006 Iraq.

THE BOOK ON JOSHUA

LOVE AT WAR IN IRAQ By EAMON KOLARITY

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Eamon Kolarity
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-7480-0

Chapter One

Iraq, Salah ad-Din Governorate, Samarra Combat Outpost, Evening, March 7, 2006

The Ranger combat team from Balad Joint Base arrived after dark. The timing was to lessen the likelihood of discovery by the al-Qaeda cell that the Americans were up to something. The forty-eight Rangers were distributed among three up-armored Humvees and six of the new Stryker Infantry Fighting Vehicles (known as IFVs) that were faster, lighter upgrades from the 1980s' era Bradleys. These Stryker vehicles could zip along a good road at sixty miles an hour, leaving a stream of .50 cal. MG bullets in their wake. Three of these suckers had automatic grenade launchers up top, so we were going into battle that night armed to the teeth. The Rangers were no-nonsense professionals—all Clint Eastwood types as far as I could tell.

At the pre-raid briefing I had found out why Fareed Tikara was assigned to go along—he knew the way to the farmhouse and could get us there in the dark. The Ranger captain, Cartwright, had no problem with me tagging along after our CO Jacobs explained my key role in uncovering the terrorists' kidnapping plot and massacre location. Captain Cartwright haughtily informed us that his unit had several fluent Arabic speakers and they knew all about human intelligence extraction. I understood that Fareed's role was reduced to navigator and my presence a reluctant courtesy.

After the meeting broke up, I decided to initiate peace talks with Fareed, since I hated the idea of rolling into combat with a man who detested my very existance. I chose my words carefully and assumed a humble posture. But in truth the arrival of our crack unit and the brisk, business-like meeting gave me a shot of confidence that things would go as planned. I wasn't a Lone Ranger tonight after all. It was me, no longer a virgin soldier, who set this parade in motion. I felt like goose-stepping over Fareed if he showed me any attitude. But this was Hala's father and had to be respected as such.

"Mr. Tikara, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for the trouble I've caused your family."

Fareed peered at me as though appraising my sincerity. I met his eyes initially but then dropped my gaze to the ground. When Fareed spoke, it was in the quiet tone befitting his nature. I didn't have to bend to hear him though.

"You have no idea, Specialist Martin. I have lived in fear for them ever since you Americans came to my country. We live in a prison and can't go about freely without fear of reprisal. Now, you have taken my innocent daughter away from me. You have given her notions that are contrary to our culture. You may think Americans have a modern view, but you are rude guests in a foreign land. You want to change us by force, and you're surprised that there is resistance! God is in our lives and our government; there is no separation as in your country. We must obey the dictates of Allah and the Great Prophet."

I looked up and met his eyes again.

"But that's what the jihadists say, Mr. Tikara. You sound like you're on their side. The dictates of Allah, following to the letter Fatws that are cruel and intolerant, taking the sword to unbelievers instead of accepting different paths for different people. I take none of this lightly, and I don't take your daughter lightly. She freely chose a different direction. I'm really surprised you work for us, given your strong feelings."

Fareed was struggling to contain himself; I could see that. Who occupied the moral high ground in this argument was uncertain. But one thing for damn sure: Hala and I didn't fornicate—we made love.

"I work for you people because we have to survive this time of occupation. I am responsible for my family. We do what we have to do to survive. Americans live a pampered life and don't understand the struggle of people in poor lands."

"But Iraq could be a rich land, a fair land. You have lots of oil."

"Yes, oil is here, and your American companies want it. Oil is trouble when a few people want to control it for their family's wealth alone. Our new government must work that out. It is hard for me to have faith, but the Koran teaches us that faith is everything good."

"Listen, Mr. Tikara, I have faith too and come from a religious family. I believe in God and in one God for all. I respect Islam."

"But you did not respect my daughter!"

"I disagree with you there, but what else is there to say?"

I almost told him Hala's last words to me about needing to listen to our fathers, but I didn't want to encourage the old man. Hala was a rebellious soul before I met her and would probably be a pain in the butt for her parents all her born days. If I was her father, I would celebrate her high spirits and inquisitive mind. But I wasn't a father. That was surely to come, and I might feel differently then—not quite as tolerant, not quite as certain.

At least we were talking, even at loggerheads still, and I wanted to get an inkling of how Fareed viewed tonight's mission.

"You heard what I heard at the briefing, Mr. Tikara. What do you think?"

I could see him change gears from grinding rage to the thoughtful reserve that more typified the man.

"I hope, Joshua, it may bring a little peace and some boys home alive to their parents. It has been a bad day in Samarra and a bad couple weeks for my country."

I was almost tempted to ask him if the authorities had closed down any hot spots along the Shabazz strip out of fear of nighttime kidnappings. But I held my tongue, assuming that Fareed knew of his son Nabil's wastrel ways, and mentioning the Shabazz would remind him of his daughter's failings too. I wanted to close on a pious note.

"I will say a prayer that only good will live on tonight and justice is served. I'm glad that we are working together again, Fareed."

Fareed bowed slightly and walked off to the mess hall that was open late to accommodate the Rangers. I was so happy that he and I were back on a first-name basis. I doubted if we'd ever be foxhole buddies, but we were back to the business of war.

The combat team was set to go at 2200 hours. At top speed we could get to the farm in fifteen minutes, but we wanted to go slow and easy and not stir up the natives. The plan was to crash the massacre party in an all-out assault, bashing in doors and breaking windows, throwing flash-bang grenades in, and hoping the entire action would take less than a minute. There was no thought of a civilian-hostage scenario in which you announced your presence through a bull horn and started negotiating with the bad guys—tried to wait them out, gave in on petty demands, such as beer and pizza delivery. No, no, with terrorists who fancy themselves diehard warriors of the jihad, you had to storm the site, not contain it.

I sat awhile with a few of the Rangers who were heartily chowing down. I had eaten earlier, so I sipped black coffee. I needed the caffeine, because last night's intrigue had lasted to dawn and I was starting to run short on adrenaline. But I could probably doze off for all that Captain Cartwright cared. I didn't anticipate an active role in the rescue, and Fareed's son Nabil surviving was out of my hands.

The Rangers struck me as regular guys at heart, although trained to be ruthless in combat. They were matter-of-fact about the mission and preferred to kid each other and dwell on other things. For one of the guys the go-to topic was my affair with a Muslim girl. I was amazed that word of the scandal could travel that fast from one base to another. I didn't want to talk about it with a stranger, and the guy didn't pester. I appreciated his kind retreat.

Captain Cartwright was not a laissez-faire commander who allowed latitude about which vehicle you rode on in a convoy. Fareed, being the navigator with the map, sat in the lead Humvee with the captain while I was instructed to go into the cramped back of one of the Strykers. I didn't rate a view or much room to stretch my long legs. These infantry fighting vehicles were state of the art, but if hit by a roadside IED, they were just as vulnerable as a Bradley. If it was one planted in the road itself and exploded under our soft belly, then we'd all be blown to kingdom come. If al-Qaeda had a mole on our base or had planted watchers with their fingers on detonators on the approach road to the farmhouse, then IEDs could devastate our raid before we got close enough to rush the house. The six soldiers knock-kneed in the Stryker were very aware of worst case scenarios, and that didn't lead to cheery conversations on the ride into battle.

The column's trip turned out to be quiet and uneventful, and we scrambled out of the back of the Stryker—appreciating life all the more and the fresh night air. The night sky was clear and too bright for our purposes. All the constellations were out in force, and the moon was waning but not by much. It was 2235, and Cartwright, his first lieutenant, and his two sergeants quickly assembled the two assault teams. By plan, we were a couple klicks away from the target and would approach fast on foot. One team was to neutralize any sentries and actually conduct the assault, using stun grenades and strict fire discipline to save as many hostages as possible. Among the many uncertainties was the number of Shia men taken by the al-Qaeda snatch teams. They wanted to match the twenty-five Sunni victims killed by Shiite militants in the Siddiqi field, but my confidential informant Zadeh said that they were reconciled to settling for less. Potentially, there could be as many or more captives as al-Qaeda gunmen, and the Rangers would have to make split-second decisions on who to shoot and who to save.

Fareed and I were to accompany the second team whose job was to encircle the farmhouse and capture or kill any fleeing terrorists. They could be many or few or none, depending upon the surprise and success of the assault team. I was just happy that Captain Cartwright, snapping crisp commands at his lieutenant and sergeants, didn't order me to stay with the vehicles that would approach only after the foot assault was underway. I wasn't eager to bang down doors but I wanted to see the action go down and rush into the house to help Nabil out of the rubble. Then, I could deliver him personally into the grateful arms of his father. Fareed demonstrated no concern that his son may be in there; perhaps Nabil didn't go out to party tonight. The last information that Jacobs had given us as we assembled was that the Iraqi police had been befuddled and had prevented none of the snatches by al-Qaeda. He had no firm count on how many young men had been taken.

We were on a dark country road. The two houses I could barely see had no lights on, so unless the inhabitants were peeking out from a dark room, they were the homes of sleeping farmers, blissfully ignorant of the chaos to come. Conditions seemed ripe for shock and awe as we began to double-time it up the road toward our target. We moved without fits and starts for a klick or so. The assault team, with Cartwright leading the way, then briefly stopped, and I saw several Rangers push forward to reconnoiter and handle noiselessly any outside sentries. This would be killing with a knife or perhaps a silenced sniper rifle. I'd seen both in action movies and doubted if I had the stomach or skill to pull off either in real life.

The three—no four—soldiers returned in about fifteen minutes, and the night remained undisturbed, so whether killing was necessary or not, there was no alarm raised. Now, I worried that the house was empty and that the massacre was really planned at another location. A Predator drone had been observing the place during the hour-and-a-half run-up to our arrival, but I had no idea what if any activity the infrared night scopes had picked up. If this was the wrong house, I would be the schmuck who got the intelligence wrong. Afghanistan, here I come; next plane out!

The lieutenant in charge of the perimeter team rushed over to me after a fast conference with Cartwright. He motioned to his closest two guys and spoke urgently.

"Kowalski and Mills, this is Specialist Martin in case you gentlemen haven't been introduced. Martin, you stay glued to my guys no matter what. They do the shooting, okay? Remember that you're intel and keep your gun on safe. Okay, soldier?"

"Okay, Lieutenant."

He went over to Fareed and assigned the translator to the care of two other troopers. For this combat mission Fareed was armed with a sidearm for self-protection, but the lieutenant told him firmly to keep it holstered. I nodded at my two Rangers who were no doubt happy about my M16 being put on ice. I never wanted to fire my weapon again anyway. Maybe target practice, but that's it. I was ready for a separate peace.

Our team of twenty was off running again, with the lieutenant dropping two or three soldiers at internals in the fields around the house. We passed through a wheat field and entered another patch of grain crop, different from the wheat, which I recognized, and the lieutenant planted us there.

I grabbed a stalk and sniffed the grain but was still clueless as to what it was. I looked quizzically at Mills, and he guessed what I was wondering about.

"Barley," he whispered. "I grew up on a farm in Nebraska. Take it from me, it's barley. I bet they don't use it for beer here."

"Soup maybe," Kowalski surmised.

"Can't barley be used for cereal?" I asked quietly.

"Fuck if I know," Mills responded in a hushed tone. "You know, Kowalski, I heard that barley attracts a predatory ant that can march up your piss hole and mix in with your cum and produce the damnedest offspring you've ever seen."

"No shit. Never heard a word about that."

"Take it from me, it doesn't advance the human race one iota."

"Knocks evolution right off the track."

"Precisely."

We turned our attention back to the farmhouse off in the distance but well within reach of our deadly weapons. The house was dark, but you would expect a safe house to have black-out curtains. It was a sprawling one story, clearly visible in the moonlight. Parked outside were four vehicles: an SUV, two vans, and a sedan. There were a couple outlying buildings too: a barn and maybe a stable. These buildings might present complications if undetected watchers were there.

I flipped down my night-vision goggles. No green men magically appeared, and I had seen almost as well in the moonlight with my naked eyes. The well-equipped American soldier owned the night, but it had to be cloudy or a new moon for us to take sole possession. Tonight, alert al-Qaeda sentries might pick up shadowy figures just as well as we could see them. But if they bailed out of a well-lighted house, the gunmen would be running blind for precious seconds as their eyes took time to adjust. They should be easy pickings.

There were no sentries visible, nor did I see bodies on the ground. It would be strange if they had no lookouts. Had the barn and stable been checked out? The barn loft in particular would have been a great observation post. But who was I to second guess our Special Forces? It was our best going against—well, I didn't know if al-Qaeda's elite were in this farmhouse. If these were truly the guys who carried out the Golden Dome bombing, they were slick jihadist warriors indeed. Their competence was matched by unexpected compassion when they had left the Shia guards alive to tell the tale. If the farm-house massacre scenario proved true though, they had left compassion behind at the great mosque.

The assault team came into view and swung into action. I decided I could see them better with my natural vision, so the goggles went up and alien beings became human again. Just before our guys reached the house proper, the enemy detected their approach. Apparently, the loft had not been checked, because the automatic fire came from there—one heavy-caliber gun, firing tracer rounds, dropping a couple of our guys and scattering the rest. Several Rangers found shelter on the safe sides of the farmhouse and broke the glass to throw in their flash-bang grenades. A burly soldier with a door ram swung it into the front door and then was blown back by fire from within.

One Ranger threw a grenade in, the real thing this time, and the explosion made mincemeat of our rescue plan. Our guys didn't hesitate, piling into the house. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that several Rangers had reached the barn and entered below to try to take out the gunner or gunners above.

I could sense that Kowalski and Mills were eager to join the fray. They were without orders to do so, but brave warriors know when the battle is joined and the issue in doubt. Seeing their lieutenant and two of his men rushing to aid the stressed assault team drove their decision.

Mills turned toward me and said emphatically, "Stay put, Specialist! Keep your weapon ready but watch who you fucking shoot at!"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from THE BOOK ON JOSHUAby EAMON KOLARITY Copyright © 2012 by Eamon Kolarity. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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