The Wall: A Christian suspense page-turner, page 1
Fervent Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-7326484-6-3 - eBook
ISBN 978-1-7326484-7-0 - Paperback
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by the International Bible Society.
Soli Deo Gloria
I dedicate this book to my wife, Donna, who brightens every day of my life.
Contents
Chapter 1: War
Chapter 2: The Other Side
Chapter 3: Stress Reduction
Chapter 4: The Office
Chapter 5: The Eighth Floor
Chapter 6: The Seventh Floor
Chapter 7: The Parking Garage
Chapter 8: Tough Questions
Chapter 9: Her Special Place
Chapter 10: 500 AD
Chapter 11: 1755 AD
Chapter 12: Semper Fi
Chapter 13: Hidden Motives
Chapter 14: The Present
Chapter 15: Consequences
Chapter 16: Soul Mate
Chapter 17: A Little Surprise
Chapter 18: Who’s to Blame?
Chapter 19: One Destination
Chapter 20: Stalker
Chapter 21: Back in the Saddle
Chapter 22: Freedom
Chapter 23: Working Again
Chapter 24: Business before Pleasure
Chapter 25: First Date… Round Two
Chapter 26: Anticipation
Chapter 27: Mandatory Meeting
Chapter 28: Revisiting the Stalker
Chapter 29: Running
Chapter 30: Church Together
Chapter 31: Blue Back Square
Chapter 32: Tubing
Chapter 33: Transitions
Chapter 34: Deadline Looming
Chapter 35: Decision Time
Chapter 36: Interruption
Chapter 37: Credit
Chapter 38: Riverton
Chapter 39: The Parents
Chapter 40: Moving On
Chapter 41: Getting Away
Chapter 42: Take Two
Chapter 43: The Day After
Chapter 44: Returning for a Moment
Chapter 45: The Aftermath
Chapter 46: A Living Legacy
Chapter 47: Farewell
Book Club Questions
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Selected Bibliography
Appendix: Prophecy Primer
Notes
Chapter 1
War
July 2008, 12:32 p.m.
Helmand province, southern Afghanistan
Marine First Lieutenant Jackson Trotman lay prone on a precipice overlooking a valley. His second-in-command, Gunnery Sergeant Cooke, lay by his side. The twelve marines in their patrol were already dispersed around the mountainside behind them.
The scraggly brown rocks dug into his chest, arms, and legs like porcupine quills. Dust covered him from head to toe, and only his shemagh kept him from breathing in the superheated air and fine dust. There wasn’t a speck of green or a drop of water anywhere. The slight breeze gave little reprieve from the temperature of one hundred and fifteen degrees. The sun beat down without mercy, cooking him and his unit like bacon in a frying pan.
He stared through his desert binoculars at the dirt trail far below. Their mission was to interdict and neutralize Taliban forces in the area, and they had received an intelligence report that an insurgent patrol was on the move nearby.
Gunnery Sergeant Cooke turned to him. “Got a question for you, sir. How’d a nice college boy like you end up a jarhead in a hellhole like this?”
“Just serving my country, Gunny, with the finest fighting force in the world.”
Cooke shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”
Jackson chuckled. “Not buying it?”
“Nope.”
Jackson tilted his head. “The abundance of alcohol in Afghanistan?”
“It’s a dry country in more ways than one, Lieutenant. Was it a girl?”
An image of McKenzie Baker sunbathing at State Beach on Block Island popped into his mind. He’d dated many women, but for some reason, the memory of her resonated more than the others. Ridiculous. We only went on one date, and she blew me off. Why am I even wasting my time thinking about her?
“Yeah, it was a girl, Gunny. I got a Dear John letter from my female dog, and that threw me over the edge.”
Cooke snickered and didn’t press the matter any further.
Finally, Jackson turned to face him. “Nothing much happening here. Let’s move to Checkpoint Bravo. Are we good to go?”
“Looks clear to me, LT.”
Jackson pointed down the mountain to his left. “Let’s move out. It’s down by that small hill over there.”
“Roger that.” Cooke addressed the rest of the patrol. “Okay, marines. Mount up!”
The group began their descent and reached the trail below about fifteen minutes later. Jackson had already divided his men into their three fire teams, each comprised of four marines. He then got down on one knee, listened for a few moments, and reconnoitered the area with his binoculars. Without much cover where they stood, he had to make sure his unit got to the checkpoint as safely as possible.
No sound or movement to signify trouble. Jackson kept a wary eye on the surrounding terrain. When they reached Checkpoint Bravo, he relaxed a little. The small hill had plenty of boulders for cover. He sat down against a large rock, tipped back his helmet, and retrieved his canteen. Right as he took a swig, rocks exploded and splintered all around him, followed by the pat-pat-pat of machine-gun fire from nearby.
Jackson jumped up and swiveled around the boulder to the opposite side. “Incoming! Incoming! Take cover!”
The distinctive blam-blam-blam of a DShK .50 caliber machine gun came next. The rounds pulverized the boulder that was supposedly protecting him, and he peered around the lower edge of it, hoping his head wouldn’t get blown off. “Gunny, direct your fire to the top of that hill! I’m calling for artillery support.”
“Roger that.”
Jackson shouted into his headset, “Johnson!” Jackson pointed. “Call for artillery and lay it on that hill over there.” He ducked as low to the ground as he could, cringing as bullets whizzed over his head.
His earpiece crackled. “Will do, sir.”
“Make it quick!” Rounds fired by his marines impacted the hill while enemy bullets continued zipping through the air overhead. A cacophony of gunfire and smoke filled the air.
A few minutes later, high-explosive ordnance from the 155-mm howitzers zoomed through the air directly above Jackson’s head, howling like a freight train, then impacted close to the target, causing a massive plume of rock, dirt, and dust to erupt into the air. The enemy gunfire ceased for a moment.
Then another shell exploded directly on the target.
Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. “Direct hit. Johnson, fire for effect.”
“Roger that.”
Multiple rounds pummeled the enemy position in succession, sending dirt and shrapnel flying all over the target area. Jackson and his men cheered. After a momentary lull in the barrage, some enemy survivors scrambled out of their holes and ran.
Jackson adjusted his helmet, then shouted to his marines. “Fire Team One, open fire, over.”
The leader of Fire Team One responded, “Roger that, sir. Fire Team One opening fire.”
Withering small arms fire cut down several Taliban soldiers, while others ran directly into the artillery barrage. The remaining stragglers scattered in various directions. Fire Team One picked off several more, but a few escaped.
Jackson pumped his fist. “Yeah! Cease fire. Great shooting, Sergeant Johnson. Good work, Fire Team One. Squad, prepare for a counterattack!”
The Fire Team One leader nodded. “Roger that, prepare for a counterattack,”
“Gunny Cooke!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Check their fields of fire. I want to make sure we’re ready in case they come back at us.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Jackson sighed. “And get a casualty report.”
“Roger that.”
Jackson stood and provided an incident report to his company commander over the radio, then headed for Gunnery Sergeant Cooke. Time to get the latest status.
Cooke gave a thumb-up. “No casualties, sir.”
Jackson thrust his arms in the air. “Liberty’s calling, Gunny. Nineteen days and a wake-up!”
“Don’t rub it in, sir.”
“Amsterdam, here I come. Woo-hoo!”
A .50-caliber rifle shot rang out from the same hill that the artillery had just pulverized. Gunny Cooke collapsed to the ground as the round lopped off his right leg just below the knee. He screamed, following it with a slew of profanities.
Jackson cursed as well. “Corpsman! Corpsman! The Gunny’s hit!”
“Ahhh! Ahhh!”
“Blast it, Fire Team One!” Jackson yelled. “Take out that shooter and await further orders.”
The navy corpsman attached to the ma
Jackson shouted into his headset for helicopter support, “Hotel-Six, this is Charlie-One-Six, over.”
The reply came about five seconds later. “Charlie-One-Six, this is Hotel-Six, out.”
“Request medical evac at Checkpoint Bravo. Site is hot, over.”
“Roger that. Medical evac at Checkpoint Bravo, the site is hot, out.”
“We’ll pop red smoke, over.”
“Roger that. Red smoke. ETA ten minutes, out.”
“Make it quick. A marine is in shock. Lost a leg, out.”
Jackson ran over to Fire Team One’s position. “Sergeant Taggert, you’re the new platoon sergeant. What’s the status?”
“Sir, the sniper’s up in the machine gun nest at the top of the hill.”
“I thought everyone was dead up there.” Jackson adjusted his headset and yelled into it, “Fire Team One, remain in a support position! Take out the shooter if he sticks his head up. Fire Team Two, tag-team your way up to that gully and provide covering fire for Fire Team Three. Fire Team Three, get up that hill on the left. Envelope your way over to the machine gun nest straight ahead, then take them out! Let us know when you’re in position.”
Each fire team methodically moved into their assigned positions.
A few moments later, the wamp-wamp-wamp of a helicopter echoed off the mountain faces in the distance. The bird curved around a nearby mountain and surged into view. Jackson popped a red smoke canister behind Checkpoint Bravo in the center of the makeshift landing zone. The smoke lazily drifted away from them toward the sun hovering just above the horizon.
The helicopter eviscerated the red smoke as it set down, replacing the smoke with a whirlwind of dust. The roar of the engines was deafening. The side door of the chopper sprung open, and a crewman hopped out with a collapsed stretcher tucked under his arm.
He ran over to where Gunny Cooke lay, unfolded the stretcher, and worked with the corpsman to lift him onto it. Another marine grabbed the battered, detached remains of Gunny’s right leg and threw it onto the stretcher next to his good leg. The image didn’t seem real; it was too horrible to process. Then, all he could think about was making them pay. Cooke grimaced as the corpsman strapped him onto the gurney and inserted an IV.
Jackson ran back to his unit. The fire teams were all in position. “Cover me, Fire Team Two. I’m going up with Fire Team Three.”
Bullets pelted the dirt around the Taliban’s position. Smoke and the smell of burned gunpowder filled the air all around them. He ran across open ground up to Fire Team Three’s location as several .50-caliber bullets punched holes in the dirt around his feet. Once situated, he yelled into his headset, “Fire Team Two, continue covering fire!” They saturated the target area with small arms fire. “Lassiter, stay here and keep firing grenades on the target. Fire Team Three, let’s move out.”
Fire Team Three leapfrogged up the hill from rock to rock toward the enemy emplacement, covering each other along the way. The distinctive blam-blam-blam of the enemy’s .50 caliber machine gun ripped through the air. Rock shards splintered all around them with each hit.
Jackson finally got close enough to throw a hand grenade at the position. The grenade landed right in the enemy fighting hole and exploded. After a moment, he instructed, “Cease fire, everyone.” He waited for the smoke and dust to clear. “I’m going in.”
Jackson rushed toward the enemy foxhole and leaped directly in front of it on his stomach. He then edged his way to the lip of the hole and peered over it. Two enemy soldiers lay in contorted positions on their sides. One appeared to be dead, while the other was only wounded. The wounded man eyed Jackson, flipped over on his back, lifted his AK-47, and tried to point it at him.
Jackson unloaded two rounds from his 9mm Beretta pistol, one into the man’s chest and another into his head. He then slipped another magazine into his weapon. “Here’s one gift wrapped for both of you from Gunny Cooke!” He aimed just below their knees and pulled the trigger several times, dismembering one leg from each.
*
As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Jackson and his team donned their night-vision gear. He walked cautiously beside Staff Sergeant Tom Clark, his new next in command, just as he had several months earlier with Gunnery Sergeant Cooke. A minute later, a distinctive thump sounded in the distance.
Jackson cursed, then shouted, “Incoming! Mortars! Take cover!” He dove to the ground. They had walked right into a Taliban kill zone.
Seconds later, a mortar round landed only twenty or thirty feet away. The explosion knocked him back several feet. Jackson hacked dirt and dust out of his mouth while his ears rang and his head spun. His right side felt wet, with moisture creeping through his MCCUUs onto his skin. He flipped off his goggles to find dark blood all over his uniform.
He patted his side and legs but didn’t feel any pain. “Clark!” He looked around but couldn’t see anything through all the dust in the air. “Staff Sergeant Clark.” He coughed, trying to clear his mouth and throat. “Clark! Where are you?”
The dust began to clear. Off to his right sat a pair of boots, standing up as if someone had just left them there. They were Clark’s boots. Smoke drifted upward out of them. “Get off this ledge!” he yelled to his men. “The Taliban have it zeroed in!”
Jackson called for helicopter support and gave his perceived location of where the mortar fire originated. Within minutes, a UH-1N Huey attack helicopter with night-vision and heat-signature capability was dispatched to the scene. It took out the Taliban’s mortar position with prolonged .50-caliber bursts.
They got justice, but it wouldn’t bring Clark back. Sorrow rushed through him, but he pushed it down and locked it away… like he always did.
The next day, Jackson was in his hooch, lying on his rack, listening to Black Sabbath. Then, someone knocked on his door. “Come!”
“Lieutenant Jackson Trotman?” The man who entered had two silver bars on his uniform collar—a superior officer.
Jackson stood up. “Yes, sir.” He always tensed when a senior officer approached him.
“Navy Lieutenant Jerry Thompson.” Thompson smiled and held out his hand, which Jackson shook. “I’m one of the chaplains from Division. I heard you had a rough day out there yesterday. Would you like to talk about it?”
Jackson noticed the Bible tucked under his arm and chuckled. “Trying to save my soul, sir?”
“Well… ultimately, I guess, but I’m just here to help, to see if you need anything.”
Jackson studied him. Thompson was soft-spoken, black, about six-foot-two, two-twenty, with a kind face. “No, sir. I’m fine. Just a little on edge, I guess.”
“No problem. May I call you Jackson?”
“Yes, sir.” Thompson’s easygoing demeanor helped him relax.
Thompson read aloud from the hand-carved wooden plaque hanging from the foot of Jackson’s rack, “The brave do not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all.” He paused for a moment. “I like that. What’s it from?”
“The Princess Diaries movie.”
Thompson smirked and pointed to a footlocker across the room. “May I sit down?”
“Sure, sir.” Jackson crossed the room and surreptitiously stuffed the contraband Playboy and Penthouse magazines on top of it into the footlocker. Then, after sliding the footlocker over for the chaplain, he shuffled a few steps and plopped down on his rack.
Thompson’s grin returned for a moment, but then he sobered. “So, what happened out there last night?”
“Well, sir, an enemy mortar landed right next to me and blew my next-in-command to bits.”
“What was his name?”
“Clark, sir. Staff Sergeant Tom Clark.” Tears welled in Jackson’s eyes. “He was a good marine, sir.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“It all seems so incredibly random and stupid, sir. He had a wife and two little girls. Why him instead of me?”
“That’s a good question,” Thompson said once he’d sat down. “It just wasn’t your time yet, that’s all. God’s in control.”
“Ha! That’s a joke. How can you say that with all the random killing that goes on around here?”
Thompson leaned forward. “It’s not random. God has a plan for your life, and my life, and for everyone’s life.”
