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.She leaned toward him, speaking softly, “Can I get you anything, Mr.Zembeic?”He stared, his eyes filmy, then slowly moved his lips.“I’m so thirsty,” he whispered in a voice filled with pain.She reached to his bedside table and lifted a small plastic cup.Knowing he was too weak to suck, she put the cup to his lips and he slowly opened his mouth.She only poured in a few drops, but he started to choke and she had to pull the cup back.Putting it down, she grabbed a cotton swab and dipped it in the water, then placed it to his lips.He opened his mouth and she wet his tongue and lips, repeating the process until he was too tired to suck at the swab any more.His head fell to the side.“Thank you,” he said.“You’re welcome, Norm.Can I get you anything else?”He turned his head and stared at her a moment.“Can you bring me my son?”She shook her head sadly.“I’m sorry,” she said.The old man looked out the window.“I wish he was here,” he was barely able to say.“There are some things I would like to tell him…” His voice trailed off.“Tell me, Mr.Zembeic, and I will tell him for you.”“It’s nothing.Really nothing.”“Go ahead, sir.”“I wish I could tell him…that I have always been proud.”The nurse reached for his cold hand and held it tightly in hers.“I’ll tell him, Norm.I’ll tell him.I’ll make sure that he knows.”Norman Allen Zembeic passed away at 3:17 P.M.that same afternoon.After falling asleep a little after one, he simply never woke up.There were no final words, no long last looks or tearful good-byes, no holding or crying with his loved ones around him, and no grieving children standing with each other in the hall.He simply went to sleep and slipped away as peacefully as he had lived; quietly, easily, with no fanfare or fame.When the nurse came in to check on him he was already gone.She stared at him a moment, saying the same prayer she always did, then walked to his bed, turned his head so that he was facing the ceiling, crossed his hands on his chest, gently closed his eyes, then pulled the sheet up.Taking a step back, she slowly bowed her head, cursing the fact that no family was there.No man should leave this life without someone he loved by his side.No man should ever have to die by himself.She thought of Norm’s son, the soldier, and wondered where in this whole wide world he might be, what he was doing, and why he couldn’t come home?“Yes, Norm, he must be good,” she agreed with what the sick man had said.“I’m sure that he loved you.And I’m glad you were proud.”The agency made every effort to contact Peter about the death of his father, but under the circumstances it proved impossible.Lyangar AirfieldSouthern TajikistanCol.Shane Bradley hunched in the corner of his cell, naked, confused, angry, and alone.He wrapped his arms across his chest and shivered violently from the cold.He was hungry.And thirsty.So thirsty he thought he might die.His prison was a cement chamber in the basement, a dank and filthy room that hadn’t been occupied in years.There were no windows, no bars, and no hope for escape.The only light was a yellow beam that leaked through the crack under the steel door.As he stared at the light, a huge, sagging spider crawled under the crack and climbed up the wall.Angry rats squealed above him.Bradley looked up to see the flash of yellow teeth, long tails, and glaring red eyes.And he smelled death above him.Something was rotting up there.Colonel Bradley pushed himself to his feet and took a few careful steps.His throat burned and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth.He took another two steps, then began walking at a slow, steady pace.He had to keep going.He had to keep alive.After ten minutes, he stopped, feeling achy and weak.He needed some water or he was not going to survive.He walked a few minutes, then lay down and instantly fell asleep.Colonel Bradley woke with a start, his eyes darting wildly around the dark room.The steel door to his cell was suddenly pushed back and three guards, strong, and heartless, stood at the doorway and glared at him.They were all dressed the same; leather boots, tan fatigues and black billy clubs.One of the guards shined a flashlight in Bradley’s eyes and the colonel pushed himself to his knees and held his hands up to shield his face.The officer grunted in Urdu and the three men entered the room.“Water?” Bradley begged them.The men laughed at his suffering.“Water,” he begged in a dry voice again.“He wants water?” The leader mocked in heavily accented English.Unzipping his fly, he urinated on the floor as the other guards laughed and slapped their boss on the back.“Look at him,” the leader sneered, unable to hold his disgust.“Look at this American crawl on the floor.” He bent toward Colonel Bradley and spit a wad of phlegm in his face.Bradley reached up to wipe it and the Arab slapped his hand away.“Leave it, American.And stay down on the floor.” He towered over the pilot, challenging him.Bradley stared up with dry eyes, the wad of spit on his cheek.“You will die here, American, alone, in the dark.So don’t ask me for water unless you want more of my harre.There’s more of that, if you want it.” The guard started laughing again.“We’ll be back for you, American,” he sneered as he turned for the door.“I want to see Captain Lei,” Bradley demanded as the men walked away.“You have no right to keep us.We are United States officers.”The Arab stopped and turned back.“Believe me, American, I know who you are.” He stared at the pilot, spit again, then shut the cell door.Bradley crawled after him, lowering his face to the crack under the door.He lay there and listened until he was sure they were gone.“Captain Lei,” he whispered, calling out to the dark.“Captain Lei, are you there?”He turned his head and listened.“Tia, can you hear me!” he whispered again.But the dark remained silent and he cursed wearily.An hour later Angra strolled comfortably into the cell, his arms behind his back, his eyes heavy-lidded and dead.Two enormous, bearded guards escorted him on each side.Like the others, Angra was dressed in tan fatigues and black leather boots.A shoulder harness was strapped to his chest with a 9 mm Model 17 Glock tucked neatly inside, a weapon he had taken off a dead soldier early in the Afghanistan war and now wore with great pride, his first spoil of war.Bradley slumped weakly against the back wall.Angra threw him a thin pair of pants.“Get dressed,” he commanded.Bradley pulled on the pants, then stood, a defiant look on his face.Angra stared at the pilot.“You will kneel in my presence,” he commanded.Bradley shook his head.“I will stand,” he replied.The nearest guard cracked his nightstick savagely across Bradley’s knee.The bone cracked and Bradley went down with a groan, bending over and grabbing painfully at his leg before the guard kicked Bradley’s shoulder, rolling him onto his side [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.She leaned toward him, speaking softly, “Can I get you anything, Mr.Zembeic?”He stared, his eyes filmy, then slowly moved his lips.“I’m so thirsty,” he whispered in a voice filled with pain.She reached to his bedside table and lifted a small plastic cup.Knowing he was too weak to suck, she put the cup to his lips and he slowly opened his mouth.She only poured in a few drops, but he started to choke and she had to pull the cup back.Putting it down, she grabbed a cotton swab and dipped it in the water, then placed it to his lips.He opened his mouth and she wet his tongue and lips, repeating the process until he was too tired to suck at the swab any more.His head fell to the side.“Thank you,” he said.“You’re welcome, Norm.Can I get you anything else?”He turned his head and stared at her a moment.“Can you bring me my son?”She shook her head sadly.“I’m sorry,” she said.The old man looked out the window.“I wish he was here,” he was barely able to say.“There are some things I would like to tell him…” His voice trailed off.“Tell me, Mr.Zembeic, and I will tell him for you.”“It’s nothing.Really nothing.”“Go ahead, sir.”“I wish I could tell him…that I have always been proud.”The nurse reached for his cold hand and held it tightly in hers.“I’ll tell him, Norm.I’ll tell him.I’ll make sure that he knows.”Norman Allen Zembeic passed away at 3:17 P.M.that same afternoon.After falling asleep a little after one, he simply never woke up.There were no final words, no long last looks or tearful good-byes, no holding or crying with his loved ones around him, and no grieving children standing with each other in the hall.He simply went to sleep and slipped away as peacefully as he had lived; quietly, easily, with no fanfare or fame.When the nurse came in to check on him he was already gone.She stared at him a moment, saying the same prayer she always did, then walked to his bed, turned his head so that he was facing the ceiling, crossed his hands on his chest, gently closed his eyes, then pulled the sheet up.Taking a step back, she slowly bowed her head, cursing the fact that no family was there.No man should leave this life without someone he loved by his side.No man should ever have to die by himself.She thought of Norm’s son, the soldier, and wondered where in this whole wide world he might be, what he was doing, and why he couldn’t come home?“Yes, Norm, he must be good,” she agreed with what the sick man had said.“I’m sure that he loved you.And I’m glad you were proud.”The agency made every effort to contact Peter about the death of his father, but under the circumstances it proved impossible.Lyangar AirfieldSouthern TajikistanCol.Shane Bradley hunched in the corner of his cell, naked, confused, angry, and alone.He wrapped his arms across his chest and shivered violently from the cold.He was hungry.And thirsty.So thirsty he thought he might die.His prison was a cement chamber in the basement, a dank and filthy room that hadn’t been occupied in years.There were no windows, no bars, and no hope for escape.The only light was a yellow beam that leaked through the crack under the steel door.As he stared at the light, a huge, sagging spider crawled under the crack and climbed up the wall.Angry rats squealed above him.Bradley looked up to see the flash of yellow teeth, long tails, and glaring red eyes.And he smelled death above him.Something was rotting up there.Colonel Bradley pushed himself to his feet and took a few careful steps.His throat burned and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth.He took another two steps, then began walking at a slow, steady pace.He had to keep going.He had to keep alive.After ten minutes, he stopped, feeling achy and weak.He needed some water or he was not going to survive.He walked a few minutes, then lay down and instantly fell asleep.Colonel Bradley woke with a start, his eyes darting wildly around the dark room.The steel door to his cell was suddenly pushed back and three guards, strong, and heartless, stood at the doorway and glared at him.They were all dressed the same; leather boots, tan fatigues and black billy clubs.One of the guards shined a flashlight in Bradley’s eyes and the colonel pushed himself to his knees and held his hands up to shield his face.The officer grunted in Urdu and the three men entered the room.“Water?” Bradley begged them.The men laughed at his suffering.“Water,” he begged in a dry voice again.“He wants water?” The leader mocked in heavily accented English.Unzipping his fly, he urinated on the floor as the other guards laughed and slapped their boss on the back.“Look at him,” the leader sneered, unable to hold his disgust.“Look at this American crawl on the floor.” He bent toward Colonel Bradley and spit a wad of phlegm in his face.Bradley reached up to wipe it and the Arab slapped his hand away.“Leave it, American.And stay down on the floor.” He towered over the pilot, challenging him.Bradley stared up with dry eyes, the wad of spit on his cheek.“You will die here, American, alone, in the dark.So don’t ask me for water unless you want more of my harre.There’s more of that, if you want it.” The guard started laughing again.“We’ll be back for you, American,” he sneered as he turned for the door.“I want to see Captain Lei,” Bradley demanded as the men walked away.“You have no right to keep us.We are United States officers.”The Arab stopped and turned back.“Believe me, American, I know who you are.” He stared at the pilot, spit again, then shut the cell door.Bradley crawled after him, lowering his face to the crack under the door.He lay there and listened until he was sure they were gone.“Captain Lei,” he whispered, calling out to the dark.“Captain Lei, are you there?”He turned his head and listened.“Tia, can you hear me!” he whispered again.But the dark remained silent and he cursed wearily.An hour later Angra strolled comfortably into the cell, his arms behind his back, his eyes heavy-lidded and dead.Two enormous, bearded guards escorted him on each side.Like the others, Angra was dressed in tan fatigues and black leather boots.A shoulder harness was strapped to his chest with a 9 mm Model 17 Glock tucked neatly inside, a weapon he had taken off a dead soldier early in the Afghanistan war and now wore with great pride, his first spoil of war.Bradley slumped weakly against the back wall.Angra threw him a thin pair of pants.“Get dressed,” he commanded.Bradley pulled on the pants, then stood, a defiant look on his face.Angra stared at the pilot.“You will kneel in my presence,” he commanded.Bradley shook his head.“I will stand,” he replied.The nearest guard cracked his nightstick savagely across Bradley’s knee.The bone cracked and Bradley went down with a groan, bending over and grabbing painfully at his leg before the guard kicked Bradley’s shoulder, rolling him onto his side [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]