Days Like These

Note:First draft, any suggestions would be a great help!

Inspired by the tragic story of Matthew Trickett.

I jolt upright in bed. The acidic stench of cold sweat fills my nostrils, and the sheets stick to my skin. Rolling over, I look at my mobile. No messages. 3:04 am. Since returning home, I have been waking up with the same dream almost every night.

“Inshallah Allekum,” an Iraqi man says as he pours my tea. We laugh like old friends. He tells a story, the plot is vague, but what he is saying is very funny. Our weapons are leaning against the wall by the door. As he gets halfway into the story,  I realize I need to lunge over to the door, grab my rifle, and shoot my way out of the house. But I’m on the far side of the room with ten Iraqi men in my way. I stand up. Strong arms pull me back down. The men’s faces contort into anger as they realize I’m a traitor. That’s where I awake and am left a terrified mess.

The last time I talked about my dream was with the Marine’s exit counselor. He said, once a door is open, it can no longer be closed. I need to accept my dreams. I used to dream about being at school in my pajamas. But that was a dream that ended in embarrassment instead of violent death. The good ole days! A doctor at the Irving Street VA prescribed me antidepressants with no need to talk about my feelings. Wellbutrin keeps me functioning daytime, but it hasn’t stopped the nightmares. 

Jittery from the dream, I reach over to the nightstand and find the bottle there. I pour back what I think is about a half shot of Jim Beam. Then, exhausted from my relentless work hours, I slide back into a deep sleep.

I jolt awake again. Not a nightmare. It’s the sound of my mobile: Jocelyn. I pick up.

“Greg, get out of bed. I hope you’re not hungover?”

“No, ma’am.” My head is spinning from last night’s booze.

“Admiral Kyaw arrives today.”

I look at the time. 5:45am. The jobs with normal working hours didn’t work out. Working as a barista isn’t a good setup when all you know how to talk about is guns and IEDs. In private security, they don’t expect you to chatter with the customers, which works for me.

The sun was barely peeping over the horizon as I stand at Dulles Airport, awaiting Admiral Kyaw. I nod at airport security. Ex-military, we recognize each other instantly–buzz cuts, alert posture. It’s a silent camaraderie that gets me farther in my current job than any security clearance.

My client doesn’t come out of immigration until 10am. Jocelyn told me Admiral Kyaw is on the watch list as a government official of a US sanctioned country. Probably the only government official they could send to America who wouldn’t be immediately arrested for war crimes. My task? Keep him safe. My current employer, Security Solutions, has a contract with the Myanmar Embassy. We shuttle their diplomats back and forth between the Myanmar embassy in DC and appearances at the UN in New York. 

When the Admiral finally emerges from immigration, he looks unassuming—a middle-aged Asian man who blends into the crowd. Wouldn’t want to have to locate him in Chinatown. 

“Good morning Admiral Kyaw,” I say as I open the back door of our bulletproof GMC Yukon. He nods. After we get in and secure the doors, I go through our protocol. What to do in a shooting. What to say if we are stopped by the police. His interpreter explains it in his native language, and the Admiral nods at me. It’s obvious that he understands what I’m saying in English.

It’s a 3-hour drive to Manhattan and I keep my sense sharp, checking my six every ten seconds. A car trailed us for about an hour before it veered off in Philly. Maybe I’m being paranoid. At hour later, we arrive at the UN on 1st Avenue. I open the door for them, and then Admiral Kyaw and his assistant sign in at reception. Finally, I can breathe a sigh of relief. The other drivers study me, a few with disdain in their eyes when they spot the Myanmar flag on the dashboard. They don’t know the half of it.

An Agent Jackson gave me an unexpected call last week. The FBI wants me to come in for questioning; he said. Jocelyn advised against it. “Say no,” she urged. “It’s a lose-lose situation.” She explained how they needed a warrant.

“But it feels wrong to say no to my own government after 8 years in the Marines.”

“It’s not your government, it’s just a bean counter who works for the government for wants to make a name for himself. Do you want to spend the next two years testifying in court?”

“No, I just want to do my job.” But I know it’s not that simple. It’s like the trolley problem and I’m on the wrong side. Protecting a military leader accused of genocide.

I wait for the Admiral to finish the afternoon session at the UN. Sitting in the SUV parked in the sun; the interior grows warm and stuffy. Lulled by the heat, I begin to doze off. Without having a commanding officer to bust my ass, my vigilance wanes. The world blurs, and I drift off.

“We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of–” an FBI agent says to me.

I snap awake, heart pounding. I’m behind the steering wheel of the Yukon. I look for who’s speaking to me. But there’s no one there. I wipe my brow with a handful of tissues, wiping away the evidence of my panic. The air conditioning hums to life, pushing back the heat. I prepare myself for the 3-hour drive back to DC, and another restless night before doing it all over again tomorrow.