A Less Perfect Union Read online

  A LESS PERFECT UNION

  By Goodwin Reed

  Copyright 2014 Goodwin Reed

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Lena Goldfinch (Stone Lily Design)

  Cover image (c) Ben Schumin (American Flag, modified)

  Edited by Janet Hitchcock

  www.theproofisinthereading.wordpress.com

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owners except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bible quotes from King James Bible.

  Author Contact:

  Website: www.goodwinreed.weebly.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/goodwinreedauthor

  Dedication

  To defenders of freedom

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Liberty’s bell rings.

  Echo fades

  like a dying heart

  beating its last moments.

  The world grieves,

  but a new beast arrives

  to cinch the hoods tighter

  over ignorant eyes,

  keeping the secrets

  that make the machine run.

  For in revelation,

  there is question.

  An open door

  gives birth to a path.

  Only by taking a step

  will we shed false bliss

  and make a change,

  but the change may not be

  the one we expected.

  I am concerned for the security of our great Nation; not so much because of any threat from without, but because of the insidious forces working from within. ~ Douglas MacArthur

  * * *

  Chapter One

  Private First Class Thomas Faywood didn’t like the color of the sky. His grandmother had always warned him about black clouds in the morning.

  Death weather, Tommy.

  If that were true, the clouds over the Yemeni capital of Sanaa were about to unleash something truly fatal. Thick and roiling with occasional crackles of lightning, they were darker than any clouds Tommy had ever seen. Not at all like the cotton ball puffs that used to drift across the wide expanse of blue sky over his family’s South Carolina ranch. He pictured his wife, Diana, sitting cross-legged in the grassy field behind one of the barns. In her lap, she cradled Adam, the six-month-old son he only knew from photographs. Diana would turn those oddly-shaped clouds into seahorses, unicorns, and fire engines for their son, just as she’d done for Tommy. Though for him, she’d said they were hearts, flowers, and two naked lovers. He’d especially enjoyed that last one.

  Diana wouldn’t like these clouds over his head now.

  He fished a picture of Diana and Adam out of his camouflage vest. His son had Diana’s round blue eyes, but the rest of that baby’s face was all Tommy. With fair skin, a small nose, blond hair, and slightly uneven ears, Adam was definitely a Faywood. Tommy hoped he’d get to see his son before the kid got his driver’s license. He wanted his boy to know who his daddy was.

  At over a year in Yemen, Tommy was due for a reprieve soon.

  Not soon enough.

  Now he fell into step with the rest of his squad as they traveled down the main road through the Sanaa Bazaar. Full of pottery, food, cloth, and other handicrafts, the marketplace was busy with locals selling their wares. The steady buzz of people, despite the coming foul weather, made Tommy wonder what the army was still doing in this part of Yemen. He knew trouble spots existed, but his platoon had not seen much action in the areas around Sanaa. Not for weeks now. Things were quiet, and though he should have been thankful for that, he couldn’t help but feel a little useless. How many times were he and his fellow soldiers going to circle the city in full gear, garnering untrusting glares from the locals they were trying to protect?

  Protect from what? their eyes always asked.

  Tommy didn’t exactly have a solid answer to that question and that bothered him. He went where the United States Army deployed him. He did his job as ordered, but shouldn’t the reasons be more than abstract ideals like democracy and worse, revenge?

  A rumble of thunder quickened his step as he followed the private in front of him. Snaking between colorful woven carpets hanging on display and fluttering in the stirring wind, he kept a firm grasp on his weapon. Loud voices rose from a corner of the bazaar, and immediately his squad headed for that section. Tommy didn’t catch all of the angry words two buyers exchanged, but he’d heard enough to recognize a spark in a powder keg.

  He stepped out from behind the private in front of him, but as soon as his boot hit the ground, an explosion blasted his ears. Pain, burning hot and raw, ripped through his legs. Tore flesh from muscle, muscle from bone, bone from body. His legs were shredded as the force of the improvised explosive device sent his body sailing through the air. He landed in the dirt a few meters away. Several additional detonations deafened him along with the intertwined screams of the fallen as rubble mixed with a steadily falling rain. Tommy tried to reach for his weapon, but his arms were no longer a part of him. He wondered where that pain had gone.

  Why didn’t he feel that his arms were blown off?

  He managed to lift his head and caught sight of bodies—mangled pieces of bodies—strewn about the bazaar, both privates and civilians. Something warm and wet spilled out of his abdomen, and he soon realized it was his intestines.

  Dropping his head back to the ground, Tommy looked up at the sky.

  Black clouds.

  Grandma was right.

  Blood gurgled in his throat, choking him. He heaved in a strained breath as fat raindrops splattered his face, but he couldn’t exhale it. As his final moments of life slipped away, Tommy saw his son. Adam rested his tiny head on what remained of Tommy’s shoulder. He blinked at Tommy with Diana’s eyes.

  Daddy.

  Although only in his mind, the sound of his son’s voice allowed Tommy to close his eyes and surrender to the darkness.

  ****

  “… causing both economic hardship and devastation to Yemeni infrastructure. Innocent civilians in war-torn Sanaa, trying to carry on with daily life, blame the presence of United States forces for the loss of civilian life. General Charles Easley—in charge of American and coalition forces—has refused to comment. To date, roadside bombings have been the biggest cause of casualties in this war. I’m Sheridan Taylor with IHN News.”

  Pastor Roy Campbell strolled into his living room on the way to the dining room when his son, Matthew, who was watching television, stopped him.

  “Daddy, what’s a casualty?”

  One glance to the television had Roy mumbling under his breath. Reaching over the back of the couch, he grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. “What do you think it means?” No sense in giving the boy more information than was necessary.

  “It’s got something to do with war, right?” Matthew swiveled around on the couch to lean his elbows on the back.

  Roy nodded once.

  “Is it dead people?” The boy’s eyes we
re huge blue pools, the same shape as Roy’s but darker.

  Smoothing Matthew’s tousled blond hair, Roy said, “Dead or wounded.”

  “Isn’t killing wrong, Daddy?”

  “Most of the time, yes. Very wrong.” Roy glanced at the television as if that news reporter were still there. “But sometimes it’s necessary to get rid of evil.” He knew Americans were over there in Yemen to take down Ayala Kahil who fit Roy’s definition of evil. He didn’t think the government was going about it the right way, but that was what happened when liberal northerners were in charge.

  “Can’t the evil people stop what they’re doing and pray for forgiveness?” Matthew apparently had been listening to Roy’s sermon at service this morning.

  “I suppose they could, Matty, but they have to want to be forgiven.”

  “Maybe I should pray for them.” The boy hopped off the couch to follow Roy into the dining room.

  “Maybe you should.” Roy patted his son on the shoulder as Matthew settled into his seat at the table.

  Roy’s other two sons, Justin and Mark, and two of his three daughters, Sherrie and Sarah, were already seated. His wife, Lizzie, came out of the kitchen toting the last two dishes of the regular Sunday feast. The best meals in South Carolina were right there in the Campbell’s dining room. Fresh lemonade had been poured for the kids while Roy poured a little red wine into the adults’ glasses. He looked forward to these Sunday dinners. They reminded him of the way things had run in the house he’d grown up in. His mama always made sure the food was abundant and delicious, and his father forever had some exciting tale to share. After church, he and his brothers would change out of their Sunday clothes, eat as if storing up for a long, hard winter, and then race each other down to the lake or scare up a bunch of other kids to play baseball.

  Looking around the table, Roy was pleased to see he and Lizzie were raising a family as well as his parents had. His children were well-versed in scripture and respectful. He’d done his best to keep needless technology, liberal ideas, violence, and the like away from his family. Nothing but old-fashioned values and spirituality for his brood.

  “Where’s Julie?” Roy narrowed his eyes and pointed to the empty chair next to Sarah.

  None of the children answered, and Lizzie busied herself with doling out mashed potatoes.

  “Maybe she didn’t hear you call her.” He stood and walked to the stairs leading to the second floor. “Julie, time for dinner!”

  When no reply came, he turned back to the dining room. “Somebody must know where she is.” He leaned toward Sherrie. “I believe the commandment states ‘honor thy father.’ Doesn’t make a mention of thy sister, now does it?”

  “She’s out.” Sherrie’s voice was barely a whisper. The other children sat rigid in their chairs, all those blue eyes tracking Roy’s movements.

  “Out? Out where? It’s Sunday. Every one of you knows this is where the Campbell family is at precisely one o’clock every Sunday afternoon. No exceptions.”

  A chorus of “Yes, Dad” followed. That settled Roy some and he sat again. Good to know some members of the family had not forgotten their places.

  “Was she at service with you all?” Roy sometimes lost track of his family at church. They each had jobs to do like greeting or singing, and he was busy handling his congregation. At about three hundred families, Christ Arising Church had lots of people who needed Roy’s prayers or his guidance.

  “Julie wasn’t with us today,” Lizzie said quietly.

  All food had ceased moving around the table, and the simple thought that their dinner was getting colder by the second aggravated Roy. The fact that one of his children was making it cold only fanned his irritation.

  “What is so pressing she can’t make it to church or to dinner?” His hands folded and unfolded his napkin.

  “She’s just with a friend, Roy.” The words rolled out of Lizzie as if it were a perfectly natural occurrence that one of their children would be out without him knowing. He made the decisions in the Campbell family … and Lizzie too.

  But mostly him.

  He could feel his pulse beat in his neck as he rolled his shoulders slowly. “Does this friend have a name?”

  “Zachary.” Sarah clamped a hand over her mouth while the other children stared at her.

  “Roy, listen,” Lizzie started, but Roy was already up from the table and heading for the front door.

  “No daughter of mine is going to miss Sunday service and dinner for a … for a boy. Participation in this family is not optional.”

  Lizzie came up behind Roy and rested her hand on his forearm as he opened the door. “She just wanted to—”

  “I know perfectly well what she wanted to do, and she isn’t going to do it. This is how it starts, Lizzie.”

  “How what starts?” She lowered her brows.

  “Sin.”

  He slammed the door behind him and marched to his pickup truck. If he had to drag Julie back home by her long, blond ponytail, he’d do it. Family came first. Family and wise decisions. If he didn’t have order in his own house, what did he have? Nothing. He had nothing. It only took a pull on a single thread to make everything unravel.

  The country was a perfect example of that. Put a liberal like President Henry Solomon in charge and next thing you knew your six-year-old son was asking about casualties. Solomon and the Democratic Congress were making a royal mess. Legalizing stem cell research, abortion, marijuana.

  What was next?

  It wasn’t just about crooked politicians or scandals in the White House anymore. Now they were committing atrocities against God.

  Roy’s God.

  What happened to the America that used to proudly make its own products and employ its own citizens? The America that placed the traditional family unit in high regard? The America that knew God?

  Where was that America?

  ****

  Desert sand crunched between United States General Charles Easley’s teeth as he huddled over a crudely drawn map of the Salivizad hideout. They finally had some concrete intel that Ayala Kahil was most likely inside the labyrinth of caves depicted on the map. Easley prepared to assemble a special-ops team to find the head of the snake and cut it off.

  He expected one of two outcomes.

  The first found his people victorious in capturing the Salivizad leader who had landed on America’s most wanted list when she brazenly led a siege on Washington D.C. She’d assembled an international group of terrorists with a singular, unifying purpose—to bring the United States to its red, white, and blue knees.

  In response to an off-hand comment from Secretary of State LeAnne Williams that “Islamic women are too passive” and that “they should cast off their burqas and flog their husbands with them,” the Salivizad organization had produced a female commander to give the Western infidels a taste of Islamic Jihad. Anti-American sentiment was at an all time high across the globe, and Kahil had known when to strike. Easley would never forget the sight of the White House consumed by flames on the fourth of July like a twisted fireworks display. That had been Kahil’s doing, and Easley and the United States military found themselves in the middle of another fucking Middle Eastern mess.

  The second possible outcome—the more likely outcome—made something harden in Easley’s stomach. In this scenario, the troops he planned to send into the snake’s den never make it out again. Easley was no stranger to casualties. He was surrounded by them every damn day out in that blazing desert sun, but these soldiers were somebody’s sons and daughters, husbands and wives, nieces and nephews, mothers and fathers. Hell, Easley’s own son, Paul, was in the military. Luckily, Paul was stationed back in the states, but he wouldn’t be able to keep him there for long.

  “What are you thinking, Charles?” Lieutenant General Jason Rideman asked.

  Too many things. Easley turned his dark eyes toward the other officer. Together they had seen too much death, too little support, and an historic unraveling of Am
erican resolve. He only had one choice. One.

  A focused ground assault.

  Easley crumpled the edge of the map with his fingers. When he opened his hand, specks of sand lined the creases of his coffee-colored palm. Would he ever be truly rid of the grit?

  “There’s no other option, is there?” he asked.

  “We’ll have to get our hands dirty.” Rideman shook his head as he kicked dust off his boots.

  “Assemble a team.” Easley rubbed his forehead in an attempt to stop the headache that plagued him daily.

  With a nod, Rideman jogged away to relay the order as Easley ducked into his command center. Tucked into a state-of-the-art, military-grade tent the color of Arabian Desert sand, the command center was well camouflaged. Far enough away from the fighting—too far Easley thought on many occasions—the tent housed communications equipment as well as living quarters for the general. It wasn’t his house in Massachusetts, but it was his fortress while he was in charge of U.S. troops in this unforgiving wasteland.

  In his private quarters, Easley changed into a fresh T-shirt, not able to resist the urge to tuck it into his camouflage cargo pants, though the temperature was scorching outside. Back in the command center, he leaned over the shoulders of a few soldiers manning stations then headed back out into the blazing sun to meet the team Rideman had gathered.

  Instead, Rideman ran to meet the general and held out a tablet. “Another attack.”

  “Casualties?”

  “The entire squad.”

  Easley used his thumb to scroll through the small text on the screen. Another roadside bombing. This time in Sanaa. A squad of privates and yet more civilians slaughtered by an improvised explosive device hidden in a garbage can in the Sanaa Bazaar.

  More bodies. Every day. They never stopped piling up. And the insurgents weren’t just targeting main roadways anymore. Anywhere people traversed was a possible location.

  Wanting to hurl the tablet as far as he could or smash it to bits with his bare hands, Easley said, “I used to think we were fighting for freedom.”