Threatcon Delta by Andrew Britton Read Free Book Online

bait. That was exactly what she’d been trying to ascertain.
    “It’s just down this hall,” he said, and began to turn a corner. She put a hand on his arm to stop his stride, then faced him in the hall.
    “What does the psychologist think about it?”
    “She’s refused to summarize her assessment until after this last session.”
    “Any reason why she’d be swayed one way or another?”
    “Well,” Sutter thought. “I think she’s starting to feel guilty.”
    “For what?”
    “Ma’am, have you heard of the controversy about General George Patton’s treatment of a certain soldier in 1943?”
    “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “A battle-fatigued private in Sicily was refusing to go back to the front, so Patton slapped him across the face. Patton was relieved of combat command for a year for it. I’ve heard Major Dell, the chaplain’s psychologist, refer to our pharmaceuticals as a ‘slap.’ ”
    Dina nodded. “The Army Medical Corps doesn’t have the time or personnel to handle all the PTSD—”
    “Experienced by one in four soldiers in Iraq.”
    “So they medicate.”
    “One-third are back on the field in a week. One-half are back within a month.”
    “And it’s wearing on her. On you, too.”
    The lieutenant general looked shocked, vulnerable. Then he sealed the enamel back on. “Major Dell is part of a team that we all are hoping can find a better answer.”
    “Good, thank you for informing me of her perspective. What medications has she prescribed for the chaplain?”
    “None.”
    “None at all? Has anyone prescribed anything for him?”
    “He hasn’t appeared to need any.”
    “After sixteen years in Iraq?” Dina’s eyebrows rose.
    “In the worst of situations and through repeated traumatic crises, yes, ma’am.”
    Dina’s eyebrows remained raised as she walked with the lieutenant general down the corridor.
    “If there’s a crash coming for him . . .” she started.
    “It’ll be off the charts,” Sutter finished her thought.
    He stopped her at the psychologist’s door. She assembled a neutral face before he knocked.
    During the introductions, Dina casually but openly regarded Chaplain Major Phair. He was nearly six feet tall, with a slight slump in his shoulders. He was shaved and groomed, his salt-and-pepper hair cut close. He was a little thin, as one might expect after all he’d been through. There was caution in the slow but constant movement of his eyes, which was also to be expected. He had not been among fellow Americans, or military protocol, for a long time. His shake was gentle, also to be expected from a pastor. His hands were badly calloused and that was a surprise to Dina. The lieutenant general excused himself and the majors sat down opposite each other while the agent sat to one side.
    “We’re going to be talking at greater length in the States,” the psychologist said to Phair, “but I wanted to give us one more chance to meet here before we go back.”
    She likes him, Dina thought. But she also gave credit to Maj. Amanda Dell, a dark-haired woman with congenital shadows around her eyes, for being shrewd. A patient with the feel of a beloved place around him can remember more details, or drop his guard, however one preferred to view it.
    “How long have you been here?” Phair asked the psychologist.
    “Three years.”
    He considered her answer. “That’s a long time, if you don’t want to be in a place.”
    “Indeed it is,” she said. “I can’t wait to go home. What about you?”
    “I miss my friends,” he offered.
    “In America?”
    He smiled. “My friends are all here.”
    There was a strange, halting quality to his voice. He had mostly spoken just Arabic and dialects for years.
    Major Dell made notes in a folder that lay open on her desk. Nothing was keyed into computers during sessions. The electricity was too unreliable.
    Dina wondered if she was writing about his expressions of belonging and longing. Those were two of the three qualities