“Thank you, sir, for the suggestion, but I’m set on going Special Forces.”
He sighs deeply and rubs his face.
“Look Malone, I’m going to level with you. Your scores are good. You can qualify for just about any job we have available right now. However, if I put you in as an 18x, and you fail, which in all likelihood, you will. You are going to end up being a cook, because that’s what the army really needs right now.”
“I’m willing to take the risk. Besides if I did fail, which I won’t, I like food. I could be a cook.”
“It’s a shit job, with shit hours! Use your brain kid!”
“Respectfully sir, if there is anyone on this planet who can make it through Special Forces, it’s me. It is what I am meant to do, and I won’t settle for anything else.”
He stares hard at me for a minute, and I stare back at him, with raised eyebrows, refusing to squirm.
Finally, he looks to his computer and starts typing. Within two minutes a pack of papers is printed out. He stands up and walks around his desk with the papers and a pen.
“Sign, here, and here and initial here by the 18x.”
He makes copies of the papers I just signed and initialed, and hands them to me.
“Here you go Malone. This is your copy of your contract. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I have been hearing that a lot lately, sir.”
“Maybe you should have considered that. Now, get out of my office. Follow the blue line to room 14F, and wait to be sworn in.”
A short walk across the building takes me to room 14F. It is a big room filled with desks, and at the front of the room is a wooden podium. Behind the podium is a giant U.A. flag and next to it, on a flagpole is the southern division flag. I take a seat with all the other recruits and wait. An hour later an army sergeant walks in and we swear our allegiance to the U.A. I say the words not really hearing them or thinking about their implications. I know this part of my life, is a means to an end. The world is volatile, and my country no longer has any regard for justice or liberty. Nevertheless, if a change can be made, it will only be possible from the inside. If change isn’t possible, then at least I will acquire the skills I need to save the woman with the black hair, and the others.
After swearing in we are released and told report back to MEPs for the ship out date listed on our contracts. My mind races as I flip through my contract to find my ship out date. I assumed I would be leaving immediately from MEPs. On the last page of my contract, I see my ship out date is one week from today. My heart sinks as I realize I am going to have to call Mrs. Taylor to get a ride back to Elizabeth. I can stay in the fort for a week, but Elizabeth is the last place I want to be. I’m lost in my slightly panicked thoughts when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up to find Omar smiling at me, behind him is a couple, probably in their late forties.
“Fin, these are my parents Basheer and Najma.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Rasul, it’s nice to meet you.”
We shake hands in a warm greeting, and exchange pleasant-ries. It doesn’t take long to see where Omar gets his agreeable disposition. His parents radiate kindness and affection for their son. After a few minutes of conversation, Omar and I realize we are shipping out on the same day, though flying to different states for basic training. He is going to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, whereas I am going to Fort Benning, Georgia.
“So, what are you going to do with your last week of freedom?”
I look at Omar somewhat embarrassed. “To be honest, I assumed I would be leaving immediately from MEPs. I didn’t plan on having a week to kill.”
Omar looks over at his parents for a second.
“It’s settled then. You should come, stay at our house.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t impose.”
Mr. Rasul shakes his head. “It is not an imposition; you are welcome in our home.”
Mrs. Rasul gives me a reassuring nod and places her hand on Omar’s shoulder. “You must come Fin, or you will hurt little Omar’s feelings.”
I can’t hold back a chuckle. “Well, I wouldn’t want to hurt little Omar’s feelings.”
To which Omar responds with a long-suffering sigh. His parents both smile and we make our way out of the building. It is only a short drive to Omar’s house nestled in a quiet middle-class neighborhood in Shreveport. When we step into the house, we are greeted by two young girls with thick, shiny black hair.
“These are my sisters, the evil twins, Aaminah and Akilah.” Omar affectionately teases his sisters.
Mrs. Rasul makes her way to the kitchen, while Omar shows me around the house. I try not to appear shocked as I peek inside what I assume is some sort of Muslim prayer room. My knowledge of religion is rudimentary, at best. I don’t know the history of all the
