The Dialogue

iUniverse, Inc.

Contents

Chapter 1 Tragic Encounter of a Military Convoy in Afghanistan.....................1Chapter 2 A Brief Biography of Two Enemy Soldiers..................................7Chapter 3 Training for War in Afghanistan..........................................25Chapter 4 Dialogue between Two Enemies.............................................31Chapter 5 Encounter at Dawn........................................................39Chapter 6 Rescue Mission which Saved John's Life...................................43Chapter 7 John's Rehabilitation in the United States...............................49Chapter 8 John Considers a New Political Career....................................63Chapter 9 John's Performance in Congress...........................................67Chapter 10 Outline of a Conflict Resolution Bill...................................71Chapter 11 John Returns to Afghanistan.............................................77

Chapter One

Fighter jets blanket the sky. F-14 Tomcats do the grunt work, pounding the enemy and weakening his resolve. F-15 Eagles add stealthy, tactical support, further disorienting their ragtag, but highly-trained, troops. Smoke from the Taliban's RPG7s and 82mm mortars, as well as the ISAF's Humvees and Bradleys, writhe together in an acrid and poisonous mélange. Dust from all this activity regularly clogs the motors and turbines of the multivariate war machines, impeding swift and efficient progress. It is slow going, and any real and lasting success seems, at best, illusory. Still, the convoy presses on. A jet precedes them, detonating the underground bombs and ordnance in their path. Despite this strategy, as the convoy negotiates a turn a series of IEDs explode and several Humvees are destroyed. First Lieutenant John Wagner and his junior officer brother, Peter, are amongst the casualties. In a phantasmagoria of semiconscious and unconscious stupor, John discerns the fleeting image of Peter regarding him with fraternal concern. Only when he finally regains full consciousness does he discover his brother's bloody corpse. Sensing his shaky equilibrium, he rushes into the nearby mountains and takes cover in a ditch. He clenches his MP5 submachine gun tightly and realizes it is jammed.

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn this place to hell." He suppresses his seething rage in a hiss.

Unbeknownst to John, a Taliban fighter by the name of Abdullah Gul is sheltering in a cave above and behind the ditch he is hiding in.

Left by himself, John is not only aware of the loss of his only sibling, but also the realization that this conflict has become his own personal war. He grew up hearing his father's stories of the Great War, and it had always seemed very real to him and his brother. But the truth was that all that happened a long time ago, and the intervening years had buried it. This war was here and now, and it belonged to Peter and him. Now it only belonged to him.

Poor Peter of the bright, sapphire eyes and dark mane, so like a medieval knight in appearance. John recalled his enthusiasm upon hearing of the new XM 25 rifle. It represented the cutting edge of American technology, a shoulder-fired weapon with a 25 mm load. Each unit cost $35,000 and fired a projectile with a computer chip embedded in it. A button on the side could incrementally add meters to the target range. Anything or anyone near its intended scope would be neutralized.

"This is the great equalizer, Johnny boy. I don't care what rabbit hole the target tries to hide in. They can't scurry fast enough before they get tagged."

In his coltish excitement, John remembered the breathless intensity his kid brother displayed when they played cowboys and Indians as little children. Even when their mother would call them in to supper, Peter seemed to still be lost in the game. It was as if the normal course of mundane life was just too boring for him. He probably would have been happy as a hero in a Sir Walter Scott novel. He would win the day by a combination of peerless skill and superior weaponry. He was just as anachronistic as his appearance.

Wars are no longer won through sophisticated technology. Wars are won in the hearts of the men who fight them. In today's landscape of protracted guerilla skirmishes and campaigns of attrition, there is no room for the military caricatures so popular in the past. This is particularly the case in a country like Afghanistan.

Afghanistan is slightly smaller than Texas. It has arid plains and high mountains because of the abundance of minerals, which according some authors, are "the best bet for beating opium". The country could be transformed into one of the world's mining centers.

The geography of this mountainous and rugged country makes fighting the enemy exceedingly difficult. Air bombs are useless unless they block the entrances to the caves the rebels often use for cover. Low-flying planes are vulnerable to strikes from surface-to-air missiles, mortars, and even machine gun fire. Convoys transit through tortuous, narrow roads that leave them prey to sudden rebel attacks and buried IEDs. This is the very reason that Afghanistan has so successfully resisted invaders even in modern times, when its people have faced advanced weaponry. Small groups of rebels are difficult to find and destroy. In addition, terror also acts as a disincentive. When members of the alliance forces are killed, their decapitated heads are often displayed, with or without their helmets, along the roadside to remind soldiers of the dangers and possible outcomes of their presence as invaders.

Wars against enemies fighting in deserts and flat terrains are relatively easy to prosecute, primarily by the use of fighter jets and drones. Ground forces can then sweep through and dominate a much-weakened resistance. On the other hand, wars against small tribal groups who take cover in familiar mountains and are used to Spartan meals and harsh weather conditions, to which invading armies are unaccustomed, are much more difficult to fight.

Human beings are designed to fight for survival. The Taliban are psychologically prepared to resist hunger, dust storms, extreme hot and cold environments, and, most significantly, fear. According to the Islamic religion, when one dies serving Allah and the faith, he will be generously rewarded in paradise.

It is not the same dynamic to defend your own family and country as it is to fight in a foreign land that does not represent an imminent threat, especially when the putative goals seem unjustified. It is well-nigh impossible to change a people's way of living, thinking, and being through war.

John was painfully aware of Afghanistan's land, the Taliban's way of fighting and the difficulty of changing people through war, even in his weakened state. In a state of passive lucidity, John's life flashed back to him, not so much as a frantic recap, but as a series of home movies.

Chapter Two

Fall 1987

It was after school. There was a matting of maple leaves that muffled the boys' numerous footfalls. John did not want to fight, but this was one of the more tiresome rituals of boyhood. Troy Green resented that John had not participated in the stealthy pilfering of candy bars from the school cafeteria. In small-town America, conformity is king. Troy decided John was being superior and challenged him to a fight. Normally, John would ignore mere taunts, but now these had escalated into assault. Obviously, Troy did not comprehend restraint. Now that fighting was inevitable, John decided he would wrestle Troy to the ground to avoid any serious damage. He hoped Troy's entourage of cohorts would remain spectators.

Troy approached John. "Who do you think you are, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes?" Troy was posturing, but he was also turning crimson.

John sighed. "Look Troy, cut the crap. It's no big deal. I wasn't going to tattle on you anyway. Let it go."

"Let it go?" Troy tossed his long red bangs to the left side of his head and looked for encouragement from his fans in classic WWE fashion. "What's the matter, John? You some kinda yellow belly?" This was met by yelping derision from the peanut gallery.

John shrugged. "All right. Let's get this over with."

Troy and John circled each other like cautious hyenas. Then like a wild boar, Peter came charging in a cloud of dry autumn leaves.

"You leave my brother alone, or I'll kill you all. I mean it." Peter scanned the playground with menacing eyes. His jugular vein was throbbing, and he was on the verge of tears. John looked pleadingly at his kid brother.

"Peter, please. Let me handle this."

The crowd, which initially found this amusing, became increasingly unsettled. Troy, the consummate entertainer, sensed the shift.

"Whoa. What's this? I didn't know this was a family reunion. What's the matter with your brother anyway, John? He some kinda retard?"

John glared. "Go to hell."

Troy waved his hands in dismissal.

"Nah, man. This is pathetic." He rejoined his schoolmates and left the yard in feigned mirth.

John reassured Peter that all was well. His seriousness and Peter's wildness were both seen as defects by the other, and thus, was a plea for protection.

Spring 1991

John looked around the auditorium and marveled at the tacky décor. Between the tin foil cut outs and the tinsel, it was positively nauseating. But for the pulsating soundtrack of the Pet Shop Boys, Duran Duran, and the other bands of the Second British Invasion, he would have thought he was attending a birthday party at an old folks home. He made his way through the strained laughter to a small group of giggling schoolgirls. Ever since he was a young boy, he had a special sense about girls. He could always tell, no matter how they acted outwardly, which ones truly cared, and which were disingenuous. In addition, some girls shone. Even in a crowd, they would be bathed in radiance. This was how he knew that Mary Hogan was the one. John had seen her in English class reciting Hamlet's soliloquy, as was required from all the students. She impressed him with her simple, unpretentious demeanor. She seldom wore any makeup, not needing any embellishment to her understated redheaded beauty. Whereas they had already spoken to each other casually, John felt the need for some clarification as to her intentions. Now he approached her and extended his left hand.

"May I have this dance, mademoiselle?"

Mary rose as if she were mounting the podium to accept an Olympic medal. "Mais, naturellment, monsieur. Vous ete tres sympathique."

"Merci." It was all John could think to say in his embarrassed discomfiture.

John and Mary waltzed incongruously to up-tempo tunes that were endemically unromantic. At first this evoked general ridicule from their fellow revelers. But this was followed, shortly thereafter, by belated admiration. They were quite the couple. As she sank her head onto his chest, a bouquet of gardenias rose from her braided tresses. John concentrated on keeping his footing as he found himself adrift.

"I just knew you were the one for me," he whispered hoarsely.

Mary smiled and continued dancing and humming to herself. Then she raised her head to face John.

"I knew too."

"How did you know?"

She framed his head with her uplifted hands.

"I could see it."

Winter 1995

The Mass had ended. The smell of incense lingered, lending a timeless, oriental quality to the rite. As they exited the church, the congregants solemnly boarded the waiting limousines. The tires rolling over the loose gravel sounded like a sad and desultory rain shower. By the time the funeral cortege wound its way through the gently undulating graveyard, John was troubled by an uneasy memory. At the funeral home, when John had approached his mother's casket to pay his last respects, he felt ambivalent. He, of course, knew that his mother no longer resided in that mortal frame that seemed to lie so oblivious to the surrounding mourners. Still, she seemed familiar and approachable, attired as she was in her favorite olive dress. He reached over to tap her cheek in lieu of a kiss, and became petrified. Her face was as solid as steel, apparently the effect of the formaldehyde used in preparing the body. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed his shock. As he looked at the assorted faces in various stereotypical poses, he could not help feeling like a participant in a grotesque masquerade. He had never felt so alone in his life.

Now, in the graveyard, while the minister recited the orations, John remarked his father's urgent stare. Peter was sulking moodily with his face averted from all those gathered, like Judas in some popular renditions of the Last Supper. During the burial, as the family took turns dropping roses on the coffin's lid, Anthony drew John aside. When they were a safe distance from the others, Anthony grabbed John firmly by the shoulders.

"Johnny boy, I'm going to need you to be strong, if only for Pete's sake."

John scowled at his father's halfhearted attempt at humor.

"Seriously, son. Look at me."

John could see that his father's serene blue eyes had taken on a stormy cast.

"Needless to say, your brother was very close to his mother. You were too, but he was her baby. She always felt there was something that was not quite right in the boy, and I suppose she was right. Still, I don't think mollycoddling him did him any good. I always told her she was spoiling him, but she was stubborn. It's one of the things I loved about her. Now, you know that boy never listened to me upwards of ten seconds without rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. You're the only one who can talk any sense to him. I've been noticing that he's taken to disappearing some nights, and it has me worried sick. I just don't want him running around with the wrong crowd."

John shrugged. "Who am I? My brother's keeper?"

Anthony mockingly remonstrated with his son, extending his right index finger.

"Now, Johnny boy, don't be quoting the world's most notorious fratricide. I'm beginning to think I'm losing you too."

Anthony knew this was not the case. No matter how much John tried to act rebelliously, it simply was not in his nature. He had always been a serious young man. For his part, John did not have the heart to tell his father, the chaplain, that Peter was not horsing around or joyriding, but rather had taken to visiting a house of ill repute in Cedar Rapids. John had gone with Peter once with disguised sangfroid. He did not want Peter to think he was judging him. He wanted to seem objective. And, from a clinical standpoint, he wanted to assess the general health of the staff. Naturally, the painted denizens of that questionable establishment greeted him with exaggerated warmth in their lavish attire. To John, they seemed like the faded queens of an old deck of cards. Still, that was the only thing that seemed to take the edge out of Peter's hurt, if only temporarily. And, of course, there was no danger of falling in love with those sad inhabitants of an alternate universe.

John shrugged his shoulders again as he faced his father, now bathed by the setting sun.

"What can I tell him? You know he has always seen me as a stick-in-the-mud."

Anthony smiled. "I trust you, Johnny boy. You'll know what to do. Remember what Saint Augustine said, `Love and do what you will.'"

John had joined the ROTC at the University of Iowa, and had been very proud to have been a part of the Mighty Hawkeye Battalion. He reminisced fondly of presenting the colors at the homecoming football game. Kinnick Stadium had been packed that cool and clear day. With a flicker in his heart, he sensed that his girlfriend Mary was watching him. This was not easy, as she herself was busy as a cheerleader. Once their eyes met and she winked coyly, her red hair framing her twinkling chestnut eyes. John felt a tingle like ice cream melting in his head. He felt right then that she would be his future wife.

Spring 1997

John tried not to strut as he greeted the assembled kith and kin who had come to congratulate him. He had graduated with honors and was bedecked in his full dress regalia. Anthony Wagner barreled his way through the crowd and gave his son a hearty bear hug.

"I'm so proud of you, Johnny boy, I could cry."

John snickered. "Please don't, Dad. You'll ruin my uniform."

Anthony shook with laughter and left to welcome the incoming guests.

Peter moodily remarked, "Watch out, Johnny. It's unseasonably warm outside. Your suit might catch fire."

John embraced his brother. "Come on, Peter. Be happy for me."

"All joshing aside, Johnny, you look like an officer and a gentleman. You better have a good speech ready," he said, motioning to the guests. "These folks know you're the preacher's son."

John grabbed Peter by the shoulders. "So are you, Peter. Never forget that. Remember what I told you about all this moral relativism you've been flirting with. It's no good pretending you're any worse than you truly are."

Peter guffawed. "There's a lot of truth in what you say, reverend. Just please don't cast me headlong into eternal perdition."

John smiled. "Seriously, Pete. Remember what Dad always says. It's a spiritual war out there. Just because you can't see the warring forces, doesn't mean they don't exist.

Peter was still feeling petulant. "Go on, fair knight. Fight the crusades and bring back some Saracen gold."

Peter was taken aback when John hugged him warmly.

"I've got all the gold I need right here with my family, thank you very much. Now remember, Pete, if you ever need anything, I'm still your older brother," John said.

Peter demurred and left the room, but not before John could notice the mist in his clear blue eyes.

Since finishing his education, John found a position as a history teacher in a Cedar Rapids high school. In addition to teaching and his duties in the Reserves, he was now happily married and consequently very occupied. Peter also joined the ROTC and, after a few false steps, eventually graduated. He had always been wild-spirited, and John always tried to steer his little brother in the right direction. Mercifully, working on the family farm seemed to temper him somewhat.

John's father, Anthony, had insisted that they all live together. He explained that there was plenty of room at the farm, and this was undoubtedly so. In addition to a five bedroom, two story, clapboard farmhouse, there were also 120 acres of corn and soybeans. He always said he'd seen enough of death and now he wanted to watch things grow. He was already an army chaplain now, having transcended the horrors of the Second World War. Being a man imbued with energy and a certain joie de vivre, he married late in life. His wife, Betty, would teasingly refer to him as her old man. She jokingly bemoaned her future state as a lonely widow. Ironically, it was she who preceded him to the grave, succumbing as she did to breast cancer.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Dialogueby Byron Daring Copyright © 2012 by Byron Daring. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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