Daisy Chain

Daisy Chain - Chapter one

James. Do you copy?  James! We need you back here do you copy?

Copy that. Gimme a minute Sanborn. Looking into something.

Staff Sergeant William James has his M4 jammed into his shoulder, the sun in his eyes, and Sanborn still bleating in his ear.

What do you have Blaster one? Is there a threat?

I don’t know yet. Maybe nuthin’.

Give me your location. Do you copy?

He doesn’t reply. He’s following a noise he heard - an odd sound - like sails billowing in the wind.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe something.

Maybe oblivion though something tells him not this time. Not yet. But he has to push towards it. Always. He’s aware that his compulsion breaks Connie’s heart. Is ruining their marriage. Not that they’re married anymore.

He rounds the corner into a quiet Baghdad back alley. The sun is directly in front of him - relentless - casting everything ahead into silhouette. He furrows his brows to get rid of the flies and proceeds - careful footsteps scraping in the sand. He can see the shape of a car blocking most of the width of the alley.  There is movement on the bonnet.

Only one, he thinks but there might be more. Adrenalin is firing through him and he fucking lives for that but he knows he should call for back up. The sun moves behind a building as he gets closer and he blinks to clear his vision. He stops where he is and settles the M4 a little better into position. He can handle one insurgent and he’s still far enough away to get out of there if there’s more.

“Get down, get on the ground. Get your hands up!” he barks orders to the figure on top of the car.  

“Don’t panic soldier.”

He blinks. The figure has a well spoken, English accent. Feminine. He can see her outline now. She looks slender. She looks naked. What the hell is going on?

“Get down on the ground now or I will shoot you. I will shoot you in the head.”

“I don’t think you want to do that.”

She’s perched on the bonnet of a beat up Audi like she’s at a fucking polo match or something - long brown hair swept across one shoulder, knees raised up with her arms draped across them. Her pale skin says she’s western and she has eyes that’s he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t even be able to make out from this distance but their vivid, golden colour seems like the only thing that’s really alive in this sun-bleached trash alley.

She is as naked as the day she was born. Sitting on a car bonnet in the back street of a goddamned war zone. His mind skips through all the possibilities - she could be a mercenary or a westerner that’s been radicalised? But why naked - it seems like a trap.  Social conditioning has brought him up to believe that a naked woman is not going to be a threat - that she should need his protection but his experience and instincts know this whole situation isn’t right. She shouldn’t be here and she doesn’t look like she needs anyone’s protection - there’s no hint of vulnerability - she sits with her ankles crossed on the hood like she’s just exactly where she wants to be.

“Get down from the fucking car. Put your hands behind your head or I will shoot you!” 

Why won’t she listen dammit? Is she crazy?

“I’m really comfortable where I am to be honest.” 

This is not how it goes. It’s fucked up. It’s fucked up and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s weirded out enough to call Sanborn.

This is Blaster one. Blaster Mike do you copy? Sanborn? I need backup I’ve got something

But all he gets in return is static and a broken word or two.

He’s conflicted but he knows his job. As much as loves being close to oblivion - his M4 is still raised and it’s pointing at her.

“Ma’am this is not a fucking tea party I need you to get down off the car and kneel down with your hands behind your head. Now. Or I will fire. I will fire.” 

He has to make a call. He has to. He really doesn’t want to shoot an apparently unarmed, naked woman.

Silence hangs in the shimmering heat - sweat runs down his neck and inside his collar as his finger uncurls then relaxes back against the trigger. 

Time stretches to breaking point then, thank the Lord, she utters an annoyed sigh and steps down. He sees the puff of sand as her knees hit the dirt and her hands clasp behind her head. Sergeant James exhales and steps closer.

"Ma’am are you in trouble? Are you wired? Is there a bomb on you…?" 

His voice is pitched lower and softer now and he looks over her for injuries - signs of abuse. He’s heard of surgically implanted bombs - seen body bombs. He knows of devices placed into breast implants and his eyes travel up and down the kneeling woman but he sees no wounds and her breasts look natural to him. 

His eyes don’t linger - nothing about this situation is sexual. 

He wishes he had a jacket or something to cover her with.

Sanborn, do you copy? godfuckingdammitt!

The empty hiss of the radio tells him he is on his own.

”…is there a bomb in the car?“ He walks around the vehicle but his experienced eye sees nothing.

"There’s no bomb, Sergeant. Can I put my hands down now?” she asks as if she’s requested he pass the sugar. 

His eyes are still scanning his surroundings - alert for any changes - any signs of a potential threat and eventually they come back to rest on the kneeling woman.

 "Where are your clothes ma’am? What happened to you?“ 

Her skin is flawless and he believes she’s telling the truth. He’s checked everything short of a full cavity search.  

"Nothing happened to me, I’m fine, the nakedness is just…an occupational hazard. Of sorts.” She gives a little shrug. 

“Are you a prostitute? Have you been trafficked?”

“Neither of those…”

“Then who the fuck are you? “ He has moved round in front of her again and he needs answers because none of this makes any fucking sense. “Who the fuck… are you? Because you are very fucking calm for a naked lady in the middle of a war zone.”

“I know, I know. There’s asking for trouble and there’s begging right? So…would you believe… your fairy godmother?”

“No I fucking wouldn’t.”

“Genie of the lamp?”

“I don’t have a lamp, ma’am.”

“Good point, Will.”

The muzzle of the M4 suddenly presses hard into her forehead. “I did not tell you my name.”

“No you didn’t…”

“Stay down. Stay. Down!”

But she ignores him and she’s rising to her feet slowly, hands up and open- pushing the gun barrel to one side. Looking at him with those eyes like she can see into his goddamn shitty mess of a soul and he thinks he sees falling stars when he looks back in to them. 

“I came here to find you, Will. You’re not at all what I thought you’d be …”

James do you copy where are you what’s going on?

His radio crackles into life

“Uh.”

He drags his eyes away, turns and glances back down the alley for a split second as if he expects to see Sanborn come around the corner and when he looks back she’s gone -  as if she’d never been there at all.

He blinks.

“James what the fuck are you doing? What did I tell you about turning your radio off?”

Sanborn does come around the corner and finds James standing there with his mouth open. James is never at a loss - the cocky little shit always knows his next move but right now, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“You okay, man?”

“Slap me. I need you to slap me, JT.”

Sanborn knows his team leader. It’s not the first time he’s hit him and he doesn’t need to be asked twice.

“Okay,” he shrugs and obliges.

Will’s head snaps around at the force and he works his jaw to loosen it as his gaze rolls upwards then drops towards the ground.

“Feel better? What happened here, Will?”

“Thought I saw a naked woman.” He regrets saying it the minute the words start to come out of his mouth and he tries to make it a joke though his eyes stay fixed on the ground. “Naked, british woman.”

"Well damn, where’d she go?”

“Back into my dreams I guess.”

“Thats real cute an all but and we have a job to do so let’s go.” Sanborn believes Will is bullshitting and shakes his head as he walks away. 

Will scuffs the toe of his boot over the outline of a bare foot in the sand then lifts his head and follows.

Back at the base, Beckham is kicking his ball around in the dust and Will drains his coke and calls him over with the hook of a finger.

“Hey, kid. You know of any british women in the area?”

“I get you DVD’s with women. Lots of women.”

“No, kid, you know - a real live woman. A white british woman….” he hesitates then adds, “…naked. She might be wandering around with no clothes on. ”

He thinks Beckham is just going to try and sell him more porn but the kid cocks his head as if he’s thinking.

“Rukk?”

“What? What’s Rukk?”

“Rukk.” Beckham wafts his arms in a flapping motion like a bird and his mouth shapes itself into an O to make the accompanying noise.

It sounds like sails billowing in the wind.