A Fresh Start - EpilogueChapter 6: Aftermath free porn video

It really became official that I was going home the next day, Tuesday, when General Talamani showed up. Talamani asked me privately if I thought Naftani was good, and when I answered positively, he smiled and pulled out a pair of lieutenant colonel’s epaulet boards. I smiled and nodded, and we found the major and let him know he was out of uniform. The major had always known that this was the likely outcome, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy hearing it. The general made it official, pinned on his new rank, and then relieved me of my command and handed it over. I had always known this would happen, but it was like thirty-three years ago when I left the Army, and it felt just as bittersweet.

Still, it was good to know I would be able to go back to Erbil and see Marilyn and then take her home. Lieutenant Colonel Naftani and all the others congratulated me and thanked me and shook my hand, and I told Naftani that I looked forward to seeing where he would rise to. He was a very capable soldier, and I could easily see colonel’s or general’s insignia someday. I told him that if he ever made it to America, to look me up and we would treat him well.

Ahmed and I packed up our gear and caught a ride back to Erbil in a Russian Jeep. He was just as anxious to get home as I was. Ahmed wasn’t a soldier, but was a civilian hired by the local office of the Buckman Foundation, which coordinated my charitable activities in the Middle East, and was now working overtime to help with refugees in both Kurdistan and Turkey. He looked about as tired as I felt. I told him to take a couple of days off and get some sleep and clean up and then to look me up. I wanted to talk to him about his future with the Buckman Foundation. He was a talented young man, and if we could help him move up in the world, it would be a good thing.

The outside world came crashing in as we got to the Buckman Foundation compound. I was being driven by a sergeant and a private assigned to me by the 1st Artillery, with orders to make themselves useful and keep me safe. I had ditched my regular security when I went to work for Barzani in the Sinjar camp. They had come back to the compound with Marilyn when she left.

Calling it ‘the compound’ sounded more ominous than it really was. When I started coming to Kurdistan after being named the Special Envoy, it simply made sense to buy a few acres and build a nice house. That was extended to a small office building with an attached breezeway, so that I had both personal and business sections. It was surrounded by a nice stone and wrought iron fence, and while we did maintain security, it was not an armed bunker. I wanted a pleasant and professional atmosphere, and Kurdistan was a relatively safe country to live in. Trust me, I had seen more than a few hellholes around the planet, and Erbil was quite nice now that they had kicked out the Iraqis and made nice with the Turks.

We drove into the compound and pulled up to the residence, and I noticed a dark sedan pulling in behind us. I eyed it curiously, and the sergeant was watching it carefully as we got out of the jeep. In addition, a couple of my regular American security guys came out of the house and approached me. “Colonel, these guys have been sitting outside the gate for a day now. That’s an embassy car,” said my head of security. He was ex-Diplomatic Security and knew what he was doing.

I nodded and said, “Interesting. I wonder what they want.”

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” he replied.

I gave him a wry look at that, and he simply shrugged. In front of me the car doors opened, and three men stepped out, with two standing by their open doors, and the third approaching me. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I had been not overly welcome at the embassy since the new ambassador selected by Hillary had replaced the McCain appointee. He had a smile on his face. “Mister Buckman, welcome back. I’d like to ask you to come with us. The Ambassador would like a word with you.”

“Mister...?” I probed.

“Smith.”

Smith? Sounded a little fishy to me. “Mister Smith, I just got back from a long drive in a bad Jeep. I am sure the Ambassador won’t mind if I come by in a few days. I need a shower and a shave and to see my wife.”

He stayed where he was, still smiling, and moved to beckon me towards the sedan. “Mister Buckman I am sure the Ambassador won’t mind your condition. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

“Tell the Ambassador I’m sorry, but he can call me in a few days.” I turned away.

Smith maneuvered to block me. “Really, Mister Buckman, it would be very helpful to see the Ambassador now.” A nasty tone had crept into his voice. “I am going to have to insist on it.”

I gave him a good hard look and let my hand rest on the Makarov in my holster. My guards and the soldiers noticed this and freed their own weapons up, startling the embassy guys. “Sonny, I have no intention of dropping by the embassy without knowing why you want me there. Who are you? FBI or CIA? I heard the Army had a seize-and-detain order out for me. You have a warrant out for me, too? Good luck serving that here in Kurdistan. Unlike the embassy, this isn’t American territory. You want me, you’ll have to either drag me or talk Barzani and his crew into giving me up.”

“Mister Buckman, it isn’t like that, so why don’t you come with us, and we can handle this pleasantly.”

“No.” I told my head of security, “Show these guys out. If they give you any trouble, strip them naked and tie their hands behind their backs, and then tie them to the roof of their car and park it in front of the embassy.”

Protesting their innocence, the three agents (or whatever) climbed back into their sedan and backed down the driveway away from us. We watched them, and then I said, “Keep them away.” I undid the web belt holding my holster and handed it and the Makarov to him. “Here, hide this somewhere, so I’m not tempted to shoot anybody.”

He chuckled. “Understood, sir.”

“Where’s my wife?”

“She’s at one of the camps here in Erbil. Should we bring her back?”

“Please. Meanwhile, I am going to take a shower and clean up.” I looked over at Ahmed. “Go home and see your family, but make sure you find me in a couple of days. You have been truly a great help, Ahmed, and I want to thank you. See me then.”

“Yes, Colonel, I will be back.”

We got a driver to take Ahmed home, and the soldiers I thanked and sent them off to return to the Army. I went inside and looked around. It seemed strange after being in combat, to just be able to drive home from the war. I threw my bag into the corner of my bedroom and stripped off my clothes. I hadn’t had a good shower, with unlimited hot water and the time to waste simply luxuriating in it, since I had joined the 1st Artillery. I was mortally tired, and as I gazed into the mirror as I shaved, I could see all sorts of new lines and wrinkles, and the bags under my eyes looked terminal. I wondered if I should re-grow my mustache and beard. I had shaved them off when I put the uniform back on. Most Kurds don’t wear beards, although mustaches are very popular, and modern American military tradition is mostly clean-shaven. In combat conditions you can be grizzled and dirty, but once you are off the line you are expected to shave and clean up. When I was finished, I slipped into a pair of old khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, and slipped on a pair of deck shoes, and wandered towards the living room.

I stopped and stared as I passed by a window in the hallway. A car pulled into the driveway and as the doors popped open, I saw Marilyn climb out and look around wildly. She was holding the hand of a little boy, and I recognized him as the wounded child she had been holding back at Sinjar. Finally, a dog scampered out of the car and trotted over to the bushes and watered the lawn.

I went to the front door and opened it and walked down the steps to the driveway. Marilyn’s head whipped around towards me, and then she abandoned the child and ran over to me. I smiled and braced myself, and she threw herself into my arms. “Oh my God! CARL ... CARL ... Oh, God, you’re alive!” She babbled on for a bit, and I simply hugged her fiercely. I could feel the warm wetness of her tears on my neck, and simply rubbed her back. After a bit I was able to push her away for a second and kiss her, but then she went back to hugging me. Then I saw that the little boy was still standing there and was now watching us, with the dog by his side.

I pulled away from Marilyn and turned to face the boy. Most of the bandages were gone, but he now wore a smaller bandage over his left eye, and his left arm ended at the wrist, which still showed some bright red scars. Marilyn went over to him and took his right hand. “Carl, you remember Hamid, don’t you?”

I eyed my wife curiously but nodded. “Salaam, Hamid.”

“Salaam, Sayyid,” he responded, Arabic for ‘Hello, sir.’

“And this is Hamid’s friend, Sami.”

“Salaam, Sami.” Sami was a medium-sized brown dog, very nondescript, of an extremely indeterminate breed. You knew it was a dog, but beyond that, descriptions were lacking - medium-length coat, medium brown, medium build, medium weight, medium size, and male.

“Have you eaten yet? When did you get home? What happened to you? You’ve been hurt! You’ve lost weight! Are you alright? God, I have missed you!”

“I have missed you more. No, I just got home about half an hour ago. I haven’t eaten anything. I am fine, just fine.”

“What would you like?”

I smiled. “Seriously? I don’t think they have pizza around here, and I would kill for a pepperoni pizza, but I would happily settle for a cheeseburger. Medium rare, extra cheese, extra grease.”

“I won’t comment about how that isn’t good for you. It sounds good to me, too. Let’s go in. We can teach Hamid how to make hamburgers.”

She and Hamid went inside, followed by Sami, and I began to get very nervous. I followed, and after we got inside, I said, “Hold on. We need to talk.” I directed Marilyn towards the couch in the living room and sat down next to her. Hamid sat down next to her, but he was twisted around, facing us. Sami lay down on the floor in front of Hamid. “Marilyn, where has Hamid been staying? Have you been able to find any family for him?”

“Carl, Hamid has no family. The best anybody can figure, his village was destroyed by the Syrian Army, and only a few escaped to Sinjar. Most of his village was killed in the bombing attack there, including the remains of his family. His only family is his dog, Sami.” Sami’s ears perked up on hearing his name, but then he lay back down on the floor at Hamid’s feet. She took a deep breath. “Carl, I want to adopt Hamid. He has nobody else.”

A grimace must have crossed my face at this. “Marilyn...”

“Carl, he has nobody else. The Kurds will simply put him in an orphanage, since he doesn’t speak Kurdish. You know what that will be like. We can take care of him.” She began to cry. “Oh, please, Carl, I am begging you, let me adopt Hamid.” She went on in this vein for a few minutes. Next to her Hamid silently watched.

“Marilyn, stop it. We need to talk about this.” I glanced over at Hamid. “You want to adopt a child you can’t even talk to? He doesn’t speak English, and we don’t speak Arabic! He’s a Muslim, Marilyn. Are you planning to take him to a mosque? This is crazy! I plan to move back home soon. We can’t just smuggle him onto a plane! More importantly, I am fifty-eight years old. You are fifty-nine. We aren’t young. By the time this boy grows up, we will be in our seventies. I will probably be dead.”

“Carl, I understand that, but I don’t care. I’ve never asked you for anything before. I am asking for this.” She reached over and took his hand.

Oh brother! I stared at my wife, and the boy, and the dog. I should have been expecting something like this, but I hadn’t. There was disaster written all over this! I also knew that this was a battle I was not going to win, not without destroying my marriage. I stared at Marilyn and Hamid, and then stood up. “Wait here.” I went into my home office, where I scrounged up an English-Arabic phonetic dictionary I occasionally used and carried it back into the living room. There I took a picture off the wall, of Marilyn and me with the kids, taken at Charlie and Megan’s wedding.

I sat back down on the couch, but this time next to Hamid. “Hamid.” I tapped on the photo and pointed at my picture. “Ab” ‘Father.’ I used my finger to point back and forth between the picture and me, so he understood that I was the father. Then I tapped on Marilyn’s photo, and back and forth to her, and said, “Um”, ‘Mother.’ After that, I tapped on Charlie’s picture, and said, “Ibn”, ‘Son’. By now the little boy was nodding in understanding. I then said, “Hamid,” and he looked at me. I tapped my chest. “Ab.” Then I pointed at Marilyn and said, “Um.” Finally, I laid my hand on his shoulder. “ Ibn.”

Hamid’s eye opened wide at this, and he looked wildly at me and Marilyn. To her he said, “Ibn? Um?”

Marilyn was crying again, but she answered, “Yes, Hamid, yes!” and hugged him.

He looked at me and asked, “Ibn? Ab?”

I nodded and put an arm around his shoulder. “Ibn, ab.” That just about used up my extremely limited Arabic. Now all I needed to do was to teach him English, formally adopt a Syrian refugee in Kurdistan, get him an American passport, and move home again, with Hillary Clinton on the warpath and looking for my head. Piece of cake!

On a somewhat more amusing note, this ended any chance for a romantic reunion frolic with my wife. That was more a dream these days than reality. While I didn’t need Viagra yet, I was reminded of the old joke - Once a king, always a king, but once a knight is enough. At fifty-eight, once a night was realistic. On the other hand, Marilyn and I had learned more than a few tricks over the years, so that once was pretty darn good! The cook made up some burgers and fries, and then we watched television afterwards, with Hamid sitting on the couch between us.

Once a night seemed questionable that evening. It seemed that Hamid had been sleeping with Marilyn, since he tended to nightmares. So, when my wife headed to the bedroom to ‘change into something nicer’ he trooped along behind her and couldn’t understand her squeal of indignation. She led him (and Sami) across the hall to a room she was designating as his, and he followed her back to our bedroom as soon as she turned her back. It looked like he was about to cry, but I simply stretched out on the bed and threw an arm around him, and said, “He’ll go to sleep, and then we can put him somewhere else.” Marilyn agreed, and sat down on the other side, and then Sami jumped onto the bed at Hamid’s feet.

Marilyn fell asleep before Hamid did. Some days you just can’t win.

Romantic frustrations aside, the next morning I laid it out to the Buckman Foundation group next door. We needed to figure out how to adopt Hamid and we needed to do it fast. While I had never gone through an adoption before, I remembered how Marilyn’s sister Ruth had adopted a Vietnamese baby on the first go. That cost $20,000 and took almost a year to go through all the paperwork. I wasn’t worried about the cost, but Marilyn wouldn’t leave him behind, and I wasn’t going home without her, and that needed to be soon. The longer I stayed away, the more likely Hillary and Bill were going to declare that I had renounced my citizenship.

My frustrations ended that afternoon. Marilyn stayed home from the refugee camps and shortly after lunch, Hamid took a nap. Marilyn came down the hallway wearing an opaque but very thin robe and summoned me to bed. I received a very pleasant ‘welcome home’, with the promise of another one that evening, if we could convince Hamid to start sleeping in his own room. That proved a bit questionable. Hamid would start sleeping in his room, but by the morning, would have found his way into bed with Marilyn and me. That first morning Marilyn was spooked to find him in bed between us, and her without any clothes on!

We stayed in Erbil for two weeks before flying back to America. One amusing item was that now that we were off the front lines, so to speak, Marilyn became very conscious of her appearance. She quickly found herself a hairdresser in Erbil and had her hair cut - and colored! She had been showing a lot of gray after working in the camps. I teased her quite a bit about it, at least until my mustache and beard started coming in, and she could return the favor.

The adoption problem was sorted out very quickly. We modified Hamid’s name slightly. His name was Hamid Mahmud, but we couldn’t figure out if Mahmud was a middle name or family name, and Hamid didn’t really understand, either. We changed it to Hamid Mahmud ibn Buckman, Hamid Mahmud son of Buckman. President Barzani simply ordered the paperwork processed, and then had Hamid issued a Kurdish passport. I think the Kurdish bureaucracy broke all known speed limits processing the paperwork. The specific legality of all of this might have been questionable, but nobody was going to screw with Barzani over an Arab orphan, not when the adoption was going to be to his good buddy, Carl Buckman.

I was his good buddy, too. He had played some serious high-stakes poker getting Hillary to enter the war. She had buckled completely and turned over total control of the war to the Pentagon. Not only had she finally authorized missile and air strikes, and ordered the 47th to the borders, she had ordered a very strong no-fly zone. The Russians were outraged by all of this, of course, since Syria had been a client state going back to the 1960s. They tried to fly in some new weapons under the heading of ‘relief supplies’ and had been ordered back twice. The third time, the pilots refused to turn back, so they were escorted by American F-15s out of Incirlik. They were flying into a Syrian air base outside of Damascus, and when they lined up on the runway, one of the F-15s dropped down in front of the Russian Tupolev transport, went to afterburners, and ran a line of cratering bombs down the runway! The Russian pilots diverted to Baghdad after that. They would need to bring supplies in overland from Iraq or by sea. Putin was furious over this.

While decompressing, I caught up with the rest of the world. My staff had saved up a number of magazines and newspapers since I was away. It was surreal at times. John McCain had told me Marilyn had made the cover of Time, holding Hamid after the bombing at Sinjar. What he hadn’t told me was that I made the cover the next week under the headline, ‘The Most Powerful Man In Syria?’ Somebody had photographed me in uniform, without my jacket, sleeves rolled up, body armor on, hands on my hips, pistol slung in my web holster, helmetless, my stitched-up cheek prominent, and looking at the horizon. I looked like I could have stared down John Wayne! (I remembered that day. I was so hot and tired I was just staring at nothing. John Wayne’s puppy could have knocked me over!) Inside was a decent enough description of Barzani’s strategy, which was to use American politics to force Hillary to respond to Assad and shut him down. It worked, too. Barzani won, Hillary lost.

A part of this was because there was an immense public interest back in the States in a former President putting his ass on the line when the Clintons didn’t want to. Marilyn and I weren’t too badly inconvenienced by the press. It was an intrepid reporter indeed who would travel to the front lines to try and reach me when we were in combat, and Marilyn didn’t put up with much shit, either. A reporter and cameraman managed to get inside one of the supply tents she was working in, and when they stuck a camera in her face, she simply handed the dumb bastard cartons of rations and told him to start stacking, or else!

Back home, however, the kids were bombarded! They managed to call Marilyn in Erbil, and Charlie became the designated family spokesperson. It wasn’t a bad choice. Charlie had experience in front of a camera, was comfortable in an interview situation, and looked confident and at ease. He took a day off from his ESPN duties, and went on Face the Nation one Sunday morning, and crossed swords with Hillary’s Press Secretary, Jay Carney. I watched a saved video and was amused. Carney was indescribably condescending towards my son, who he described as naïve and uninformed as to the nature of America’s foreign policy commitments, and who he generally treated as a dumb jock who should go back to the sports channel. Rather than get angry and start swearing, which I suspected was Carney’s intent, Charlie was calm, collected, and coherent.

“My father is not playing some form of game here. This is not some sort of Washington power politics to him. He has already been wounded in combat and is under daily attack from the Syrian Army. No, this is really quite simple to him. He has been saying this all along. He promised the Kurds that America would stand behind them if they were attacked. They were attacked and America did not stand behind them. He is outraged at this. He is a man of his word. His bond means something to him. What is happening now is a shame on his name and a shame on the nation, and he feels that shame, even if some others in Washington don’t!”

At that point Carney got personal, calling me ‘glory-seeking, medal-hungry, and trying to regain his lost youth.’ Charlie remained calm and cool.

“That simply goes to prove that Mister Carney does not know my father. I can state categorically that my father is neither a glory seeker nor medal hungry. He is a combat veteran, and as a combat veteran myself, I can state unequivocally that nobody who has ever been in combat ever wants to do it again. Once he told me that he would happily give back his own Bronze Star if it would bring back the men who died on that mission. There is no glory in what he is doing. What is driving my father is duty, honor, courage, and pride, and on those traits, Carl Buckman is a cast iron son of a bitch, and this nation is the better for it!”

I told Marilyn that I thought he had done quite well. He handled another couple of interviews and talk shows with equal ease.

Children were on my mind when Ahmed Tahani, my translator throughout the war, came by the next day, as I had requested. I praised his courage and skill to the others. Then I sat down and asked, “Ahmed, tell me, what can I do to repay you for your help? You have certainly gone beyond what we originally hired you for.”

“Colonel Buckman, I do not know what to say. You have already treated me quite well.”

“Not well enough. So, what are your plans for the future? I will be traveling back to America soon, along with Mrs. Buckman, and while you will still be able to work with the rest of the staff here, I still think there is more you might be doing. Have you any thoughts as to what you want to do? Is there anything personal I can help you with?”

At that he looked a touch wistful, and then smiled. “It is nothing ... but I hope soon to have saved enough money to be able to marry.”

I smiled at him. “My friend, there is no such thing as enough money to be able to marry. You will never be able to save enough money to be able to marry! Ali Baba with his famous cave of gold did not have enough money to be able to marry!”

He laughed at that, and responded, “My father has said that also, but it is true. Before I can wed Samira, I must be able to afford to care for her and buy a home. That will be soon, though. This is a good job, and I am sure I will be able to keep translating, if not for you, then for others.”

“Tell me about Samira. You wish to wed this young lady? How does she feel?” I asked.

“Samira is my cousin, my mother is her great-grandmother’s cousin, though she lives in a village near ours. I have known her since we were children, and she wishes this, too.”

I tried to follow the relationship, and it sounded like first cousins once removed, or maybe second cousins. Middle Eastern marriages tended towards family and clan relationships, and the word cousin was used in more than a few instances to simply mean a distant relation not in the immediate family. Either way, it wasn’t my business. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my check book and wrote out a check roughly the equivalent of a year’s salary to the young man. “Here, Ahmed, this should at least get you started on your path to poverty.”

He stared at the check, open mouthed, and then thanked me effusively. “Colonel, this is ... no I cannot! It is too much! Thank you, thank you!”

“Take it. You have been of great help to me, so let this be a small token of my appreciation. Perhaps you can invite us to your wedding, so that we can wish you and Samira great happiness.”

“I can’t ... of course, of course ... Samira will not believe this! We shall name a son after you!”

I laughed at that. “Well, I hope you have a son, but I wish you also to have a few daughters. That way you will never get bored!” Ahmed laughed at that and shook his head; he knew that Marilyn and I had twin daughters and had frequently commented on how that must be difficult.

Two days after I got back to Erbil, the world intruded on us again. I received a call from Ismail Turqani, the Turkish Ambassador to Kurdistan, asking me for a few minutes of my time. He even offered to drive out to the compound, so I agreed to a lunch meeting with him, and then told the cook that we would have a working lunch in the dining room. When he arrived, Marilyn and I both met him in the foyer, and Ambassador Turqani was effusive in his praise for Marilyn’s work with refugees, and he was also complimentary regarding my recent service. We went through several rounds of small talk and pleasantries, the typical Middle Eastern style, before Marilyn was allowed free, and I had a chance to talk privately with Turqani in the living room.

Privately was a bit of a euphemism for not having anybody else in the room with us. I had good reason to believe that both my residence and the Buckman Foundation offices next door were bugged. By whom, however, wasn’t clear. The list of the usual suspects was rather lengthy, including the Kurdish government, the National Intelligence Office in Turkey (their CIA), the real CIA, the Mossad (Israeli intelligence), the SVR (Russian foreign intelligence), and anybody else who you could name, including the Saudis and the Iranians. Occasionally things would be mentioned by parties that could only have been learned if they were listening in on our conversations. On the plus side, since nothing we did was remotely illegal, nobody had been busting down our doors with warrants.

“Mister Buckman,”, he started out. “I am hoping that you will be able to give me some assurances regarding a matter of considerable concern to my nation. You have a rather unique position here in Kurdistan and are singularly qualified to speak on this.”

“I will help however I can, Mister Ambassador. I will remind you that I am simply an American citizen spending a few days here in Erbil. I have no position with the American government, and my recent position with the Kurds is over. Regardless, I will help as best I can. What concerns you, sir?”

“I think you could say that it is a question of intent. Ten years ago, Kurdistan was simply a province of Iraq. The Kurds themselves were simply a people spread across several different nations. You, however, managed to liberate them from Saddam Hussein, and helped them to create a new nation, a rather unheard-of thing, you would agree.”

I shrugged. “The Kurds had already been semi-independent for a number of years. I think that full independence has generally been a good thing for the region. It provided the Kurds a homeland of their own, and more than a few of the ... shall we say, more difficult elements of the Kurds in your own nation have moved here. You would have to agree that tensions have been reduced.”

“Reduced, yes, but not completely eliminated,” he countered. “My nation is quite aware that our eastern regions still have large numbers of Kurds present, and that for much of our history those tensions have often involved violence and rebellious elements.”

“That just makes it all the more important to continue the work we have all begun to maintain a peace.”

“And yet, those concerns find fresh justification in Syria. Prime Minister Erdogan and many members of my government are concerned by Kurdish actions recently. While we are supremely glad that the wholesale slaughter in Syrian Kurdistan is over, and that the flow of refugees has slowed, and in some cases reversed, the fact remains that the Kurds invaded a neighboring nation and have annexed a portion of it. You must admit that this is a troubling issue,” he pushed.

That was one of the Oh shit! scenarios. The Kurds’ neighbors had just seen them swallow up Syrian Kurdistan. Who was next? A Turkish or Iranian province or two?

“Ah, indeed I can see where it might be. I would point out that by taking the actions they did, the Kurds managed to bring the Syrian problem to a close, which benefited Turkey also. Further, I can categorically state that I have never, not once, heard any Kurdish leader or officer even contemplate a move against any other neighboring nation, and certainly not towards one that has begun an era of peaceful relations. I can state that the Peshmerga were quite happy that Turkish patrol aircraft were able to help them fight off the Syrian forces. That was most generous of your nation, and the Kurds were very appreciative. In addition, I think that in any such event, the United States would come down quite firmly on the side of our NATO ally.”