Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Looking tinier and more fragile than ever, Mark lay still and lifeless on the long table. His eyes were closed, his hair matted from the surgical cap. A single sheet was tucked up to his chin, and Caroline was grateful that all evidence of the surgery had been removed.

  Jane reached out and touched his cheek. “He’s cold,” she whispered. “He needs another blanket.” She turned back to the nurse. “Could you get him another blanket, please?”

  The nurse sent a pleading glance toward Caroline, then backed out of the room.

  “Jane,” Caroline began. What can I possibly say? She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll get him one.” She turned away, hand over her mouth, holding back a sob.

  “And bring his teddy bear,” Jane said. “I just gave it to him this morning.”

  Caroline nodded mutely. She stepped out into the hall to try to compose herself. When she looked up a minute later, her dad was coming toward her.

  Gratitude coursed through her, sending more tears cascading down her face. She wasn’t strong enough to help Jane by herself. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted to her father as he stopped outside the door. “I think she’s in shock.”

  “We all are,” her father said, kissing Caroline’s forehead quickly before walking into the room.

  Caroline watched through the glass window as her dad went to Jane. He put his arm around her, and the two stood that way, looking down at Mark’s body as the minutes ticked past on the clock. Tears tumbled down Caroline’s face, and she brought her hand to her chest, feeling her own heart ache for her sister. For Mark, Peter . . . all of them. Blindly, she turned away and somehow made her way back to the waiting area. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, but Caroline found the teddy bear, and she brought that, along with another blanket, back to the room.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the doors and went inside. Her father and Jane stood just as they had ten minutes earlier.

  “I brought the things you asked for,” Caroline said quietly.

  Jane reached for the blanket. Caroline walked to the other side of the bed and helped her lay it carefully over Mark. When they were finished, she handed Jane the teddy bear. Jane hugged it to herself for a brief second, then placed it on the bed, her face close to Mark’s.

  “I don’t think he’s going to wake up,” she said at last, her voice choked.

  “He’s not, honey,” their dad said. “But he’s in a better place—no pain. Surrounded by those who love him.”

  “I love him,” Jane said. She bent and kissed Mark’s forehead, then turned into her father’s embrace and wept.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Peter looked out the right side of the Apache. He didn’t need his night-vision helmet to see the spectacular display lighting the distant city.

  “Looks like Fallujah is having a late Fourth of July celebration,” Raymond, his copilot and gunner, remarked dryly.

  Peter grimaced. “Somehow, I don’t think they’re feeling all that celebratory about America just yet.”

  “You’re probably right,” Raymond said.

  Peter checked their coordinates on the computer once again. Cruising along at 140 miles per hour, the thirty-mile trip from Baghdad International Airport took only minutes. But it was the third such trip they’d made tonight, and he was tired. He spoke into his headset. “A little farther and we ought to see the unit we’re supposed to cover.”

  “Near Al-Askari,” Ray confirmed. They both already knew the coordinates, but after flying upward of five hours, talking kept them focused.

  The Apache banked left and continued toward Fallujah. Peter stifled a yawn. He was anxious to complete this assignment and return to base for some sleep. That was the best part of his day now—sleep and dreaming of Jane. He still got the adrenaline rush from flying—especially when it was on the dangerous side—but with Jane he’d experienced something infinitely better, a high he hadn’t come down from. He held onto that every night in his dreams, often falling asleep with their wedding picture in his hand.

  As they drew closer to the city, the antiaircraft fire grew heavier. Pete wasn’t worried. As he’d reassured Jane many times, the Apache Longbow was a flying tank. He was sitting on a bulletproof Kevlar seat, mounted on a thickly armored floor. The Longbow’s smart-shooter radar located, assessed, and retaliated at almost all enemy fire before it could reach them. He felt safer in the air than he did sleeping at the base.

  “First target lock on,” Ray spoke into his headset.

  “Go get ’em,” Pete said.

  “Bye-bye warehouse.” A rocket fired from the pod on the right side of the Apache. At the same moment, the helicopter swung wildly to the left. “What was that?” Ray yelled. Behind him, Pete tried to get the Apache back in control.

  “Tail rotor,” he said, grappling with the controls as the helicopter spun wildly. “She’s slowing—acting like she’s jammed.”

  “Someone’s sending out the welcome mat in the form of a couple of rocket-propelled grenades,” Ray said. “Get us up.”

  “I’m trying. Just take care of those rockets.” Pete lowered the nose, and the Apache’s spin slowed as it banked away from the city.

  “Done,” Ray said a few seconds later as he affectionately patted the equipment in front of him.

  Pete felt some of the stress leave his body. “You fired from the right, didn’t you?”

  “Yep, and it wasn’t a Hellfire,” Ray said. “What’re you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.” Pete attempted to get the tail rotor going again. Their most recent training had included an update on the problems some of the Apaches had when firing Hellfire missiles from the left pylon. Following the launch of a missile, fragments had flown into the tail rotors of at least two of the AH-64Ds, causing the rotors to jam. Consequently, they were now only launching from the right. Up to now, there had been no problems with the rockets. Was it possible they’d been hit?

  Their altitude had steadied, and Pete put the Apache into hover mode.

  “We gotta go back,” he said, his voice somber.

  “Back to base or back there?” Ray asked, jerking his head toward the distant lights of Fallujah.

  “Back there,” Pete said. “I can’t maneuver as well, but we’re only a couple of minutes out, and that unit is counting on us. You know what the sarge says.”

  Ray sighed. “‘When we’re flying, our men on the ground aren’t dying.’ Let’s do it.”

  With much more care this time, Pete turned the Apache around and headed back toward the city. They’d take out the targets they had to and then get back to base. Tired as he was, he was eager to find out what had happened to his tail.

  “You gonna radio base and tell them?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah—when we’re done,” Pete said as he mentally reviewed the most recent Apache losses. The stats were heavily on their side. Still, this flying with one rotor was a whole new ball game. He thought of his dad—he’d probably had a temperamental bird to deal with all the time.

  “Second lock-on,” Ray said quietly. Around them, bullets pierced the air. The few that hit were not a concern—they would do little more than nick the surface. It was the bigger stuff they had to worry about. Pete kept his eyes glued to the panel in front of him.

  “Third target,” Ray said. “Oh, baby, here they come. Can we go any high—?”

  Before he could finish his sentence, a powerful force hit the side of the Apache. She keeled and began to spin again.

  “Base, this is AH-17. We’ve had a direct hit,” Ray’s voice shook. “Unable to complete mission. Returning to—”

  Pete swore as the Apache lurched forward, losing altitude quickly. “Now the main’s going out. What’re the odds?”

  His hands gripped the controls as the helicopter rushed toward the desert floor. “We’re gonna hit.”

  In the seconds before impact, he calculated the distance they were from Fallujah and the hours left before dawn. If they survived the crash, it woul
d only be a matter of time before they were found—by the enemy.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Jane woke with a start. Disoriented, she sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes. They felt puffy, and her head hurt—the terrible aching kind of hurt she always got after a good cry. Her hands stilled on the blanket covering her lap, then clenched around the crocheted edge as memory returned with vicious force.

  Mark.

  She closed her eyes as the room spun dizzily. Images from the day before replayed through her mind. Mark, looking small and fragile in the hospital gown as he played with his new teddy bear. Mark crying as they’d wheeled him away. Mark, still and lifeless on the operating-room table.

  Jane struggled to breathe as a crushing weight seemed to squeeze the air from her lungs. She couldn’t shake it off, nor could she shake the last, imagined scene from her mind—Mark, her little baby boy, alone and cold in the hospital morgue.

  Burying her head in her hands, Jane leaned forward, letting the tears fall silently.

  Across the room in her parents’ den, Madison stood up in the port-a-crib. “Da-da,” she babbled, happily unaware of the crisis surrounding her.

  Peter. As desperate as Jane was to hear his voice, she dreaded his phone call and the burden she would have to share. Wiping her eyes, she pushed the blanket aside and slid from the couch. Uncertain whether she had the strength to stand, she crawled across the floor to Maddie, who clapped her hands and held her arms out expectantly.

  “Da-da,” she said again.

  “Oh, Maddie, how am I ever going to tell your daddy?” Tears coursed down Jane’s cheeks. She lifted Madison from the crib, knelt on the floor, and held her on her lap.

  Head bowed, Jane offered a quiet, desperate prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for her beautiful little girl and the time they’d both had with Mark. Then she pled with Him for comfort and understanding. Help me know how to tell Peter, she said. And when I do, please send Thy comfort to him. He’s all alone over there, and he has a job to do and needs to stay safe.

  She finished her prayer just as her father came into the room.

  Her dad put an arm around her and pulled her up into a hug. She saw his own eyes glistening and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Jane knew her parents—her whole family—were devastated by Mark’s death.

  Her father’s voice was gruff as he spoke. “You need to come with me in the other room, sweetheart. There’s someone—this isn’t going to be easy—it isn’t—” His voice broke off as he tried to compose himself. Jane was touched by his obvious love for his grandson.

  She took a deep breath as she leaned into him. She sniffed loudly, thankful that, for the moment, anyway, her tears had subsided. “It’s okay, Dad. I was expecting our social worker today. She’s always been very kind.”

  He shook his head and tightened his arm around her. “It isn’t social services, Jane. It’s someone from the military.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  The last rays of twilight slanted across the patio, catching the sparkle of Jane’s diamond. Her heart ached as she looked down at her wedding ring, checking once again to make certain it was real. The proof was there, but it did not alleviate the fear that her entire, brief marriage would fade away into bittersweet memory.

  Unless Peter came home.

  Hands shaking and feeling dizzy again, Jane took a couple of steps backward and sank into the nearest chair on her parent’s patio. She closed her eyes, waiting for the spell to pass, and when she opened them again, the first thing that caught her attention was a scrap of red wrapping paper stuck to the wrought iron table. Jane reached for it, then clutched it in her hand, another piece of evidence, indisputable proof that Peter existed. His fingers had touched this paper. If, despite weather, active grandchildren, and her mother’s cleaning, the paper remained all these weeks later, then surely he too had survived . . .

  Jane let her gaze drift around the yard, remembering when it was filled with tables and family. Food and presents. Laughter and love. Peter and Mark. If she could go back to that night, she’d hold onto them both and never let go. But she’d already had to let go of Mark. This morning she had kissed his forehead one last time. This afternoon she had watched as his tiny casket was lowered into the ground beside Paul’s. Tonight, along with the crushing sorrow, she felt the smallest measure of comfort, knowing he was with his parents.

  The last blessing her father had given Mark at the hospital had promised that his parents would be with him to comfort him throughout the procedure. With all her heart, Jane believed that Tami and Paul had been there to take their son from this world back to his heavenly home. Clinging to that knowledge was all that had gotten her through the past five days. His body was resting, but his spirit—that sweet little spirit that had so blessed her life—was home.

  What haunted her now—what she needed to know and understand—was if Peter was there with him. Had her father’s blessing about Mark’s parents meant Peter as well? With the time difference in Iraq, Jane realized his helicopter had gone down sometime toward the end of Mark’s surgery. Was that part of Heavenly Father’s plan—that both father and son be taken home at the same time?

  Jane brought her hands to her mouth, lips pressed together as she attempted to halt another flow of tears. She didn’t know if she could endure losing Peter as well. And hadn’t Heavenly Father promised He would never test her beyond what she could endure?

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t lose them both.” Wrapping her arms around her middle, she rocked back and forth on the chair. “Please,” she begged. “I can’t.”

  The back door creaked, then swung open and Robert Warner stepped outside. His wife followed, concern in her eyes as they looked at their youngest daughter.

  “Jane.”

  “No, Robert.” Marsha placed a hand on her husband’s sleeve. “It won’t help anything. Look at her—she’s overwhelmed already.”

  “It’s closure,” Robert said quietly as they crossed the patio toward Jane. “We don’t have a choice but to tell her.”

  Jane lifted her tear-streaked face. “What are you two whispering about?”

  “There are some leftovers when you feel like eating,” Marsha said. She gave a last, pleading tug on her husband’s sleeve.

  “Caroline just called.” Robert pulled up a chair beside Jane. “There was a report on CNN about an Apache that went down a few days ago. A militant group has pictures . . .”

  Jane gripped the arms of her chair. “Was it Peter? What did—?”

  “It isn’t good,” her father said.

  “It’s on! It’s on again.” Karen poked her head out the back door. “Dad, they’re replaying it—” She stopped short. “Jane. I didn’t realize you were out here.”

  Rising from her chair, Jane ran toward the house. “Do they have Peter? Is he alive?” She pushed past Karen and ran into the family room. Blurred images paraded across the television, and Jane knew it was more than just her watery eyes causing the pictures to appear so grainy.

  She felt her father’s hands on her shoulders as the British reporter explained what they were seeing.

  “—the group claiming responsibility for Thursday’s crash outside of Fallujah is also claiming that both pilots are dead. It is believed this footage was shot early Friday morning.”

  One of the men in the video held his fist out toward the camera, two sets of dog tags jingling in the air. The camera swung back toward the grounded helicopter, which was keeled over on its side. Jane gasped at the blurred images of the two bloodied soldiers within.

  “—the U.S. military has not confirmed that these are the two pilots who were listed as missing in action late Thursday night, but there have been no other reports of Apache losses since then.”

  The three men in the video continued to shout, fists pumped in the air, celebrating their victory.

  Jane felt nauseated and faint all at the same time. She stumbled backward, and her father caught her as the
final image of the helicopter faded to complete black.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Jane wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and stepped out into the cool night air. Gathering her courage, she began climbing the ladder that was propped against the back of the cottage. When she reached the roof, she scooted away from the edge and lay back on the new shingles—shingles Peter had laid himself in the weeks before their wedding.

  “Where are you?” Jane whispered to herself, the night, and God. The ten days he’d told her to wait had already come and gone. Peter’s copilot had been found dead near the wreck of their downed Apache. But they had yet to recover Peter’s body. It had simply vanished. Was that the sign he’d left for her? Was she supposed to believe he was dead?

  Sitting up, Jane hugged her knees to her chest. She thought of Peter’s mother and how she must have felt, wondering all those years what had happened to her husband. Jane couldn’t blame her for her inability to move on with life. Some things there was no getting over.

  Like Peter . . . and Mark.

  Jane let her sorrow shift from her missing husband to the loss of their son. Two weeks after Mark’s funeral she still felt numb, though the ache in her heart grew each day as she faced the reality of life without Mark. She yearned to hold him again, to feel his baby-soft face nestled against hers, to hear his laugh.

  Even Maddie had seemed lost the past two weeks as she toddled around the house and then the cottage where Jane had fled in an effort to escape the constant reminders of Mark. Maddie’s playmate was gone, and she knew it. Without her companion, she had taken to mischief of all sorts—getting into everything her little fingers could reach. Instead of being angry, Jane was grateful for the distraction. It was difficult to unlearn the pattern of caring for two babies. Maddie’s antics, at least, helped fill a small part of that void.

  A drop of rain touched Jane’s cheek, and she looked up at the overcast sky, thinking again of Peter. Hope stirred in her heart, and she could not tamp it down. She bowed her head and prayed for strength, then thanked God for the rain, for the clouds, for the past week of misty Seattle nights permitting her no chance for counting stars.