by Lizzy Ford
Semper Mine
A Sons of War Novel
By Lizzy Ford
http://www.GuerrillaWordfare.com/
Cover design by Eden Crane
http://www.EdenCraneDesign.com/
REVIEW EDITION
Semper Mine copyright ©2014 by Lizzy Ford
http://www.GuerrillaWordfare.com/
Cover design copyright © 2014 by Eden Crane
http://www.EdenCraneDesign.com/
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One: Sawyer
MARCH
Save Petr.
I can still hear Mikael Khavalov’s final words. There’s a reason the military doesn’t put brothers on the same special operations team, but that night seven days ago, it didn’t matter. A routine mission with a second team put the twins both under my watch, and every commander’s worst nightmare happened.
Sergeant First Class Mikael Khavalov – known as Khav-One – was one of four service members that died to give the rest of us, including his wounded brother, Petr – Khav-Two – a chance to make it to safety.
An early spring chill tickles my ear, a reminder that I’m in Massachusetts, thousands of miles from the war zone. The sky is unusually clear, blue and cloudless, with the scent of flowers in the air. My gaze sweeps over the men and women dressed in black, gathered for the final farewell to Mikael.
Nothing is quite as moving as a military funeral: the aching wail of a coronet, twenty one gun salute, and the piercing silence that follows. I’ve attended too many the past year, four this week alone. There’s a sense of peace in the final solemn, disciplined display that thanks a man or woman for the ultimate sacrifice before lowering him or her into the ground.
This one is unlike the others for a few reasons, and I feel out of place where I normally don’t. There’s no Taps or salute, no one else in uniform, and the flag that flew back with Mikael’s body is tucked under one of my arms. The wealthy Khavalov family declined the Arlington burial in favor of having their son laid to rest in a private, walled cemetery, behind the mansion where the rest of the immediate family lives. It’s a completely civilian affair, and I am out of my element.
A true blueblood, Khav-One had a degree from Yale, a sports car I wouldn’t be able to afford with ten years of wages in hand, and was friends with the families of politicians and celebrities, some of whom are in attendance today.
God knows what made someone with his background enlist, of all things, let alone pursue the grueling, gritty, elite path of a Green Beret, aside from a love of his country, mixed with a side of crazy. Whatever it is, it runs in the family. Mikael didn’t survive the worst night of my life, but Khav-Two did. He’s in a hospital near here, stuck in a medically induced coma to keep him stable after his leg was blown off near the hip.
It’s certainly the most peaceful graveyard I’ve visited yet. It feels more like a garden with hedges, stately statues and obelisks, a fountain at its center and a stone pathway that weaves among the dead.
I knew his family had money, but I had no idea they had money. It makes me think he was crazier than I first gave him credit for.
The ceremony ends with a Catholic priest blessing the sleek black casket covered by a blanket of flowers. I stand to the side, the only one in uniform. Khav’s father is someone I know better than my own from the stories the spirited twins used to tell. He’s a burly, former Russian KGB officer with white hair and bright blue eyes who defected to the States when he fell in love with an American heiress, a ballerina training with the Bolshoi Ballet group in Moscow.
Everyone in our unit knew their story. Fairy tales have a place, especially in war, and this was a nice, rosy one that was real enough for us to touch. A man leading a life of war and violence meets a beautiful ballerina and finds peace and happily ever after? Who doesn’t want that someday? Avid storytellers, the twins kept the morale of their respective units up with the sheer power of their upbeat personalities. I can’t imagine going back without them.
The Khavs’ sister, whose name I can’t remember, is standing beside her father, a veil covering her face. She’s small, like I expect of the daughter of a ballerina, and dressed in black. She leans into her father in a stance I’ve seen too often lately, one that makes me hurt for those like her. The only thing I recall Khav-One saying about her was never to eat the cookies she sent the unit, but not to tell her the cookies got tossed, because she has a temper.
The twins were known to exaggerate, though, and I didn’t believe it until I tried one. I’ve never met a cookie I didn’t like, especially in a war zone. The taste was nothing compared to the bellyache hers gave me after I choked a few down.
I wish I knew something else about her. I try to say something personal to everyone I meet at funerals. It seems like an oversight right now not to have something more thoughtful to express than please don’t send more cookies.
“Thank you for your service, Captain,” one man says, approaching me. I recognize him from television. He’s a senator. I haven’t been stateside in four years, so I’m not sure from which state.
“It’s an honor, sir,” I reply.
“Force Recon Marine at a Green Beret funeral? Things have changed since my day.” He smiles.
“We recruited the best of the best from all services for our special team, sir. It was an honor to serve with him.”
“Well said, Marine.” We shake hands, and he leaves. Two more men and a woman approach and shake my hand.
The people begin to drift away, talking quietly, while the two immediate family members remain. I stay with them, wanting to do what little I can to help, even knowing there’s nothing that can really be said. They hug, and I turn away to give them some privacy. I notice the rose bushes lining one wall, the source of the subtle scent has been tickling my nose since I entered the graveyard.
Whenever I leave the battlefield, I notice things I never did before. Right now, I’m mentally measuring how symmetrical the different hued flowers are and am fascinated by how something as delicate as a petal can survive in a world like ours. Things are so green here, it almost doesn’t seem real. Like a dream. One I would give anything to wake up from and feel whole again.
Behind the façade that earned me the nickname Ice Commander, Iceman, Captain Icee and others from my men, I’m raw, like a severe rope burn has cut straight through my soul. My first mission as a newly minted commander, and I lose four men.
The opposite of the twins, I’m not one to talk much. Even if I knew how to express my thoughts, the emotions run too deep for me to name. So I breathe in the scent of roses and let myself stay in that one, peaceful moment in the garden, knowing it’ll be gone soon enough.
“Captain Mathis.” It’s the voice of Ms. Khavalov, the sister of the Khav brothers. There’s an edge to it, one I recognize too well from other funerals.
I’d rather deal with insurgents than grieving families. It’s a cold thought stemming from trying to keep myself numb this week. I’m here for the family members as well as my fallen men, but I never thought it’d be so hard.
I turn to face her.
The stinging slap she lands across one ch
eek is a definite first. It’s enough to jar me but not enough to knock me out of my stance at attention. I can take a blow pretty well after a lifetime filled with them.
“You were supposed to bring them both back alive!” she says in a choked voice.
“I am sorry for your loss, ma’am,” I say calmly.
She pushes up her veil, and I stare.
The twins look like their father, and I can only assume their sister resembles their mother. She’s stunning, from the light hazel eyes to her chiseled features and the delicate, quivering chin. In her twenties, she’s got the determined set of her jaw that I know from the twins and a gleam in her eyes that tells me she’s just as smart.
“That’s it?” she whispers. “You’re sorry?”
“He died bravely, ma’am,” I add.
Her eyes widen. “One of my brothers is gone and the other may never wake up!”
Trust me. I know. I don’t say anything. Part of the grieving process is anger, and I’ve been the target of it for a great many family members. If it helps them sleep at night, then I don’t mind.
God knows I don’t sleep anymore. Someone should.
“Forgive Katya. She does not know what we do about war, Captain Mathis,” her father says, approaching. His Russian accent is heavy, his words slow. His bushy eyebrows twitch. “It is not those who were lost but those who were saved that should be counted.”
“Don’t patronize me, baba!” Katya snaps. With a furious look at me, she marches away, breaking into a run after a few steps. I can hear her sobs.
I hate seeing women cry. It makes me edgy. Turning my attention to her father, I hold the flag out to him.
His eyes mist over. “Thank you. You are a good man, Captain Mathis.” He takes it and kisses it. “Come.” He takes my elbow and guides me towards the gate she fled through. “Tell me how he died defending his country and his men.” He gazes at me with sorrow and compassion mixed with hope.
“He did, sir,” I reply. “He saved many lives, including mine and Petr’s. We wouldn’t have made it out without his sacrifice.”
“I knew it.” His eyes sparkle with tears, but he’s proud. “A soldier wants a good death, eh?”
I don’t answer, not expecting him to be quite so understanding. I know the Russians we worked with occasionally in Iraq view life a bit differently, in a more grounded if not cynical way, and I’m kind of grateful for it right now. The past week has been brutal. First the firefight that cost me half the super specialized, well-trained men fighting under me, and then four funerals and families I personally visited to convey my condolences.
The damn counselor I was assigned after the suicide mission says part of what I feel is survivor’s guilt. I’d characterize it more as commander’s guilt, if such a thing officially exists.
Mr. Khavalov opens the gate of the private cemetery, and I glance towards the massive stone mansion that resembles a castle a short distance from us.
“My Katya, she is a good girl. You are fortunate all she did was slap you. Her mother could throw a shoe halfway down a football field and hit you anywhere she aimed.” He grins, affection crossing his features. His eyes are on his daughter, who is racing across the field separating the graveyard from the stately mansion. “She will understand one day.”
I’ve never quite met someone like this, who doesn’t seem to blame me, who seems to comprehend what war and death are like. Who almost seems to be trying to comfort me, when he’s the one who lost a son.
“You will come to the wake?” he asks.
“Thank you, sir, but no,” I reply, thinking of Katya. “This is your time to be together. I needed to say farewell but won’t interfere.”
“He told me a lot about you. They both did,” the older man says.
I hear the sadness in his voice. I know his thoughts are as much on Petr as they are on Mikael.
“It was my pleasure to serve with them,” I reply. “It was my first command, and they taught me how to be a better leader.” I stop walking and face him, intending to go to the driveway rather than the house. “Sir, I want you to know …” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. Today has been hard. “… excuse me. I just want you to know that I will be checking in on Petr. When he pulls through, I’ll be here to help him. If there’s anything you need, sir, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” I give him my card with my email address.
Mr. Khavalov accepts it, his features warm. “You are always welcome in my family, Captain Mathis.” He pats me on the arm. “Petr told me you have none of your own. You brought him home. You can consider this your home, too.” He waves towards the mansion.
I nod briskly, not certain what to say. I brought one son home in a box and the other in a coma. How that earns me any sort of consideration from a man like this, I don’t know.
But his words touch me. He’s right. A ward of the state from the age of two until I was eighteen, my family is the Marine Corps and the elite, multi-forces group I command. They are the only family I need, and yet, I appreciate how generous he is being, given the circumstances.
I can’t respond, so I bow my head, turn crisply and walk away. I find myself reaching for my good luck charm and stop, knowing it’s lost somewhere in the deserts of Iraq after the gunfight a week ago.
It is not those who were lost but those who were saved that should be counted.
As much as I like the sentiment, I don’t think this, either, will help me sleep at night. With a glance at my watch, I realize I’ve got about six hours to grab my gear and be back on base, before I’m headed back to Iraq.
This has been the most draining week I’ve ever been through. It’s not in my nature to second-guess myself, but recalling the amount of pain in Katya’s eyes …
Save Petr.
I need one of the Khav twins to pull through, for my own sake. A family can’t lose two sons at once. It’s just not right.
I can’t wait to get back. War I understand. There are no down moments for me to think about the suffering of men like the twin’s father and women like their sister, whose lives are forever destroyed by one decision I made.
That’s all it takes to change someone’s forever. One choice.
I’ve never been this fucking tired.
Chapter Two: Katya
JULY
Everyone dies around my birthday. I lost my mother a week before I turned nine and one of my brothers three days after my twenty-fifth birthday this year. I don’t think I’ll ever get over either of the two times in my life where I’ve seen my strong father cry.
I get lost in my head a lot, unable to close the door on these memories the way I ache to. I’ve been tempted to take down the pictures in my bedroom with my two brothers, hoping that helps me move on, but can’t bring myself to do it. If I take down Mikael’s picture, I’m afraid he’ll disappear forever. It’s silly, the same thought I experienced after my mother’s death, because I know they’re already gone.
But if I keep the pictures up, it’s like they’re still around somewhere, maybe just outside my room, and I can pretend all I have to do is open the door and they’ll be there waiting.
A hard smack of flesh on metal snaps me out of the melancholy thinking.
My surviving brother, Petr, is playing with his prosthetic leg like he’s a five-year-old who got the best birthday present of his life. It doesn’t look like a real limb and kind of weirds me out, which is why I’m grateful he’s in jeans this time and not boxers. It’s made of some sort of resilient, lightweight metal and reminds me of the robot troopers in the latest round of Star Wars movies. The design is purely out of some science fiction magazine or comic book. If I hadn’t seen him run on it, I never would’ve believed it’d hold his body weight.
“You’re going to knock your leg off,” I snap at him. “The doctor said not to mess with it!”
Petr rolls his eyes. “This thing is cemented to my bone. It’s not coming off.” He slaps his new leg harder, and I flinch.
&
nbsp; It just doesn’t look sturdy.
“Your meds,” I say and hold them out. He’s been avoiding them, I think because they make him a little less … hyper. He’s been insisting for days he’s ready to return to duty, while the medical staff wants him to wait another month before letting the military decide what he can and cannot do, if they let him back in at all.
At a little over six feet tall, he’s got my father’s heavy features, a nose that’s been broken more than once, and a lopsided grin that makes him charmingly roguish in appearance. His hair has grown out some since he came home four months ago, but there’s no way he resembles anything other than the soldier he is.
He’s regained the muscle mass he lost while in the coma for three weeks and managed to put on more weight. He works out every day like he’s going to return to the war that killed our brother and nearly cost Petr his life, too.
Over my dead body. I’m the youngest in the family, but you’d think I was the mother. Probably because I took over the role of taking care of my thickheaded, stupid older brothers after our mother died. I was nine, and they were fourteen, old enough to be in trouble every weekend.
“Kitty-Khav, I’m a trained killer. I can take care of myself,” he reminds me and takes the meds, only to put them back on the tray. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief, the way they always have, though there’s a shadow in them that wasn’t there before Mikael’s death.
The death of our brother haunts us both.
He stands, moving away from the hospital bed as if he’s not wearing a fake leg that looks like it could collapse at any minute.
“You shouldn’t be going to the retreat at all, Petr,” I tell him, not for the first time. “What if you trip in the forest or something?”
He ignores me and puts on a knit cap. I’m not sure what his obsession with knit caps is lately, but he wears one every time he leaves the hospital.
“Petr, you have to be careful.” I’m worried about him, have been since I sat by him every day he was in a coma. I never left his side, and I’ve been a wrench in his spokes since then, knowing the doctors can’t influence my stubborn brother the way I can.