As they pull up to the house, I rise to my feet, lean against the post of the front porch, and swig my beer. I run a hand through my hair as the four doors open and four men emerge. Two hard-looking MPs and two officers—Captain Laughlin and a lieutenant colonel I don’t recognize.
“Corporal West.” Captain Laughlin, his voice sharp as ever, hard eyes raking over me. Tall, whipcord thin, angular features and a nose that’s too long for his face.
“Alex.” I don’t move.
The colonel bristles and steps forward. “You’re still an active-duty member of the United States Marine Corps, son. You’d better—”
Captain Laughlin just laughs and waves the colonel off. “Relax, Jim. I’ve got this.” He moves up the steps, leaving the other three men behind. He gestures to the front door. “Can we talk inside, Derek?”
“We can talk right here.”
He sighs. “All right, then.” Sweeps his hat off his head, takes a seat on a chair, and leans back. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Derek. You’re AWOL. You left the hospital without being discharged. You left without being assigned a sponsor. You left without any further debriefing. Could be said you’re in dereliction of duty. I could put you behind bars. Strip you of rank, make you a PFC all over again, and send you back to the FOB. I could dishonorably discharge you. You catching my drift so far, Corporal?” He emphasizes the word to remind me of my rank, I guess.
“Sir.”
“But I’m a nice motherfucker, okay? I’ve got a heart of fucking gold, so I haven’t done any of that yet. I’ve given you time. I’ll be honest, of all the places I expected to find you, this wasn’t one of them. But I get it. You’re not getting any judgment from me. All right? You‘re a damn fine Marine, Derek.” He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, dark eyes on mine like chips of obsidian. “You went through hell. You suffered. I get that. I respect the shit out of you for coming out of that with even a speck of sanity left in you. But I got orders, and you know as well as I do there ain’t a goddamn thing I can do about that.”
“I can’t go back, Alex.” I set my empty beer bottle on the railing and turn to face him. “Can’t. Won’t. To be totally honest, I don’t think I’m fit. I’d be a liability. Soon as shit hit the fan, I’d be a mess. A while back, some punk little fucker set off some firecrackers, and I hit the deck, shaking like a leaf. How do you think I’d do ducking RPGs and avoiding IEDs, Alex? Huh?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Derek.” He stands up. “They’re not asking you to go back to patrols, all right? They’re not trying to send you back into combat. They’re not that stupid—” He breaks off with a grin, and, despite myself, I can’t help laughing because, yeah, they usually are that stupid. He sobers and continues. “I can’t say much, not here, not now. I’ve got to get you cleaned up and on a transport across the pond.”
I frown. “So they want me back over there, but not for combat?”
Captain Laughlin nods at the screen door, at Reagan and Tommy, who are standing inside, watching and listening. “Like I said, this is not the time or place for a full rundown. But I can give you the bottom line. They’re counting your time as a POW as another term of duty, so you’re going to receive special pay for it, and credit for time served. Which means you’ve done three years out of a five-year term. Do this for me, and we can work something out. Get you a desk job. Recruiting in Houston, maybe. Something easy, possibly even close to here, if that’s what you want. Something to finish out two years, get your walking papers, and do whatever the fuck you want with the rest of your life.”
The idea of leaving has my stomach twisting. My heart is being ripped out of my chest. Seems I made a promise I couldn’t keep. “I served my time. I did my duty to my country, goddamn it. Haven’t I paid my fucking dues, Alex? Haven’t I? It’s not enough I watched a dozen of my closest friends get fucking slaughtered? It’s not enough I held my best goddamn friend in my arms and watched him die? It’s not enough that I spent three years enduring torture and beatings and interrogations? I never gave ’em shit but name, rank, and serial number. I didn’t give ’em shit, Alex. But yet, none of that’s enough? I gotta go back? Just one more mission. Fuck you, Alex. Fuck you for asking.”
He stares out at the pasture, at Henry shaking his head and trotting along the fence line. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m not asking.”
“I’m not your goddamn buddy, Captain.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Fuck your ‘sorry.’ Fuck all of you!” I shout past him, at the colonel, at the MPs, who step forward, ready to bust my ass.
Captain Laughlin extends a hand, palm out, stopping them. He turns to me, all sympathy, humanity, and friendship gone. Nothing left in him now except the commander, and an expectation of obedience. “Get your shit, Corporal. The jet is wheels up in twelve hours. You’re on it, or you’re in cuffs.”
I remain still for a moment, chewing on my rage. Eventually, the knowledge that there’s nothing left to do but comply sinks in. Better to do the job, take the offer. Prison will kill me. I straighten my spine. I stand at attention. Snap a salute. He just narrows his eyes, and I can see a faint trace of regret lurking deep somewhere in there. I about-face, each move stiff and angry, and go inside. I slam the screen door behind me so hard Reagan jumps and Tommy drops his blocks, his little face screwing up, ready to burst into tears.
God, that kid. So sweet.
He lumbers to his feet and runs over to me. He grabs my leg and reaches up. “De’ek.”
I lift him up. Hold him. “It’s all right, little man. Sorry I scared you.”
He touches my face. “Sad?”
I force all emotion out of my features, bring up a smile for him. “Nope. I’ve just gotta—I’ve gotta go.”
“Go where?”
How do you even begin explaining this to a three-year-old? “I…I’ve got some work to do. I have to go be a Marine.”
I hear Reagan choke.
Tommy tilts his head, looking deep into my eyes. Holy hell, this kid looks so much like Tom it’s eerie and painful. Eventually he just wiggles, and I set him on his feet. “Okay,” he says, sober and far too understanding for his age. “Bye-bye. See soon.”
God, my throat is tight. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon. I’ll be back. Okay?”
He goes to the wooden toy chest and digs in it. He brings out a little plastic figure that he hands me. It’s a character I recognize as Cubby from Jake and the Neverland Pirates. It doesn’t escape me that Cubby always has a map, always knows the way, how to find the path. I take it from him.
“Cubby,” he says.
“Cubby,” I repeat, putting the toy in my pocket.
Reagan still won’t look at me; she’s focused on the notepad she’s still writing in, focused on not crying. It’s a failed effort, because I can see tears on her chin.
I need a minute to gather myself before I can say goodbye to her. So I go up to the bedroom, our bedroom, taking the stairs three at a time. Pull a shirt on. Socks. Lace up my boots. Leave everything else. I leave it here, because I’m coming back. With my head down, I clomp down the stairs, slowly this time. Reagan is still writing, not looking up at me.
I stop in front of her. Kneeling down, I reach up and brush a lock of hair behind her ear. She turns her head away from my touch, and then she sniffles and nuzzles her cheek into my palm. She finally looks at me. Her blue eyes shimmer and shine. They’re wet with tears. She’s in agony, and she’s terrified.
“Don’t go.” Her voice breaks.
“I have to.” I swallow hard. “It’s this or jail.”
“I heard.”
“I’ll come back.”
“Yeah.” Bitter, sarcastic, angry. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that….”
“I will.” Touch the corner of her mouth with my thumb. Run the pad of my thumb over her lips. “I will.”
“You’d better.”
This is the ritual. This
is how you say goodbye: You use words like you’d better to cover up how you really feel about goodbye. You’d better—as if not dying in combat is a viable option.
She’s shaking and trying to hold in the sobs. Tilting her face up to mine, she kisses me with salt-stained lips. Reagan pulls away first and stands up straight. She takes my hands and pulls me to my feet, then hands me a folded square of paper. “Read it, Derek. Just…read it.”
I put the letter in my hip pocket and pull her against me in an embrace. Her arms wrap around my neck; her face wets my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Reagan. I know I promised you—”
“I love you,” she cuts in over me, her words muffled in my shirt.
“Love you, too.”
She tips her face up to mine, kisses me softly, then backs away and shoves me toward the door. “Go.”
I go.
The inside of a Humvee is one place I never wanted to see again.
The lieutenant colonel, a man in his late forties with a square jaw and intelligent eyes, stares me down for long minutes. Finally, he speaks. “So, you and Barrett’s widow?”
I’m a heartbeat away from throwing the limp-dick pencil pusher out of the truck with his teeth in the back of his throat, but Alex speaks up for me. “Jim?” His voice is razor-sharp. “Shut the fuck up…sir.”
It’s silent all the way to Ft. Worth.
Dawn comes early the next day. I’m now clean-shaven, hair cut high and tight, geared up and buttoned down, sitting in the back of a rumbling, echoing troop transport. I’m destined for Kandahar, and I’ll get my orders as soon as I’m boots-down.
Oorah.
CHAPTER 18
Derek,
You changed me. You gave me my life back. Until I met you, I never thought I’d love again. Never thought I could, or even should. But somehow, love came to me, in the form of you.
So, that being said, I hope you understand when I say I HATE that I’m writing another goddamn letter. I hate writing letters. It’s the loneliest thing in the world, but I’m really good at them. I’ve had enough practice, after all.
This time, though, I’m at a loss. I have no clue what I’m supposed to say. All I know is that I haven’t had enough time with you.
This is my fourth attempt. There are three wadded-up balls of paper in the trash in the kitchen. Most of them were ruined by crossed-out sentences and tear stains. I never sent a letter to Tom that had a tear stain on it. I’d rewrite them, several times, if I had to. The messed-up letters all say the same basic thing. How much I love you. How much I’ll miss you. Blah blah blah. But I can’t write any of that. I just can’t. I have to write what’s in my heart. I can’t hide it, and I can’t keep it in. I’m sorry.
I can’t be a good supportive Marine Corps wife anymore. I don’t want you to go. I’m angry that you’re going. I’m angry at you for being a Marine. I’m angry at the government for sending troops over there. I support the Corps. Of course I do. My brother is a Marine. My husband was a Marine. You’re a Marine. But I just can’t understand why you—all of you, any of you—keep having to go. And I’m angry about it. I’m angry with myself for falling in love with ANOTHER soldier. I let myself think they’d let you stay at home this time. Considering what you went through, you’d think they’d cut you some slack. But I guess not. And I have to go and fall in love with you. So I get to stay here, on this FUCKING FARM, by myself. Again. And I’m angry about it.
I’m so angry, Derek. And I just don’t know what to do or how to handle it. It’s eating me up inside. And if you don’t come back, Derek, I’m just going to lose it. I’ll never recover if you don’t come back. So you have to, okay? I don’t care what you have to do, but you have to come back.
I need you.
WE need you.
CHAPTER 19
DEREK
Afghanistan, September 2010
The Huey contains eight men: me, a five-man fire team, and the pilot and co-pilot. The side doors are open, the barren, rugged terrain flying by a few hundred feet below. No one speaks. The fire team is relaxed and ready, watching outside, scanning. I’m scared shitless and trying not to show it.
Apparently, some SEALs captured several high-ranking Taliban operatives. Most of them clammed up and wouldn’t say shit. They ended up in Guantanamo. Whatever. But one of them…he didn’t just sing, he talked shit. Bragged about missions he planned, IEDs he personally planted and watched blow us up. His biggest brag, though, concerned me. The American soldier he captured and tortured. He talked about all the videos he shot using me, and how they recruited hundreds more terrorists using those videos.
They want a positive I.D. Seems if he is who they think he is, he’s one of those operatives no one’s ever seen or even gotten a good picture of, wanted in a dozen countries for countless crimes against humanity. So if he’s the one who captured me, I’m one of the only people in the world who can I.D. him. Of course, he could be talking shit, making things up, trying to buy time or make himself seem important. A shitload of people saw those videos and could use them to describe me, but this guy’s been talking in detail about things they did to me. Clearly, the best way to make sure he is who they think he is—a big ol’ fish in the Taliban sea—is to bring me across the world and put me face to face with the man who tortured me for shits and giggles.
So here I am, in a helo en route to some remote outpost in the middle of the fucking Afghani desert.
Hopefully, this’ll be easy. Fly in, I.D. the guy, and go back stateside. Never see this fucking country again.
I’ve read Reagan’s letter easily fifty times. It’s odd, that letter. Unfinished. As if there was more she wanted to say, but she didn’t have time to finish it, or maybe she just couldn’t bring herself to write the rest of it. Something. I don’t know what, but I have my suspicions, idle conjecture. But I don’t know. All I do know right now is that I need to do this shit and get back to her. The letter is in my chest pocket, along with the Cubby figure.
I’m officially a noncombatant, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go boots down in Afghanistan without a rifle, sidearm, frags, and spare mags. My heart is palpitating, throat thick, palms sweaty inside my FR gloves.
“Two minutes.” The pilot’s voice comes over the headset, a brief update.
I watch the ground, wiggle my fingers, and pretend they’re not shaking. The helo flares, touches down. Two members of the fire team jump down, take a couple of steps, and then drop to one knee, scanning, rifles up. I jump down, jog toward the single building in view. It’s a rude and crude hut, hastily assembled for this purpose in the middle of nowhere, accessible only by air. Remote, secure. There’s a SuperCobra orbiting around us. I track its pattern as I approach the door to the hut and pound my fist on it. It opens, revealing a sweating face, a man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, gray eyes colder than ice.
“Corporal Derek West, sir.” I salute, although I don’t know who this guy is. If he’s here and dressed in civvies, I don’t think I want to know.
“C’mon in. This won’t take long.” He doesn’t emerge, just shoves the door open wide enough for me to slide through.
The helo is idling, rotors still turning. The fire team is positioned outside the hut and on either side of the Huey. I can hear the SuperCobra somewhere off in the distance, the sound of its rotors echoing off the mountainsides.
It’s dark inside the hut. Hot as fuck. I pull my balaclava down, let my rifle dangle from the strap, holding on to the grip with one hand. I wipe the beads of sweat off my nose. My eyes adjust to the faint light, and I can make out a folding table with a couple of bottles of water, a liter of whiskey. Ashtray, smoldering butts, a few unopened packs of Marlboros. Coffeemaker, powdered creamer. MREs, both unopened and loose empty wrappers. They’ve been here a while.
A chair. A man, hands cuffed at his sides to the rungs beneath his thighs. Ankles cuffed to the legs of the chair. Shirtless, swollen cheekbones, puffy lip, bruises. Trickle of blood from his nose.
“The cla
ssification level of what you’re seeing is off the charts, West. You get me?”
“Sir.” I signed a whole bunch of shit. I can’t say dick to anyone about this. Whatever. I just wanna go home.
“Take a look. Recognize him?” I register the voice of the spook or whatever he is, but I don’t look too closely at him. I don’t want to know what he looks like, don’t want to know his name or what branch he’s from. Don’t want to know what’s going to happen after I leave, or what happened before I got here.
I step forward, closer to the battered figure shackled to the metal chair. I swallow hard and pretend the sweat sliding down the back of my neck is from the heat. He’s in shadow, and I can’t make out his features.
A light is flicked on, and directed at the prisoner. He tilts his head away, eyes narrowed.
Look at him, pussy, I tell myself. Fucking look at him.
I finally take a look.
I blink, shake my head, stumble back, and swallow hard to keep my lunch down. It’s him. Fuck.
Then the flashbacks hit me.
Rapid Pashto, or Arabic, or whatever. Black eyes like empty space, darker than holes in the earth. Scarred upper lip curled into a sneer. Thin beard, long and graying near the roots. Pockmarks on his forehead and cheeks from childhood illness. He kneels in front of me, a red Bic in his hand. He chatters to me, as if I understand him. Laughs at his own joke. But the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing does. No light escapes the black holes of his pupils, no humanity reaches through. He grabs my middle and ring fingers, bends them back to the breaking point. Flicks the lighter; a flame spurts and wavers. Touches my skin. I grimace, grit my teeth. I can keep from screaming for a while. Until I feel the flesh charring, scarring. And then I cut loose. Scream. He moves the flame down to my palm, holds it there for a few moments, then cuts the flame and watches me heave for breath. Flicks the lighter to life again, but this time he holds the tip of a knife under the yellow heat and keeps it there till the blade point glows red. He rips open my shirt. Presses the flat of the blade to my nipple. Skin and hair sizzle. I don’t bother trying not to scream. Seeing my agony, the black eyes show humor.
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