Bring Me Edelweiss (Five Points Stories Book 2)

by Kyle Baxter

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since Alex told us about that charity he’s involved with back home. The CYA? The LGBTQ+ youth group his aunt started?” Robert gave him a prideful smile. “I liked that.”

  Chapter Three

  Walking on Broken Glass

  Dust and sand billowed around them as they ran down the street. With a grunt, Freddie dove into the open door of a mud-brick house, HK MP5 in his arms. He cursed as he took a knee. This was a shitshow. His oppo—his partner—and best friend, Noah, followed.

  “Down.” Noah shoved him as bullets hit the building with a crack, punching through in places, sending fragments and dirt flying. There was a wild-eyed look in Noah’s eyes, a mixture of fear and crazed determination.

  Freddie took deep, gulping breaths, pushing the panic down. The heat was oppressive and sticky, and the smell of petrol hung heavy in the air. The oil fields lay only two klicks away. Oil, it was always oil. He felt like throwing up.

  Last month, two British aid workers were taken hostage in the Syrian town of Al-Daba. Part of a team delivering food and water to refugees, they were picked up by insurgents, suspected of being spies. Threatened in a video, the two of them pleaded for their lives.

  The unit Freddie was attached to was already deployed here, in a camp less than twenty klicks away. A rescue mission was hastily thrown together, and American intel had panned out so far. They were here longer and knew the area better, but after the initial landing, everything went tits up.

  No plan survives contact with the enemy. Freddie remembered that quote. It was from Helmuth von Moltke, chief of staff of the Prussian army during the German wars of unification. Prussians were always so pragmatic and dour. My people.

  “Keep your giant head out of the clouds and down,” Noah spat. Then, with a wink, he gave Freddie his trademark mad smile. “We can’t let anything happen to that pretty face, now can we? Why they ever let a plonker like you into the service is a fucking mystery.”

  Freddie’s eyes took in the room. Patterned rugs lay scattered over the floor. This was a residence like all the other buildings in this part of town—village. Noah led the way, scrambling on his belly into the next room, and Freddie followed close behind. If anyone was home, they were well hidden.

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  Climbing to their feet, they ran up a short flight of stairs. Throwing the door to the roof open, they paused, checked around, and then crawled out and surveyed their surroundings. Across the way, Freddie spied the rest of their patrol also making its way across rooftops. Moving toward the extraction point with the released hostages in tow was a hard scramble, but they were getting there.

  Now he and Noah needed to get there too. If they made it to the north side of town, the Warrior and Humvee could get to them.

  “Leapfrog,” Freddie said.

  Noah nodded in encouragement, his eyes steely. “Go.” He fired behind them, giving cover while Freddie clambered up over a wall and onto the adjoining roof. Higher than most of the buildings in the area, it should afford them some protection.

  Getting into position, Freddie started his own cover fire. “Come!”

  “Aye, aye, your worship.” Noah shimmied up the wall to join him. When he made it up, they lay flat and took a moment to catch their breath. Freddie sussed out where most of the enemy fire was coming from and, tapping his oppo’s shoulder, pointed in that direction. Noah nodded.

  They repeated the process. This time, Noah provided cover while Freddie jumped down to the next building. Landing in a roll on the roof, he got up on a knee and took a quick look around. Ahead of them, he saw a dark silhouette on a roof. It was holding something. Before he could react, there was the whump and flash of an antitank rocket launcher.

  “Scheiße,” he shouted as the world exploded. Everything moved in slow motion. Throwing himself down, he turned and yelled to Noah. But it was too late; he was falling. Falling and screaming as a cloud of angry dust and dirt rose up around him.

  ❖

  Freddie sat bolt upright in a cold sweat and scanned his surroundings. Where was he? He looked down at trembling hands. Scheiße, another nightmare. His heart felt like it was going to leap out of his chest. It’s okay. I’m in my bunk in camp Boxwood near Fallujah. Shaking out his hands, he rolled his shoulders and then counted backward from one hundred in threes.

  Another night, another nightmare, another episode. It was exhausting. They were mostly the same: seeing Noah die on a mission. Sometimes the details were different, sometimes fuzzy, but the guilt remained. He wished he’d moved quicker, done something . . . done anything.

  Freddie grunted and scratched his bearded chin. A quick look at the clock told him it was too early to get up, but no way was he going back to sleep now. His nerves raw, he was not chancing another nightmare. He stood up, stretched his arms out, and then did a few squats in the dark room, working out the kinks.

  An itch crawled along the back of his neck and he jerked around. Nothing was there. He thought . . . but no. His chest was tight. Deep breaths, he reminded himself and shook out his hands again. Deep breaths.

  “Pappy, you okay?” Henry, one of his bunkmates, muttered drowsily in the dark. Noah’s replacement, he was a good bloke, if a bit of a slob. Henry started calling Freddie “Pappy” when he realized Freddie was the oldest trooper in their squadron. It’s better than Red or Ginger.

  “I’m fine,” he lied. With a frown, Freddie grabbed one of his bunkmate’s shirts. It had somehow migrated to his side, and he tossed it back over the invisible demarcation line and back into Henry’s mound of dirty clothes. They gave Special Forces a fair amount of leeway—they were the only men in camp with long hair and beards—but this? This was a bit much.

  No, he upbraided himself. This is you. Most of their barracks were a disaster. When first attached to the Regiment, the lads’ easy-going ways rankled him and his fastidious tendencies. He got over it quickly and made close friends and even grew to love the tight camaraderie life in the elite unit fostered. He was closer to most of these blokes than some of his family. Or at least it used to be that way. Everything changed after Noah. And then his brother Alois died, both in the same year.

  Running a hand through his long hair, he grabbed a towel and headed to the loo and his morning ablutions. Looking at his face in the mirror, he saw the dark circles and the haunted look in his own eyes. He barely recognized himself anymore.

  He was tired, bone-tired, and some deep part of him didn’t see the point in all this anymore. It was just another deployment to another far-flung part of the world, and there was often little to show for it.

  Freddie joined up to get away from home and see the world like every other young man. It worked, mostly, but he also saw a lot of death. Noah’s hit him the hardest, of course. It was almost a year ago, and the nightmares still came.

  He longed to go home now, and that was new. He never thought that would happen. His flat outside London was nice, but his life was the Regiment. What would he even do there?

  Freddie knew what was going on. He was a trooper, but he wasn’t thick. After Noah died, he went to the requisite therapies. But he knew what PTSD was, what it meant, and kept that self-diagnosis compartmentalized and off the record. His CO even told him, “Tell ’em you’re all right.” And the docs here were more than happy to oblige, happy to ignore what Freddie thought was obvious. He was not all right.

  There were anonymous online support groups he frequented. He read countless articles. But every day he worried the night terrors would never pass. From all he read, the vets who made the best recovery did so by getting involved, doing things in their community.

  Well, there’s that.

  He was in the yard, going through his morning PT regimen and looking forward to a sparring session later, when a sergeant walked up to him. “CO wants to see you, trooper.”

  After a quick clean-up, he made his way across the camp and to HQ. The sun was oppressively h
ot, but that was every day that ended in a Y here. The scent of acrid trash was a constant lately. Camp refuse was taken off-site to burn pits, but not far enough for his liking.

  Major-General Heath stood in front of the large wall map of the Middle East. The son of a hero of the first Iraq war, at forty-nine he was one of the youngest generals in the British Army. Though new to the post, his combination of sharp military skills and a compassionate nature endeared him to the men. Freddie was disposed to like him. Heath was handsome, after a fashion, with his sandy hair, and he stood a bit taller than Freddie. The wiry officer gestured to a chair after returning his salute.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here.” Heath laughed quietly to himself. “I always love saying that.”

  Freddie kept his face passive; he knew the major-general’s sometimes eccentric sense of humor. “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you care for some coffee? I believe you prefer that,” the taller officer asked as he leaned back against his desk. “I can have the sergeant get you some.”

  “No thank you, sir.” Freddie was surprised that the major-general knew anything about him, beyond his name. After all, they’d only spoken a handful of times during his current deployment.

  “Well, that’s all well and good. I’ll get right to it, then. I have news for you, Sergeant,” Heath said. “Good news, I think. You are being discharged, effective immediately.”

  That got him. Freddie sat up straight with a jerk. “I’m sorry, sir. What?”

  Heath let out a heavy sigh. “Your father put in a call to high command and has requested you come home.”

  “My father?”

  “Yes, and coming from someone with his connections, the British Army assented. We could hardly turn down a request from him.” The man’s mouth pulled into a flat line. This was not welcome news. No one liked strings being pulled behind their back.

  Freddie sucked air through his teeth and nodded. Heath talked on for a bit, but Freddie was mulling this news over. What was going on? What would prompt his father to do this? They’d never shown much interest in him. He was the youngest of four children, and both his parents checked out on him long ago. They sent him off to boarding school early; even now he only rarely talked to his father. And now to pull this? To yank him out of the service like they were pulling an errant boy out of school?

  He saw the pained look on Heath’s face. That was a man who was in charge yet was being told to do something like he was a child himself. Freddie looked down. He regretted his earlier desire to go home. He wanted to go home, but back to his flat in England, outside of London. He did not want to go home home.

  Still, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It would be nice to see some of his family again. He visited his older sister Astrid last year on holiday, but his older brother and parents were too busy during that trip. He looked forward to seeing his aunt; they always got on.

  Looking up, he realized the major-general had stopped talking and was watching him. He stammered an, “I apologize, sir.”

  “No need. I’m certain you have a million things on your mind. You’ve been in the army for over a decade. I can’t imagine how this is hitting you. Pick up your orders from the staff sergeant. You leave in the morning.”

  Freddie stood, shook the man’s offered hand, then gave him a salute and went back to his barracks. That night, he packed his few possessions, mostly books on ancient history, and a single chess set. He led a spartan life in the military, especially here in the desert. He eschewed extravagance of any kind, a deliberate rejection of his family’s life.

  My family life, he thought as he shoved his civvies into his duffle bag—mostly shorts and T-shirts as befitted the weather here. What did his father possibly want? Pulling strings like this to get him to come home was astounding. They’d left him to his own devices for years; something must have happened. But there’d been no news. Every report he received from them was short and perfunctory. And since his brother’s death, they were rare. Was that it? Did it have to do with Alois’s death?

  But that would only directly affect him if something was wrong with Karl. He was the golden boy. Freddie put a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple. His head ached as he remembered the family stories, the folklore about the family curse. It always struck the eldest brother. What was wrong with Karl?

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Know It All

  Freddie glanced around his flat. He returned to London to find it barren, completely empty. The gremlins—what he called his retainers—had been hard at work. They’d obviously come and packed up his life and shipped it all back to Etreustein, his childhood home. Father dear left nothing to chance. No doubt if he did not get home soon, someone would come looking for him.

  He tried calling, but his father’s secretary only admonished him to get home soon. Why the urgency? Was his father or mother ill? No, surely they would have said something by now. And he would have seen some notice of that in the papers, but there was nothing.

  Home. It rolled around in his head. What a loaded word. He hadn’t even lived there in more than a decade. Still, it would be good to see Astrid and his nephews and nieces again, especially Inga. She was a spitfire.

  A knock and the squeak of a small voice caught his attention. “Hullo, Frederick?”

  “Mrs. Watson, come in.” Freddie opened the door wide, and the petite octogenarian entered. She gave him a quick hug before her British reserve pulled her back.

  “Good to see you safe.” She patted his chest. “As you see, your people came and took all your stuff. Are you really moving home?”

  He was rarely here, so she had a trouble-free tenant and one who didn’t drive up the bills. No doubt she would miss him. “At least for a while. Would you hold it for me?”

  “Of course, dear. I wasn’t doing anything until I had word directly from you, anyway.” She looked around the room. “I’m sorry there wasn’t a lot I could do about them taking everything. They had paperwork from the magistrate.”

  “It’s fine, though I do wish they’d left me some clothes. I don’t have much more than my military kit.” He tightened his grip on his beret. He never needed much for off-duty wear in the Middle East, but did they have to take everything?

  “But you look so dashing in your uniform.” She straightened out his jacket.

  His face reddened. “Mrs. Watson, thank you.”

  “When do you fly home?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” He double-checked the mobile boarding pass on his phone. He estimated he should be at the airport around noon.

  “I so hate to see you go,” she said. “But maybe it is time you go home and settle down. Find a young lady.” She looked up at him slyly. “Or a young man.”

  “Uhm . . . Mrs. Watson,” he stammered. Freddie rarely brought anyone of any gender here, and she noticed.

  “Will you stay here?” She motioned around. “I do have some bedding and cushions I can bring up if you like.”

  “No thank you. I booked a room in a small hotel over by the British Museum.” He picked it for its location. He loved museums, and at the moment, they had an exhibit he wanted to see: Hadrian and Antinous. The book he just finished reading, Ben Pastor’s The Water Thief, was about an ancient Roman’s search for the truth about Antinous’s death. The Bithynian youth, lover of Emperor Hadrian, was forced into a life he did not choose. It was no surprise that the young man’s story resonated with him.

  “It’s only one night,” he assured her.

  Back outside, he took a moment to survey the neighborhood. He liked it here with the quaint streets lined with pastel-painted townhomes, like Mrs. Watson’s. A street market lay just ahead on Portobello Road. You could easily leave a cute antique shop, turn a corner, and walk down a cobblestone alley. It reminded him of home.

  He was a shy, awkward thirteen-year-old when they first shipped him off to England and boarding school. The youngest child, Freddie felt that his parents were trying to be rid of him so they could
concentrate on his siblings—the important children. But he supposed that a lot of young kids felt that way.

  His older brother Alois graduated from university and worked here then. He made regular visits to see Freddie. Sometimes Alley would bring him to London on weekends and they’d take in a show on the West End. Freddie missed him so much. There was still so much of the city he wanted to see.

  Scheiße. Freddie liked his life. He enjoyed not being tied down. A vagabond at heart, he loved traveling. Military life suited him.

  Damn you, Father dear. It was so typical of the man: ignore him for years, then pull a few strings and yank him home. Freddie had built a life here, all on his own, and it was all for naught. His father dropped in and pulled it all down. He clenched his fists. Verdammt noch mal!

  ❖

  Frederick did not leave the next day. In a fit of pique, he changed his flight, deciding he would see more of the city before he left. Fuck ’em. Then one night turned into a week, and he kept putting off his flight home, one day at a time. There were furious calls and texts from Luc, the gremlin assigned particularly to him. Freddie ignored them, only replying sporadically.

  Finally, Luc lost his patience.

  Luc: I swear if you are not back here by the end of the week I don’t know what your father will do.

  Freddie wanted to say, Come get me. But Luc’s job was tough enough and he relented.

  Frederick: I will be back by the end of the week. I promise. I’ll text you when I arrive.

  He spent the remaining few days touring London, doing all the touristy things he meant to do when he lived here but never really got around to. He planned on coming back, but things would likely be different then. Judging by Luc’s more than usual harried tone, he figured his life was about to change.

  Reaching out to old friends, he found they knew nothing, though Julia did say Karl had not been seen in public for some time. That concerned him. His mother was always the more available of his parents, but even there he met a roadblock. He only reached her secretary and an admonishment to come home as soon as possible.