Neither of the men challenged Travis’s statement. They both knew it was true; for all intents and purposes, the war was already over.
For a long while, they sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the night, until Fletcher finally spoke. “Why’d you carry on, Bruno?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why’d you go through with the operation?”
“It just felt like the right thing to do. If we’d stopped and abandoned him, he would’ve died. It seems to me that too many people have invested too much in him for me to just give up when things got a little hairy. Why’d you stay?”
Fletcher shrugged. “I had nowhere to be just then.”
Travis shook his head. “You’re both out of your fucking minds.”
Fletcher handed out another round of beers. “A toast, gentlemen. To friends coming together to help one another. And to those among us who commandeer armored vehicles to protect a crazed surgeon and his deranged nurse.”
Fletcher and Bruno both raised their drinks to Travis. “Despite everything,” Fletcher declared, “some things are still worth fighting for.”
Twenty-three
During the next two weeks, the Fat Lady was involved in a company-sized foray into the mountains of the Central Highlands near the Cambodian border. Not for the first time, they operated at point with Mitchell effectively leading a team of three hundred men on another seemingly futile exercise through the sticky mess of Vietnam. During nine days, they were involved in two firefights. Their exchanges claimed thirty-four Vietcong, but they suffered heavy losses of their own; eighteen U.S. soldiers would never see their families again. The Fat Lady, however, had emerged intact.
By the time the helicopters arrived to pick them up, Fletcher was becoming increasingly anxious. He was desperate to find out how the dog was doing. In the days following the operation, the Labrador’s vital signs had shown dramatic improvement. His temperature had dropped to within the normal range, there was a steady rhythm to his breathing, and, most important, it appeared as though he had fought off earlier signs of infection. But still he remained in a coma.
The flight back lasted three quarters of an hour. When they eventually touched down, he jumped from the helicopter and ran for his tent. Many of the men he sped past regarded him suspiciously—soldiers hardly ever ran on base unless there was an emergency. As he made it to the tent, Bruno emerged, wiping the back of his neck with a towel. His friend’s expression told him most of what he needed to know.
The news was not good.
“He’s alive, but I’m afraid he’s in a deep coma. He hasn’t regained consciousness since you left.”
Fletcher let his pack drop to the ground; his chest was heaving from the run. “What does this mean?”
“I’m sorry, Fletch. If he hasn’t regained consciousness now, there’s a good chance he may never do so.”
Fletcher made no attempt to hide his disappointment.
“I’m afraid the bad news doesn’t end there. Wilson has found out about all this, and he’s not pleased. He wants you, Travis, and Mitchell in his office first thing tomorrow morning. Evidently he’s not aware of my role in the proceedings.”
“And that’s how it’ll stay.”
Despite feeling responsible for implicating Travis and Mitchell, Fletcher didn’t care much what Battalion Commander Frank Wilson thought or planned to do. Few punishments carried more threat than remaining a soldier in Vietnam. “Thank you for everything.”
Bruno nodded and placed his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder before stepping aside.
As Fletcher moved into the tent, he was stunned by what he saw. Letters and cards of goodwill covered the inside walls of the tent. On the canvas wall to his right, pinned to the material, were hundreds of dollar bills placed next to each other like tiles. There had to be three or four hundred dollars’ worth.
“What is this?”
Bruno shuffled past him and pulled off one of the crumpled bills. “Read for yourself,” he said, offering it to Fletcher.
Scribbled in red ink near the top of the bill was the message: Fletcher, consider this the Strip’s contribution to helping you save your dog. Good luck.
“There’s been something of an outpouring of support while you’ve been away. It started the day after you left, when three of the soldiers approached me and asked if they could see the dog. At first I denied any knowledge, but after they told me that most of the base knew what was going on, I let them in. They stayed at the dog’s side for hours, offering to help in whatever way they could. The next day, there were ten soldiers. The day after that, thirty.”
Fletcher pulled off another note and read the message: It was either this or more cigarettes. And you know how much I love my coffin nails. It was signed José Alvares, the Soup’s part-time barkeep.
Overwhelmed, Fletcher moved away from the money wall and turned his attention to the dog. The mosquito net was still draped over his stretcher. Lifting the gauze, he sat down next to the Labrador. The animal’s golden coat seemed to have brightened since he had last seen him. From the look of it, he had put on at least four or five pounds.
“He looks so good,” Fletcher said, battling to keep his emotions in check. “He just needs to wake up.” He placed his hand on the dog’s flank and lightly stroked his fur. Running his fingers up his body, he rested his palm against the dog’s nose. It felt warm and moist. “How’ve you been managing with the drips?”
“I was close to running out after the first week, but one call to our benefactor, and another consignment was with us the next morning.”
“He’s a good man.”
“We have enough drips for another five days or so, and the men’s donations should keep us going with whatever else we need for some time to come. It’s all up to him now.”
Mindful of exposing the animal to whatever he might’ve picked up during the past few days, Fletcher stepped back and pulled down the mosquito net behind him. Again, he surveyed the walls of the tent. “I can’t believe this. I never knew we had so many animal lovers.”
“I’m not sure we do. I think it’s more a case of what our patient represents. Most of the men associate dogs with their lives back home. It gives them something familiar to cling to. Something normal.”
“Either way, I’m grateful for their support,” Fletcher said, reading the message on another bill. “I just hope it’s not in vain.”
Twenty-four
Fletcher lifted Kelly above his head and threw her into an approaching wave.
She shrieked with delight, thrashing her arms around wildly. “Again!” she cried, wiping the salt water from her eyes. “Again!”
Fletcher grabbed her by her shoulders and again pitched her into an oncoming swell. She emerged laughing, her long hair plastered to the sides of her face.
“Easy, honey,” Abigail warned, joining them in the waist-high water. “That’s precious cargo you’ve got there.”
“Yes, Daddy!” Kelly agreed. “I’m very precious, don’t you know.”
“Precious? More like precocious!”
“Pre-what?”
“Precocious. It means ‘fish food.’ ”
Kelly slapped her hands on her hips indignantly, her pink bathing suit shimmering in the bright morning sun. “I’m not fish food. I’m a princess—” she began, before a small but powerful wave knocked her off her feet. Most children would’ve burst into tears at the fright of being barreled over by the ocean, but not Kelly. By the time Fletcher had fished her out of the water, she was laughing again.
“All right, young lady.” Abigail smiled. “That’s enough for now. Let’s go get something to eat, and we can come back later this afternoon.”
Kelly’s expression soured. She considered complaining, but then eased at the prospect of ice cream. “Can I have a bubble gum milk shake?”
“Okay, but then no dessert.”
Kelly mulled over the deal for a moment. “Then I’ll have to have a big one…”
; Fletcher shook his head. “She’s going to make us truckloads of money one day as a bloodthirsty attorney.”
“C’mon, let’s go,” Abigail said, reaching for Kelly’s hand. Fletcher, in turn, took Kelly’s other hand, and together they waded out toward the beach. As they trudged forward, Fletcher noticed that the underwater currents had grown stronger since they first entered the water. As he pushed on, leaning forward, he seemed to step into a hole, and the water leapt up to his chest. Instinctively, he held Kelly back.
“That’s strange,” Abigail said. “This wasn’t here before.”
“We must’ve stepped off a shelf. Let’s try a different route to the beach.”
Fletcher also noticed that the sky overhead, which he was certain had been clear only minutes before, was now heavily overcast. A wind rose up and sprayed sea salt in their eyes.
“What’s going on?” Abigail asked, raising her voice above a sudden crack of lightning.
“I don’t know,” Fletcher said, using all his strength to fight the ocean’s pull.
“The current’s so strong. We’re going to be sucked out to sea!”
“Don’t panic,” he replied, but his words were lost to a gale that now blasted across the choppy water.
“Daddy, don’t let us drown!” Kelly pleaded, squeezing his hand.
Fletcher looked back over his shoulder, then down at the water around them. What was a deep cobalt blue before, was now a thick and morose black, a massive expanse of ink. He spun around again, searching for the sanctity of the beach, but it was no longer there.
“Somebody help us!” Abigail cried, now treading water and clinging desperately to her daughter. Kelly, in turn, began to scream.
With his free hand, Fletcher wiped his eyes and again searched for the beach. It was nowhere, seemingly consumed by the alien ocean. The soft sand underfoot was also lost.
The wind cut up the water’s surface, and between swollen thunderheads, more lightning fired synapse-like on the horizon. Then came the rain. A fiery shower that burnt like acid as it pelted down on them. Where it greeted the water, it burst into streaks of ruby flame.
And then his girls were gone.
The current that he’d been fighting so hard to resist tore them away from him and sucked them out into the bowels of the ocean. Their bodies moved at an impossible speed. He swam out frantically toward them, but they soon disappeared.
The ocean, now a swirling mass of lava, began to pull him under.
As the fiery lip of a wave broke over him, his final words were lost to the hellish storm.
* * *
Fletcher woke with a pinched-off scream. The dream was exactly the same each time. Equally vivid and harrowing, but new to him on each occasion, a dream without an imprint in his memory. It had been a while since the nightmare had last played out in his sleep. Hello, darkness, my old friend, he thought morbidly to himself.
He sat up and used his sheet to wipe away the sweat on his face. As he tried to gather his thoughts, he felt a strange weight pressing down on his right thigh. He opened his eyes and looked down at the bed. The dog, lying alongside him, was resting its head on his leg. Fletcher swallowed heavily. He eased himself down the stretcher and leaned over the animal. Gently, he rubbed the side of the Labrador’s face. His heart, still racing after the dream, began to pound even harder. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Are you awake?”
The dog stirred, but remained unconscious.
Fletcher leaned in closer and repeated himself. This time the dog’s ears pricked up at the sound of his voice. His jowls twitched, and his front right leg gave a short kick. And then, miraculously, he opened his eyes.
Fletcher felt a surge of warmth rise up in his chest.
The dog’s rich brown and yellow eyes held Fletcher’s stare.
“I never doubted you for a minute,” he managed. “What took you so long?”
Twenty-five
“I’ll be damned,” Bruno repeated for the third time in as many minutes. “I truly thought we’d lost him.”
“We should have,” Fletcher suggested, gently massaging the Labrador’s neck. “But you saved him.”
“I’m not sure how much I had to do with it. His injuries were very serious. Too serious, maybe.”
“What do you mean?” Wayville asked.
“I don’t know, really, but I think we had some … higher help. This dog was meant to survive.”
“C’mon, that’s bullshit.”
“Is it? Do you have any idea how much blood he lost? Medically, it was virtually impossible for him to remain alive. Believe me, we’re in the league of miracles here.”
Seemingly aware that he was the subject of their conversation, the dog lifted his head and tried to sit up.
“Easy, buddy,” Fletcher warned, helping to prop him up.
The dog looked down at the gauze patches on his body, then back up at Fletcher. His eyes were heavy with sleep.
“You’re going to be just fine.”
He blinked and then nuzzled the side of Fletcher’s arm.
Arnold, who had been chronically depressed since the shooting, knelt down next to the Labrador. The dog turned, regarded him wearily for a moment, and then licked his hand.
Fletcher watched as the tears instantly welled up in the young soldier’s eyes. In a single stroke, he had been absolved of his offenses. His relief was palpable. The group remained quiet, respecting the weight of the moment.
After a while, Gunther screwed open his flask and poured some water into an upturned helmet. “Let’s see if he’s ready to drink yet.”
At first, the dog seemed uninterested, but his ears soon pricked up as if he suddenly remembered how thirsty he was. He quickly lapped up the water, splashing it all over Fletcher’s legs.
Before he could finish, Bruno withdrew the helmet. “That’s enough for now.”
Travis moved toward the dog. “It’s so strange that he’s a Labrador. Most of the dogs I’ve seen out here are German shepherds.”
“There’re quite a few Labradors operating as scout and tracker dogs. They’re very intelligent. Mostly used for picking up enemy tracks and providing early warning of snipers, ambushes, and traps. If he has training, we could actually use him,” Mitchell replied.
As the possibility rattled around in Fletcher’s mind, Bruno asked a question that was so startlingly obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. “What’re we going to call him?”
The question was clearly directed at Fletcher; the dog’s name was his to give.
No sooner had the words left Bruno’s mouth, than Fletcher had the answer. “Jack. We’ll call him Jack.”
“That was quick. Why Jack?” Bruno asked.
“I don’t know.” Fletcher shrugged. “The name just came to me.”
Mitchell lowered down onto his haunches and cupped his hand over the side of the Labrador’s face. “Well, Jack … welcome back to hell.”
Twenty-six
Huddled together, nursing hangovers, Fletcher, Travis, and Mitchell waited to be summoned into Frank Wilson’s office. The night before had been spent vigorously celebrating Jack’s recovery.
“What’s our plan?” Travis asked, more out of concern for his headache than from fear of being overheard.
“Let’s request a dishonorable discharge from the war,” Mitchell volunteered, his eyelids at half-mast. He hardly ever drank, but when he did, he really committed himself to it.
“Just leave the talking to me. It’s my fault that you’re both here.”
“If you think we’re going to sit back and let you play the martyr, you can forget it.” Travis yawned. “Besides, what’s the worst they can do? Send us to bed without supper?”
“This might be more serious than you think. Wilson might’ve found out about my fight with Rogan.”
“Oh, yes … that.” Mitchell laughed. “Hell, that was entertaining.”
“Hold on, Fletch, you told us you’d already spoken to Rogan an
d there wasn’t going to be an investigation.”
“He might’ve changed his mind.”
“Rogan is full of shit, we all know it, but his word is good. If he told you there isn’t going to be an investigation, he won’t backpedal now.”
Fletcher was about to respond, when the door to Frank Wilson’s office opened. “Inside, gentlemen. Now.”
* * *
“Sit down,” Frank Wilson said in a tone that suggested it was not a request. He rolled up a large map of Southern Vietnam he’d been studying. “I suppose you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, sir,” Fletcher replied. “First of all, I want you to know that neither of these men—”
Frank held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Carson. Rogan has told me everything. I know that you men found the dog while on tour. I know it was Rogan’s idea to bring him back and that you were just acting under orders, but I must tell you I’m not happy with the situation at all. Carrying an injured animal around on a patrol is both dangerous and stupid. Quite frankly, I was surprised by your lieutenant’s poor judgment. But be that as it may, we now have to deal with the situation. I’ve been told that the dog has been under your care and that he regained consciousness yesterday morning. Is this true?”
Fletcher could not believe what he was hearing. Not only had Rogan covered up their altercation, but he had also taken the blame for Jack being brought to base. Fletcher felt a sudden, almost overwhelming sense of gratitude toward him, and in that moment, every preconceived notion he had of the lieutenant was cast into doubt. “Uh … yes sir.”
“Well? Is he going to live?”
Sensing Fletcher had been put off his stride, Travis intercepted the question. “We hope so, sir. He’s lost a lot of weight and he’s very weak, but he’s eating and drinking well now.”
“I’ve heard about your tent, gentlemen. I’ve also noticed what his presence has done for the men. I won’t deny that I’m moved by all the support your patient has had, but I have a base to run. I have to make sure that every decision we make is in the best interests of our efforts here. Have you checked the dog for any type of identification? We need to get him back to his unit if he’s one of ours.”
Finding Jack Page 7