Damn, I can’t keep up with all of this. Served with my dad? In the Marine Corps or the service? Better not ask, he thought to himself. Too much to process right now.
When the two of them entered the commanding general’s office, Briggs was surprised to see Master Gunnery Sergeant Hager waiting for him, as was Check. Check was dressed in Charlies as well. The sergeant major closed the door behind them. The staff had been dismissed for lunch, and the entire building was quiet. It was just the four of them now.
Check’s presence, along with the sergeant major and Top Hager, made Briggs feel less tense. He sensed this would be the validation he had been seeking. No longer would he be unsure of his new role with the Service. Each of the three high-ranking Marines took turns shaking Briggs’s hand and telling them how proud they were of him, but not one of them told him why he was there. That was the burning question in his mind, and he was about to explode when the door behind him opened, and a two-star general he had never seen before walked in the door.
“Attention on deck,” said the sergeant major.
“At ease, gentlemen,” the general said in a calm, pleasant voice. He approached Briggs directly. “Major General Mitchell Bell. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, young man,” he said as he extended his hand to Briggs. “I am sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy, but you are now a member of a very silent service, and when I say silent, I mean extremely secretive. We are all,” he swept his arm around the room, “members of the service that you have been so diligently working for—rather blindly, as I understand. I am impressed with your abilities and your confidence. Unfortunately, for those of us who are members of this esteemed service, there are no parades blowing in the rafters and no notifications in the papers trumpeting our accolades—or in this case, yours.” He paused, then bellowed, “Call to orders!”
The men came to attention, and the sergeant major stepped from behind his desk holding a red binder with the Marine Corps emblem embossed in gold in the center of it. Lying on top of the folder was a light blue jewelry case, and in it, the Silver Star. The sergeant major read the citation aloud. It was from the commandant of the Marine Corps and signed by the president of the United States, awarding Sergeant Scott Briggs the Silver Star with combat V for his actions in Iraq during the rescue of Lieutenant Adams.
Briggs struggled to keep his composure. Receiving a Silver Star was an important moment for him, and he wished his father were there to see it.
The conversation afterward was brief. The room was called to attention and General Bell exited as ceremoniously as he’d entered, but first leaned over to Check and said, “I’ll see you after graduation.”
Check exited the office next. Briggs laughed to himself. It was as if they had all been caught in a bank robbery and now were in a hurry to get into the wind.
He looked at the Silver Star and let loose a loud sigh.
Finally, he thought to himself, there are faces in this crazy nightmare. I have something tangible, not just the word of one man.
Top Hager placed his hand on Briggs’s shoulder and led him out of the sergeant major’s office.
“Colonel Check wanted me to sit down with you and tell you about your father. I should be the one to tell you because I was with him when it happened.”
Briggs was incredibly confused, because he had watched his father fade away as cancer invaded his body, slowly robbing him of his life. How could the truth be any different from what he knew?
“I don’t understand,” Briggs said quietly.
“I know, but right now it’s not the time to go into the details. I will come to your house where you and I and your mother can talk about it together. Trust me, it will be better that way.”
With that, he shook Briggs’s hand one more time and wished him well, promising to see him soon and answer all his questions.
Briggs stood quietly for several minutes wondering if his mother knew that there was more to his father’s death than cancer. Questions loomed large in his thoughts and emotions. It seemed as though the more he wanted answers, the more he was deluged with questions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
November 2006
“Time for some entertainment in a can, boys.”
The beer did its work and numbed the pain of a long day of training at Camp Geiger, igniting countless conversations, meaningful and meaningless, that flowed into the night. Briggs entered the room after several cans of entertainment had been consumed by the half dozen Marines gathered in one of the two-bunk rooms in the barracks.
“Sergeant Briggs, sir. Where you comin’ from?” Matt Williams asked.
“Stop calling me sir, Williams. I work for a living just like you,” Briggs replied, even though he knew Williams used the term out of respect.
“Have a beer?” Williams offered good-naturedly, his white-toothed grin lighting up the room, his voice tender compared to his massive bulk. He extended a cool can toward Briggs, and another Marine moved to offer his seat to the sergeant.
Briggs plucked the beer from Williams’s hands. “Just got off duty. Was heading to my bunk and heard you clowns up here.”
“Glad you came, Sergeant,” Williams said, happy to engage him in light conversation as his comrades listened noncommittally, tired from their long day of training.
Briggs nodded, turning the beer in his hand. He narrowed his eyes, as if he were squinting against the rays of the sun, as he looked at the Marines around the room. His brown hair was cut just like the rest of them, but he had a slight hint of gray starting to show along his temples, premature for his twenty-three years. Perhaps it was from the trauma of being in combat—real combat, combat that most of these young Marines who hadn’t served a tour overseas only dreamed of, or perhaps feared.
They have no idea, Briggs thought as he scanned the room, touching each of them with his eyes. They may never see me again, and I don’t even get to say good-bye to them. Well, that’s typical Marine Corps for you. They give you a medal, orders to leave immediately, and duty on your last day. Typical. This was a sorrowful, heartbreaking good-bye that he could not even share. Check, you bastard, what have you gotten me into? A lump formed in his throat.
“Glad to be here,” Briggs said with mock sarcasm. For a moment, the ocean blue in his eyes flashed, eyes which were surrounded by scars, one on each side and a single one underneath his left eye.
“We’re about six beers in, so you got some catchin’ up to do,” said Williams, and a few of the others nodded and lifted their cans in salute, tossing back another gulp.
“Hey, Sergeant, you ever kill anyone?” Butler asked with the slur of several beers dragging through his lips.
“You don’t drink much, do you, Butt?” Briggs’s response came back with a snap in his voice.
Butler shook his head, then looked down. “Shit.” The insensitivity of what he’d asked started to sink in.
Briggs’s reputation was well known, and he was somewhat admired and feared by the younger troops. They knew he had killed before. The rumors of how he had killed a man with his bare hands in combat were constantly whispered among the ranks.
“Good night,” Briggs said as he passed back the unopened beer and turned to leave. With no expression and no explanation, he disappeared down the barrack’s gangway.
“Yes, I remember my first,” Briggs mumbled to himself as he closed the door to his barrack’s room behind him. He reached down into his pocket and caressed the Silver Star that he had removed from his uniform. He did not want to explain to the room of young Marines how he came by it, especially knowing that he would be leaving them behind to fight on without him. He laid it on the rack next to the red binder that held the citation and, for a brief moment, attempted to reassure himself that they would be fine without him. But he was not convinced.
He turned on the light, the TV, the light at the end of the hall, and finally the light in the head. There weren’t enough light switches in the room to flood out the horrible memory that was we
lling up inside his body, about to drive him to his knees and torture him once more for a sin he committed in the name of duty, honor, and the Corps.
“Oh God, here it comes.” Briggs closed the door to the head and sat in the far back corner of the shower stall. Slowly and calmly, he tried to stop the knot from tightening in his stomach. Too strong, too powerful, this damn memory was just too much. “Please God, make it go away, make it leave me alone. Please stop . . .”
But he knew there was nothing that could stop this.
The tears were falling now. Briggs wasn’t sure what made him sicker: the horror of what he was capable of doing with the hands that God and his mother gave him, or the body-wracking sobs that came forth to overwhelm him each time. The memory was coming like a freight train on rails. Briggs took several short, choppy breaths, and then one deep breath. He repeated this several times, and each time, he would lift his head and bang it against the tile wall inside the shower stall. It was over.
“Okay, okay. I’m better, much better now,” Briggs mumbled as he collected his thoughts. He placed one hand on the floor and pushed himself up on one knee. Placing his right foot firmly on the floor, he pushed up and gripped the wall. He leaned his face against the tile of the shower stall, allowing the coolness of it to linger on his skin. “Much better.”
Placing both hands on the sink, he leaned forward and prepared himself for what he was about to see in the mirror. His reflection stared back, tattered and broken and disheveled.
In thirty minutes, the oncoming relief would assume the duty watch. He used this time to pull himself together, to be normal again. Then he washed his face, shed his short-sleeved Charlies, and traded them for comfortable shorts and a Big Rock fishing tournament T-shirt.
When the oncoming relief arrived, he handed him the logbook and the duty roster and left.
As he walked through the door on the way to the parking lot, carrying a small bag with his uniform folded neatly inside, the citation, and the blue jewelry box that held his Silver Star, he felt like he was leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs for the very last time, leading away from the agony of his memories. It was a two-hour drive back to his mother’s house on the Outer Banks, and to Anita. Thoughts bounced around inside his head the entire time, wondering what was next.
He started his car and and sat for just a moment looking straight forward with both his hands on the wheel, lost in the reality of what was going to happen to him when he drove through the gate for what could be the last time. He then unzipped his bag, rifled around inside of it and removed the jewelry box, placing it between him and the steering wheel. He swung his head from side to side, looking through the windows and his mirrors to make sure no one was watching him. Then he opened it and the metal spring that hinged the lid strained as it revealed the shimmering gold star with a smaller silver star at its center. He did this to reassure himself that it was true—a validation of what had happened to him and not part of a shadowy nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
November 2006
Scott stepped out of the house after retrieving the last two bottles of beer from the refrigerator. It was uncommonly warm for November, but that was typical untypical North Carolina weather. One day it could be freezing cold and the next shorts and T-shirts were the only thing required to make it through the day. And this day was perfect. Temperatures were in the mid-70s and a refreshing breeze blew across the bay between Harkers Island and Gloucester. He was attempting to close the sliding glass door with his hip when his mother entered the kitchen.
“Here, I’ll get that for you honey,” she said. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the backyard.
“You know, you will have to tell her one day. You do know that, don’t you, Scott?” his mother said as she reached up and brushed her hand through his hair. Her smile was gentle.
“Tell her what?” Scott asked, surprised. He searched his mother’s eyes.
“That you have a new role with the military,” she said with knowing eyes. “Oh now, don’t look at me as if you have no idea what I am saying. I am your mother, and there are things you will never be able to hide from me. A mother knows, Scott, just like a wife knows. I knew all about your father’s work with the Service, and I know you are doing the same thing. You can’t hide it from her.” His mother nodded her head at Anita, who was sitting at the end of the pier.
Scott stared at his mother and held back the urge to ask her some of the many questions he had about his father’s past.
“Your father couldn’t hide it from me. When you truly love someone, you share a connection that is unspoken and has no boundaries and no secrets. There are some things men don’t and will never understand about women. The foundation of the world is built upon the moral shoulders of mothers. When battles rage and politics are enforced by warriors who suffer and fall, somewhere a mother worries, and her burden is great. I watched your father die as a warrior, fighting for a cause that he believed in.”
Scott hadn’t moved an inch, but his mother didn’t seem to notice as she continued.
“Some part of him did it for the money he thought we needed. But the truth is, we would have been just as happy with less and still would have managed to get by.” She paused and lightly touched his cheek with her fingers. “You are a lot like your father in many ways—proud, strong, and strong-willed—and if you are as smart as he was, you will choose a strong woman who loves you and can give you good advice, even when you don’t want it or think you need it. You and Anita share that kind of love. You and she have waited for one another a long time, and now it is time for that love to blossom on a foundation of honesty.” She placed her arm around his shoulders and turned him toward the dock where Anita was waiting.
Anita sat at the far end, her legs hanging over the pier. It was high tide, and her feet were barely touching the crystal-clear, emerald-green water. She was watching the sun submerge itself into the cool waters on the horizon and drawing circles with her toes that quickly faded away. Sweetie was running across the lush green yard that separated the back of the house from the pier. She ran up to Scott and pulled on his pants leg.
“Come on, Mr. Scott, you’re missing the sun taking a bath. Hurry,” she urged as she pulled with all her might in an effort to hasten him along. Scott stood frozen in his tracks. He turned back to look at his mother.
“She has been waiting for you. She has always been waiting for you, and even though her path was different from the one you took, she is still waiting. And now those two paths have crossed again, just like you knew they would. So go on, Scott. Your family is waiting for you. You and I will have all the time in the world to talk about your father and such things. Hurry up now. Each sunset is a blessing, especially when you share it with people you love.”
Scott reached around his mother’s neck and gave her a hug, careful not to clang the two beer bottles together.
“I love you, Mom,” he said as he gently kissed her on her cheek. He then gave into Sweetie’s prodding and pulling and ran alongside her as she raced for the steps to the pier. Scott slowed his pace so that he could take in the vision of the sunset and Anita silhouetted against the brilliant orange light that was now fading into the water’s edge, flanked by the marshes and islands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
November 2006
“Alpha, this is Tide, over.”
Trust reached over and activated his video screen in his private office aboard the Sereniteit. “This is Alpha, activate your video transmit now, Tide, over,” Trust responded as he leaned back in his black, leather desk chair and took a drag of a large cigar.
On the other end of the radio, a highly trained sniper, one of many in Trust’s arsenal of hired killers, lay just inside the wood line on Brown’s Island with his weapon trained on Briggs as he walked down the dock. The range was just over eight hundred yards, an easy shot with the wind at his back and the sun setting to his far left. He activated the video feed that booted into his sc
ope and called back to Trust. “You are patched in now, say receive.”
“Receive. I have a clear visual,” Trust replied as he picked up an oversized, short-stemmed glass of brandy and swirled it about, allowing the aroma to fill his nostrils before he took a small sip and placed it back on his desk.
“Waiting,” Tide replied as he slowed his breathing and relaxed his heart rate. His thumb was poised on the safety, his thoughts clear. He waited comfortably, perched behind the scope of his heavy barreled M-40 rifle. The oversized silencer poked out several inches past the folding stabilizer legs mounted at the end of the stock. The shot would be deadly and its sound unheard.
Trust, too, waited as he sat in his position of power, totally in control and watching Briggs as he sat down next to Anita and placed Sweetie on his lap. He passed Anita a beer with a sliver of lime tucked inside the neck of the bottle, leaned over, and kissed her, then turned his attention toward the setting sun. Trust had a front row seat with the best view possible as he read Briggs’s lips. I love you. The only obstruction was the fine crosshairs of the riflescope.
He knew if he told Tide to shoot, the next thing he would see would be the little girl’s chest explode—Tide would not hesitate to shoot through her in order to take out his objective. He would then swing the scope slightly to his right and deliver another round to silence the only witness. There was no extra money for killing three instead of one; however, Tide would know it would buy him at least forty-five minutes of time, valuable time he would use to put distance between himself and a job accomplished.
Trust paused and took another drag from his cigar. He marveled at the steadiness of the image before him; Tide’s aim never changed, and the scope’s view barely wavered more than an inch from the top button on the little girl’s sweater, just in front of Briggs’s heart.
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