A Hero Comes Home

by Sandra Hill

  “Actually, he’s an ex-SEAL. He’s working on that treasure-hunting team in Bell Cove now.”

  An ex-SEAL? Who’s now a hotshot Indiana-Fucking-Jones? Oh, that’s better. Not! “I hope they’ll be happy.”

  “If you must know, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Ah, so you’re not here out of friendship. You have ulterior motives.”

  “Don’t be a dick. The brass figures it’s time for you to go home.”

  “Let me guess. They sent you here to convince me that it’s in my best interest to do what they want when they want?”

  “C’mon, man! You don’t want Sally to go getting married or something when she’s already got a husband.” He could tell that Izzie was trying to make a joke to ease the situation.

  Jake wasn’t laughing. In fact, he showed no emotion at all. It was a trick he’d learned during his long imprisonment. The best way to fight his torturers was to not reveal his feelings. After a while, it became second nature. “And you know what dating leads to.” Izzie winked. Another lame attempt at humor.

  Jake maintained his stone-cold expression.

  “Apparently the guy likes kids.”

  Crap! “I hope they’ll all be happy together.”

  His friend was nervously peeling the label off his beer bottle, which raised some warning flags for Jake. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark . . . or, rather, Germany, and one particular hospital room. Jake sensed that this wasn’t just about his friend visiting him and casually asking about his plans to go home.

  Jake could feel the red mist begin to form, a sure sign he was going to lose it any minute now. That’s how the rages usually started. A mist in the distance, like a sunrise on the horizon. Sometimes, he was able to tamp it down at that stage. Other times, it swelled and got brighter. Still a haze, but hot. He could feel it. Then the haze would become thicker, more liquid, like water, coming at him in waves. Blood, that’s what it became. He could not only see it, but smell it and, in the worst cases, taste it.

  No! I can stop this. He gritted his teeth, clenched and unclenched his fists, and took several deep breaths before he calmed down. “All right, Izz, give it to me. The whole story. The brass sent you here to soften me up for . . . what? Spill! What is it you haven’t told me?”

  Izzie inhaled deeply, to brace himself.

  Or was it to give Jake time to brace himself?

  “They’ve informed Sally that you’re still alive.”

  The waves were back. Crimson red. A slaughterhouse scent on the wind. A metallic taste on Jake’s tongue. “Without getting my permission?”

  “No choice. ‘Gotcha!,’ that WikiLeaks-style internet site, got wind of your rescue and deets on the two guys who didn’t make it out. They’re running with the story tomorrow, half of their facts twisted and unverified. It’s a goat fuck about to happen if the Pentagon doesn’t get a handle on the announcement themselves.”

  Jake licked his lips and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to hurl. “Sounds like a classic case of preventive damage control, fucked-up military style.”

  “Bingo!”

  “When, exactly, did they tell Sally?”

  Izzie glanced at his watch. “Taking into account the six-hour time difference, about an hour ago.”

  Waves crashed in his head. A tsunami. Slowly, he lowered his legs off the coffee table and stood. Inch by inch he turned to Izzie. “The pricks!”

  “They’ve arranged for you to call Sally in a few hours,” Izzie informed him. “Three a.m. at the latest, which would equate to nine p.m. back home. Not much time to prepare, but everything’s happening at warp speed. Sally will be expecting your call. So, no reason to . . .” Izzie’s words trailed off as he realized he was talking too much and too fast.

  Jake gazed at Izzie as if he hadn’t heard right. “Is that so? Have they arranged what I should say, or when we should meet, or whether we should have sex before or after saying hello? Did you bring cue cards with you?”

  “Be reasonable, Jake.”

  “I have nothing left, man. I am nothing. What the Taliban didn’t take from me, my own military is. They think they can control everything about me. When I eat. When I sleep. When I piss. What I can see or hear. They’d like to reach in and mold my mind to their specs. Well, fuck that!” Without thinking, he reached down, grabbed his half-empty bottle of beer, and threw it, smashing the television screen into a gray cobweb with the German baseball announcer still blathering on, before falling to the floor into a mess of booze and shattered glass.

  “Oh, man! Oh, Jake! No!” Izzie said, as he stood, too.

  Through the red haze of his vision, Jake barely registered Attila the Nurse come bursting through the door. Before he could react, the nurse had him in a head hold and was jabbing his arm with a needle. Almost immediately, he began drifting into the peacefulness of tranq-induced waves. Not the bloodred ones of his rage. These waves were crystal clear. Like a sweet summer day on Bell Sound.

  It was a sign of how broken Jake still was that he could swear he heard the bells of his Outer Banks hometown ringing in his head. In fact, during his three years as a POW, he’d often heard those annoying bells. Back then, he’d thought they were calling him home.

  The thing was, he no longer knew what, or where, home was.

  Chapter 3

  Facilitate that! . . .

  Jake was lying flat on his back in bed when he awakened from his Ambien sleep.

  He was calm now . . . and full of regrets. He hadn’t had one of those “episodes” in weeks. Last time was after he’d gotten the results of yet another failed eye surgery.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Was it a one-off, or was he regressing? It better be the former or they would have him on a tighter lockdown than they did already. But, no. He recalled what had prompted this wash of red mist. The fact that Sally was being informed of his existence, without his consent or input.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  His curse words were head whispers, more a gentle mantra of that mindfulness crap his psychiatrist was always hyping. “Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe.”

  Or his version, “Damn, damn, damn.”

  At first, he remained motionless, his good eye shut. Then he realized what had awakened him . . . the sound of low voices coming from the other side of his room. It was a sign of his improvement here at Landstuhl that he didn’t immediately jackknife up and into a shooting position, sensing a threat.

  Yeah, yeah, he’d lost control a short time ago—two hours ago, in fact, he realized by checking the wall clock—but he chalked that up to extreme provocation . . . as in, his cover was blown, or about to be blown. Not just with his wife, and family, and friends, and fellow soldiers, but the whole freakin’ world. Who wouldn’t overreact to that?

  Slowly, he turned his head, without changing the position of his body. There was a group seated around his small dining table, talking softly. Extra folding chairs had been brought in. Four people. Izzie; Dr. Sheila, his shrink; Dr. Muller, his general physician here at the medical center; and some guy in full military dress uniform that he didn’t recognize, probably a major if Jake’s one eye didn’t miss a stripe or see double.

  Slowly, he eased himself up and over to a sitting position on the side of the bed. He hadn’t showered since his workout this morning, but figured he’d have to wait until he faced the music from the “firing squad” over there.

  That little bit of movement got their attention, and they all turned to look at him, with concern. Dr. Sheila Benoit, a fortyish woman from Louisiana whose Cajun husband was a pilot stationed at Ramstein Air Base, came over to him and said, “How do you feel? Is the red tide over?”

  He regretted confiding in a counseling session once about his rages, which she constantly wanted to talk about. She was the one who’d given them the name “red tides.” It would probably end up in one of her books on PTSD.

  “I’m fine now. Just a blip.”

  She raised her brows at that dism
issal but reached out a hand to help him up. “Come, join us. A cup of tea might help.”

  Yeah, right. He was going to guzzle down a gallon of her chamomile, which tasted like perfume to him, and lickety-split he would be cool, calm, and collected.

  He’d rather have another beer.

  Or a glass of iced water.

  He got up on his own, without her aid, and walked over to the mini fridge. Taking out a bottled water, he chugged down half of it, then turned to the table, where everyone was gawking at him like he was some specimen under glass, or a bomb about to implode. “So, what’s up?”

  “Have a seat, Captain Dawson,” Dr. Muller said, pulling out a chair for him. Muller was wearing a golf shirt and lime-green pants today, probably off to the links at Woodlawn or Barbarossa once he left here. Landstuhl had a mixture of military and civilian staff. Dr. Sheila and Dr. Muller were among the latter.

  Jake sat and glanced pointedly at the military guy. “And you are . . . ?” Not the required protocol in addressing a superior officer, but at this point Jake wasn’t in the mood for politeness or military etiquette.

  “Major Raymond Durand, Pentagon, division of global communications. I’m here as part of a team to facilitate your Transition Plan, Phase One.” He pointed to a folder on the table, which actually had those words on it. “Captain Jacob Dawson, Transition Plan, Phase One.”

  “Wow! The Pentagon has an interest in little old me? How many phases are there, exactly?” Jake asked, unable to hold back his sarcasm, which was probably a violation of another Army Code of Conduct rule.

  Two checks against me. Big deal!

  Man, I am in a fighting mood. Gotta get myself under control.

  Undaunted, the major said, “Three. Phase One is ‘Breaking the News.’ Phase Two is ‘Reentry.’ Phase Three is ‘Guided Media Opportunities.’ There may be other phases, to be determined, as needed.”

  Jake turned to Izzie, who was seated on his right, and he gave him a stare that pretty much said, “Can you believe this butt-inator?”

  Izzie just shrugged.

  “So, are you one of my facilitators, too?”

  Izzie shrugged again.

  He hated Izzie’s shrugs.

  “We all are, Jake,” Dr. Sheila said, patting him on the arm.

  Jake hated being patted, like a kid.

  Back to the clueless major, Jake asked, “Are any of these phases called ‘Tail Wagging the Dog’?”

  “This is serious business, Captain,” the major warned, his voice clearly pulling rank on him. “You’re already aware that the president is in volatile negotiations with the recently elected Qadir government in Balakistan.”

  It took Jake a moment, but then the major’s words, already aware, clicked like a light bulb in his brain. Why would the major be so certain he was aware of current news regarding Balakistan? Son of a bitch! They must be monitoring my TV watching habits. Probably my computer, as well. Too bad I didn’t hit some porno sites.

  “Any adverse publicity about your treatment at the hands of the rebels would reflect badly on the new regime. Yes, you have reason to be upset about your long period in hiding, but for the greater good and national security, discretion is called for,” the major continued. “Caution is the key in media relations from this point out.”

  “Long period? How about three years? And what’s with the ‘in hiding’ nonsense? I was a prisoner, pure and simple, not roughing it in some cave, like a crazy-ass spelunker. As if I had a choice!”

  “I’m familiar with the details, Captain. But here’s the situation. As a Special Forces operative, you’re well aware of the term collateral damage. Unfortunately, whether in battle or government, sometimes innocent parties are harmed. It’s the price of freedom.”

  Me? Collateral damage? Oooh, I do not like the sound of that. He turned to Izzie with disbelief. “Are you okay with this propaganda?”

  “Shhh. Calm down, Jake. He’s only doing his job.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Captain.” The major bristled, pulling rank on him. “Keep in mind that I’m here to facilitate your return. That kind of attitude is getting you nowhere.”

  “You may be my ‘facilitator’ or ‘handler’ or whatever the hell you want to call it, but I’m still an American, and I have the right to speak my mind.” He inhaled deeply to tamp down his temper. In a surprisingly composed voice, he said, “Number one, excuse my language, Major, but bullshit on the ‘elected’ government you mentioned. There is no such thing in Balakistan. Number two, bullshit on differentiating between the rebels and the new cabinet. They’re one and the same. I had an up-close-and-personal acquaintance with the Qadir tribe and with Nazim bin Jamil, with or without the title of minister of defense, more like minister of torture. Number three, bullshit on sugarcoating my treatment at the hands of those Taliban assholes. Number four, bullshit on ‘guided media opportunities.’ The only opportunity the media will have with me is what I grant, and, frankly, I have no interest whatsoever in talking to the press.”

  “See, those are the kind of messages we can’t have you portraying in the public sector.”

  “In other words, you want me to lie?”

  “No, no, no! But there are ways to tell your story in a way that accomplishes our purpose without offending other parties. You have to think long game here, not what happens in the first or second quarters.”

  “Oh, now I get it. You’re a spin doctor.”

  The major sat up straighter and flashed a glare at Dr. Sheila. “You said he was ready.”

  “I never said he was ‘ready.’ I said he was well enough emotionally to handle going home.”

  “And I never said he was ‘ready’ for the physical stress of some kind of promotion tour,” Dr. Muller added. “This boy needs another eye surgery, and the rod in his leg will have to be removed at some point. Rest in a peaceful environment would be my recommendation, not some media circus.”

  “How about you, Izzie?” Jake asked. “Don’t you have an opinion?”

  “I’m more concerned about your phone call to Sally, which is going to take place roughly an hour or so from now. Do you have any idea what your wife has been told? Before you talk to her, you need to know what intel she’s been given, or not, so you have your ducks in a row.”

  Jake had conveniently forgotten about that. He would need to call Sally, now that she’d been informed. “You’re right, buddy. By the way, sorry for my outburst earlier. My only excuse is that I was caught off guard.”

  “No problem, my friend.”

  “So, what was Sally told?”

  “Only the basics,” Major Durand interrupted. “She knows that you were rescued and are recuperating here at Landstuhl. She knows that you have continuing eye and leg injuries to deal with. She knows that you’ll be going home soon on a medical leave for continuing rehab and recovery.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s about it. Well, a few more things.” The major took sheets out of his folder and passed them to Jake. “This is the news release that will be going out tomorrow, and that’s pretty much what your wife has been told. The second page outlines the do’s and don’ts of what you will tell your family, friends, anyone in the public. Not the media. Do not speak to the press until you get prior approval from the DOD. That would be me.”

  Jake took the sheets and scanned them. First, the news release, which was on heavy vellum with a Department of Defense letterhead.

  “Army captain Jacob Dawson, who was declared dead three years ago after a failed mission to rescue two downed pilots in Afghanistan, is actually alive and will soon be on his way home to the United States.

  Although Captain Dawson suffered serious injuries to one eye and a leg following a HALO jump into the mountains of Balakistan on May 19, 2016, he managed to survive for three years by living in a remote cave in the middle of hostile territory, with the aid of some rebel friendlies. Survival skills mastered during his military training helped the soldier to endure the brutal condi
tions.

  During recent high-level negotiations between the US and the newly elected Qadir government, the president first learned of Captain Dawson’s amazing survival story and demanded his immediate return. The President thanks Balakistan Minister of Defense Nazim bin Jamil for his efforts in this operation.

  Captain Dawson has been in Landstuhl Hospital in Germany, recovering from his injuries. Two other soldiers on Captain Dawson’s team, Sergeant Frank Bailey and Corporal David Guttierez, died on the mission, according to Captain Dawson. The pilots who were to be rescued, Lieutenant Anton “Ace” Sampsell and Lieutenant Gerald Frank, were rescued in another section of Afghanistan soon after Captain Dawson went MIA.

  For more information, contact US Department of Defense, Press Information, Major Raymond Durand, at the above address.”

  Jake’s eyes got wider and wider as he scanned the page. “So much for not lying!”

  “There’s no lie in that document. A skirting of the truth, maybe, but no outright lies.”

  Jake arched his one visible brow skeptically.

  “You were kept in a cave. There were rebels, maybe not friendlies . . . I can delete that word. Nazim did inform the POTUS of your existence. Two of your team members did die on the mission.”

  “Are you crazy? I wasn’t even a POW in your version of events.”

  The major shrugged. “MIA, then.”

  Jake shook his head at the major’s audacity in twisting the truth so boldly. “That news release isn’t the real story. Not even close.”

  “It’s all anyone needs to know, for now.”

  “Are you for real? Seriously, no one will ever believe this crap.”

  “I’d bet my precious DC parking permit that the press will buy it and beg for more.”

  Jake put his face in his hands, then looked up again. “This feels like some bizarre episode of that TV show Homeland where an Army sergeant was held prisoner by al-Qaeda for eight years.”

  “And nobody said that was unbelievable,” the major pointed out.