by Marie Force
Heading for the door, he says, “Oh, and turn on your fucking phone.” The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone with my fears. I make a Herculean effort to get them under control before I return to the bedroom. I don’t want Ava to know how unnerved I am. I want her to see confidence and strength when she looks at me, not fear. I can never show her the fear.
In the bedroom, I slide into bed next to her, curling up to her warm body and kissing her shoulder. I hate that I have to do this, but I can’t spare her the truth, even if it will hurt her.
“Where were you?” she asks, her voice gruff with sleep. She hadn’t slept—really slept—in days until last night, when she didn’t stir for nine hours.
“Rob came by.”
“How come?”
“Our phones were still off, and he had some news.”
As if she’s been electrocuted, her body goes rigid. She turns to face me, pushing the hair back from her lovely face. “Whatever it is, just say it. Say it, Eric. Please…”
“He’s alive.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
JOHN
Pain is the only constant in my life. Every part of me hurts, especially the part that’s gone now. The phantom pain, something I once would’ve dismissed as bullshit, is the worst of the physical agony, but even that has nothing on the emotional despair that plagues me like a fever I’ll never shake.
Five years, nine months and eighteen days.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Ava, held her in my arms, kissed her lips, lost myself in her sweet body and felt complete in a way I never have before or since.
I’m trapped in a nightmare of my own making that began the night I met her in a dingy bar off base and has continued every night since then, especially the more than two thousand nights I’ve spent away from her, having to worry every minute about whether she’s okay, if she hates me, if she has someone else. I wouldn’t blame her if she hates me. I deserve that, and I own it. But the thought of her with someone else kills me in a way that an enemy’s bullet didn’t, even if it came close.
The night of the raid, I was shot in the thigh, the bullet nicking my femoral artery. From what I was told much later, I nearly bled out on the chopper. A tourniquet applied by one of the medics saved my life, but in the end, I’d lost the leg and nearly died a second time from an infection that ravaged me for a full month.
I have no memory of any of it. I’m told that’s a blessing. We got Al Khad. That’s the first thing they told me when I regained consciousness. It should be the only thing that matters, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve given that son of a bitch as much time as he’s ever going to get from me. I hear we let him live, but he’s dead to me.
Another month passed before I was strong enough for physical therapy, which has been pure torture, worse than anything I’ve ever endured, even leaving Ava, knowing I might never see her again.
I refuse to contact her until I’m strong enough to stand again. I’m getting closer all the time. My strength is coming back, slowly—so fucking slowly. But it is returning. Every day that passes, I feel less like an invalid than I did the day before. Every day that passes takes me one day closer to the day where I’ll be ready for her.
The Navy liaison assigned to me brought a new cell phone, and it sits on the table in my room at the rehab hospital, torturing me with how easy it would be to pick it up, punch in the number I know by heart and hear her voice, like light at the end of the longest, darkest tunnel.
But I don’t want her to see me like this, a shell of the man I once was. I want to return to her whole—or as whole as I’ll ever be after losing a leg. I want to be strong and capable and ready to plead my case to her.
I suffer from no illusions. I face an uphill battle when it comes to her. I did a terrible, awful, horrible thing to her by getting involved when I knew I might have to leave her someday. I certainly never expected a more-than-five-year mission in the rugged hills of some of the most hostile space on earth.
If I knew six years ago what I know now, I would’ve walked by the sweet girl in the hallway outside the restrooms. I would’ve apologized for my clumsiness and gone on with my life, none the wiser to what I’d be missing. I would’ve spared her me and what I put her through.
But I didn’t walk past her. Instead, I subjected us both to the kind of torture usually found at the hands of the enemy. I can’t imagine what she’s had to deal with in my absence, but I sure as hell know what I’ve endured worrying about what became of her, what she did when I left and never came back.
She owes me nothing. Less than nothing, if I’m being truthful. I’m prepared for everything and nothing, or so I tell myself. She may refuse to see me, and I think I can handle that, or so I tell myself. But in the meantime, she’s my inspiration, the sole reason I’m fighting so hard to regain my mobility.
Everything I do is for her. For the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she still feels a shred of what she once did, before I destroyed us. I refuse to return to her until I’m able to take care of myself. I’ve already been enough of a burden to her.
I’m in bed with the shades drawn against the late-afternoon sun, my eyes heavy as I try to relax muscles that tremble violently. The ache in my missing limb is almost unbearable, but I’ve been refusing narcotics for the last few weeks. I don’t like the way they make me feel or how ardently I began to look forward to more of them.
A knock at the door has me opening my eyes. They don’t usually bother me after grueling daily PT sessions. Many nights, I sleep right through dinner because I’m so exhausted.
“Come in.”
The liaison, a dark-haired lieutenant commander named Muncie, sticks his head in the door. I don’t recall his first name, though he told it to me once. He’s a nice enough guy and has tried to be helpful, but more than anything, he annoys me with his upbeat optimism and rah-rah company-man bullshit.
The United States Navy can suck my dick for all I care. Even if I hadn’t lost a leg and hadn’t been facing medical discharge, I would be so done with my naval “career.” From what I’m told, I got promoted twice while I was gone, and apparently, I’m a captain now. A freaking O-6. At one time in my life, that rank would’ve been a dream come true. Now, I couldn’t care less if I tried.
“I thought you went home for the holidays,” I say.
“I did, but I came back early, sir.”
I experience a trickle of unease at wondering what brought him back early and what it has to do with me. “What do you want?”
“You got a minute, sir?”
The question pisses me off. I have all the minutes, and he fucking knows it. “Quit your hovering and come in or fuck off.”
He comes in. “They said you’re in a good mood today, sir.”
“This is me in a good mood, and quit calling me sir when it’s just the two of us.” I make him nervous, and a sick part of me enjoys that. I take my thrills where I can get them.
“I’m sorry to bother you, um, sir, but we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“There’ve been a few developments in the, ah, situation, and they asked me to update you.”
I don’t like the sound of this, but I refuse to make his job easier, so I wait for him to continue.
“Al Khad’s camp released a video,” he says, obviously pained for reasons I can’t comprehend.
“So?”
“It showed the raid. All of the raid.”
As if a bolt of lightning has descended from on high and struck me square in the chest, I realize what he’s saying. I have a TV in my room, but I don’t ever turn it on, which Muncie knows. It’s all I can do to eat, sleep and breathe between PT sessions.
Ava… Oh God, no.
Gritting my teeth, I ask, “How long ago was the video released?”
“Four days.”
Closing my eyes, I breathe through my nose as pain ricochets in every space inside me, leaving a breathtaking new ache in my chest. “I assum
e I can be seen on the video?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does it show me go down?”
“Yes, sir.”
I suck in a sharp breath, imagining Ava seeing me for the first time in years and then watching me get hit by gunfire. Has she seen it? Could she tell it was me? Did she care that I was shot? Is she wondering where I am? Does she still think of me every minute of every day the way I think of her?
“An inquiry was made about you through official channels.”
That info nearly stops my heart. “What kind of inquiry?”
“It came from the governor of New York via the vice president and the Joint Chiefs.”
I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “What was the response they were given?”
“That you’re alive.”
“That’s it?”
“The mission remains classified despite the release of the video.”
Ava is the only person in my life who would care enough to ask, so the inquiry had to come from her. And now she knows I’m alive, that my mission was completed months ago, and I haven’t bothered to contact her.
Motherfucker.
I couldn’t add her to my empty list of people to be contacted if anything should happen to me, because I was never supposed to get involved with her in the first place. But she cares enough to ask about me. That thought buoys my spirits like nothing else ever could.
“Is that it?” I ask Muncie, wanting him gone.
“In light of the video’s release,” he says hesitantly, “the chain of command has decided to embrace the opportunity to shine a positive light on the Navy.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The American public is clamoring for more information about the brave SEAL team that took down Al Khad. Multiple media outlets have filed Freedom of Information requests for more about the three service members who were seen in the video. Since you’ve already been compromised, they’re going to release your names, ranks and hometowns in the next few days, and the Pentagon is preparing to declassify some details of the mission, enough to celebrate the victory without compromising other, ongoing operations.”
“In other words, they’re going to throw me and the others to the sharks to get the media off their backs.”
“Something like that, sir.”
“What if I say no?”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option, sir.”
The Navy still has me by the balls, and we both know it.
“I’m really sorry about this. If it was up to me, I’d never ask you for this on top of everything you’ve already sacrificed.”
It takes everything I have not to shoot the messenger, to remind myself that it’s not his fault. None of this is his fault. Al Khad’s organization, an offshoot of Al-Qaeda, had been seen as a low-level threat until the mastermind sent a message to the world by blowing up a US-based cruise ship.
“What else?”
After weeks of him being my only connection to the outside world, I know his tells. When his left eyebrow twitches, there’s more, usually things he wishes he didn’t have to tell me. Like when he brought news I was finally strong enough to hear that Jonesy and Tito were killed in the raid. I kicked him out, not wanting him to see me sobbing helplessly over two of the few people in this world I love.
“So, um, your face has become somewhat of a social media sensation since the video was released. People want to know who you are. They want to know your story. It’s so rare for Special Forces to be able to speak publicly about an operation such as this one.”
It’s not rare. It’s unheard of. We’re trained to never speak to anyone about what we do, let alone the media. It goes against everything I believe in to even consider such a thing. But apparently, it’s not up to me.
After a long, uncomfortable silence—at least I hope it’s uncomfortable for him—he clears his throat. “Um, sir?”
“What?”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“We’re going to pretend I have a choice? Because if I do, my choice is to say nothing to anyone.” The thought of talking about any of it makes me physically ill, and I’m already sick enough.
“It’s, um, going to be very… difficult… for you to move around freely after you get out of here. You’ll be recognized.” He clears his throat again. “Everywhere you go.”
Goddamn it… All I want is to go home to my girl and try to pretend like the last six years never happened.
It takes me longer to organize my thoughts than it did before I lost half my blood and fought a life-threatening infection. I try to process everything he’s told me and put it into some semblance of order that makes sense.
I’ve been outed. The Navy wants to capitalize on the “success” of our mission, if you can call it that when two of our best were lost. They probably want to turn me into a recruiting video for other hapless youth seeking “direction” in their lives that only the Navy can give them.
Muncie shifts from one foot to the other. “Sir?”
I close my eyes and turn my head to face away from him. “You can tell them I’ll do one interview with the outlet of their choice, and then I’ll never again speak of it publicly. The interview can take place no sooner than thirty days from now.”
That will give me one month to work toward standing and track down Ava before I’m forced to go public with my story.
“They’re going to want—”
“That’s my only offer. They can take it or leave it.”
After a long pause, he says, “I’ll let them know.” The soles of his Boondockers squeak against the tile as he leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him. When I’m alone, I stare at the phone on the table, my anxiety spiking the way it would if the phone were a live grenade.
I would give my life to hear her voice and experience her gentle touch. She was the first person to show me tenderness, to ever truly love me, and the thought of her kept me alive more than once since I last saw her.
I wish it didn’t matter so much to me that I be strong enough to deserve her before I reenter her life. I also need to be strong enough to survive if she doesn’t want me anymore. I’m not sure another month will be enough time to prepare myself for that possibility, but it’s all I’ve got.
Chapter Twenty-Three
AVA
John is alive. John is alive and hasn’t contacted me. In the three weeks since I found out he’s alive, those thoughts have plagued my unproductive days and sleepless nights. I’m grief-stricken, the same way I would’ve been if I’d been told he died that night in Al Khad’s compound. The man I spent six years mourning doesn’t care enough about me in return to have the decency to let me know he’s alive.
Along with my grief, I’m filled with rage and bitterness over the years I devoted to him, years I’ll never get back. His name and that of the other two men shown in the video were released, along with their ages and hometowns, but no other information about them was made public. John, who is thirty-seven now, listed his hometown as San Diego.
While the world goes mad trying to figure out who he is, I hate him with a ferocity that frightens me. I’ve never hated anyone or anything the way I hate him.
I’m at work, counting the hours until my badly needed appointment with Jessica, who’s been away with her family on an extended trip to Europe. Since I found out John is alive, we FaceTimed once, but the session was interrupted several times by her children, who needed her. I need her badly, and I can’t wait for two uninterrupted hours with her after work.
Carlos appears at my desk holding a skinny latte that he presents with a flourish and I accept with a grateful smile. He knows something’s up with me, but he doesn’t know what. Other than Miles, he’s my best friend at work, but I’ve never told him about John.
“You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” Though I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my grief to myself, I’m not surprised that people are noticing the to
ll it’s taking on me.
Throwing myself into work and wedding planning has helped. I’ve made it clear to those who know that I don’t want to talk about John or the raid or the video anymore. I’ve had enough. Thankfully, those closest to me respect my wishes and haven’t brought it up.
But they know I’m suffering, especially Eric, who watches me like a hawk when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s worried, and I hate that. I hate John for doing that to the man who has been my rock since the day I met him and who doesn’t deserve to live in the shadow of someone who never cared about me the way I cared about him.
That’s been the hardest thing of all to accept. I find myself once again reliving every minute I spent with John, picking apart things he said and did, looking for signs that he was using me or passing time with me. The memories are beginning to get fuzzy around the edges. I suppose that’s bound to happen after nearly six years apart, and while part of me wants to forget, the forgetting only adds to the grief.
“I hope you know I’m here for you if you need a friend,” Carlos says, his brows knitted with unusual concern. Carlos doesn’t do serious, so the look is nearly comical on him.
“I appreciate that, but I’m fine. Really.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thanks for the latte.”
“Any time.”
Determined to get something accomplished today, I dive into the press briefing I’m preparing on behalf of the family group. Though I have other clients now, I still spend most of my time working with Miles and the family group. The civil litigation is moving with unusual speed, and interest in the case is at an all-time high since the video was released. After working closely with the group for so many months, I can answer questions for them without having to think too hard. I spend a couple of hours deeply engrossed in my work, which is a welcome relief from my own thoughts.
I’m stretching out the kinks from sitting for so long when the extension buzzes on my desk with a call from Miles.
“Hey, what’s up?”
