by S. E. Lund
Attending the one-year anniversary memorials would give me the chance to pay my respects to the families. If I couldn’t face Dan’s parents, I could at least attend the two other Marine’s graves, pay my respects anonymously. My plan was to arrive early, visit the graves, then leave. Miranda said they would be arriving at noon, so I planned on going and leaving before 11:30 so I wouldn’t bump into them.
I packed my uniform and dressed in my suit and tie, then drove my car down the coast to Arlington, Virginia, stopping along the way for a lunch break. I had a hotel reservation in Arlington, and intended to arrive in town, hit the rack early, and then get up early to get dressed in my uniform before making it over to the Arlington National Cemetery. I wanted to pay my respects to the fallen Marines and other soldiers I knew who died while on active duty or when they retired. There were a lot of names to see to, including those fallen who were buried in the main cemetery or in the Columbarium or Niche Wall for those who were cremated.
I spent a long time lying in my hotel room in the darkness, thinking back to when I was in Afghanistan and the vague details I could recall of the accident that injured me and took Lewis’s life. My memory was pretty spotty on the actual event, but I remembered Afghanistan vividly. Hot dry days, the sand gritting between your teeth, the incessant sun burning your skin, the crunch of dirt under your boots. At night, the desert climate became cold. The desert air was clear at night and the sky was magnificent, the stars so incredibly bright you felt like you could reach up and touch them. How I longed to return with a telescope and spend time taking photos.
I could also remember a sense of accomplishment to our mission, when my Special Activities Division contact and I were going out on exercises with a team of Marines Special Operations Forces to test out the new coms Brimstone had developed under my DARPA contract.
When it came to the crash, I had only brief images of the IED aftermath and then the rescue and crash. The day it happened was like any other day in Afghanistan – cold at night, hot during the day, the heat and dust and sun making me long to get back to Manhattan and the familiar humidity. We were embedded with the Marines and were living in the same conditions with the same experiences, sleeping in tents, doing exercises night and day to test the equipment.
The day of the accident, we drove through new territory which was past a small settlement we’d already been through earlier in the day. A dust storm was brewing, and the first grains of sand gritted between my teeth. The first clue that we were in danger came when we found the main road blocked off by a broken down truck, the hood up like someone was working on the engine, and the doors wide open.
The Marines we were embedded with were familiar with all the tactics of the local insurgents and so we were on our guard, but this was supposed to be friendly territory. The driver at the head of our small convoy radioed back that the main road through the settlement was blocked so we would have to either go back or take a side road. I glanced at John and he shrugged. We’d been through several similar villages with no issues, and so we took the side road and that was our first mistake.
When our GPS malfunctioned, we should have turned back and retraced our route, but we didn’t. We proceeded, taking a road the driver thought led back to civilization.
That was when all hell broke loose.
The ground underneath our MRAP exploded into a mountain of dirt and debris, the metal shrapnel flying, the concussion knocking me out.
After that, all I had were vague memories of a medic wearing goggles looking in my eyes, the thwop-thwop-thwop of the choppers that came to rescue us, then the crash, being thrown to the ground still strapped to a gurney, black smoke and cries of agony from other injured. The torn and bloody body of the medic on the dirt beside me. My next memory was waking up in a field hospital while I was wheeled into an OR for emergency surgery to remove the shrapnel that embedded itself in my neck.
Then, nothing until I woke up in a hospital in Germany, more overhead lights and more surgery, and then nothing again, until I was on the transport plane back to America for my long and uneventful rehab.
I didn’t even know how close to death I was until I was back in the US in my local VA hospital in New York. It was all a blur to me.
What I did learn, a couple of weeks later, was that a member of our Marine recon team was killed in the initial blast and then two others, one on our team and one Navy Hospital Corpsman who came to rescue us were killed when our chopper went down in the dust storm that overtook us.
It was fully twelve weeks later that I was able to leave the rehab hospital, having learned to walk again after being in a drug-induced coma to relieve swelling on my brain. I’d been lucky that I had no lasting brain damage. Others in our group were not so lucky. Besides the dead, we’d had several members of the team suffering limb amputations and traumatic brain injuries in the chopper crash. My contact with SAD suffered some minor injuries and left the CIA soon after.
We’d strayed into Iranian territory, and had driven over an IED buried on the side road that we were forced to take in order to return to our Forward Operating Base. We’d had no issues in that area of Afghanistan, and so the roadside IED was unexpected. Our accident proved just how critical navigational and communications tech was to ground forces.
When I had mostly recovered, I returned to work, glad to be back into my normal life, but suffering from survivor’s guilt. I had problems sleeping, of course, and had nightmares on a regular basis, but focusing on the business was a godsend. I spent some time reading what I could about the incident, but there wasn’t much published because we were on a classified mission, since SAD was involved.
My name wasn’t mentioned in what little press existed on the event. All that was mentioned was that two Marines and a Navy Hospital Corpsman were killed with several others injured. That was it.
I tried to put it all behind me and I focused on my business. Then Graham died in Malaysia, and I needed money to keep Brimstone going so I went to the brownstone to see what needed to be done to put it up for sale and that’s when I found them. The letters.
I lay on the hotel bed, remembering everything – at least, as much as I could remember. There was just too much to deal with. Sue’s death, my own injuries, Graham…
Truthfully, the only time in the past three years that I felt happy, truly happy, had been with Miranda. When we were together, no matter what we were doing -- eating pizza naked while watching television in my hotel room in Topsail Beach, sitting on the patio watching the surf, walking along the boardwalk, I felt – happy.
Like I could do that forever.
She was perfect for me. Perfect.
I couldn’t imagine anyone else being as perfect as her. Besides Sue, I had never felt that way about a woman. Not in the three years since Sue died and not before her.
I felt such incredible guilt that I’d taken away Miranda’s new husband and made her a widow. My mission killed Lewis. He died because of me.
How could I face her and tell her that?
In the end, I was a coward and it was hard for me, someone who lived through several tours of duty in Iraq and then in Special Forces in Afghanistan, to admit I was a coward when it came to facing the widow of the man who died to save my life.
I shouldn’t have even been in Arlington to attend any of the memorial services. Maybe I needed to go to one of those group grief counseling sessions Casey kept talking about…
After a few scant hours of sleep, I woke early and got up, showered, dressed in my uniform, and then made my way to Arlington National Cemetery so I could pay my respects before any of the families arrived. I’d stop, snap a few pictures of the headstones and plaques of the men I knew who were killed in action. Then I’d leave.
Miranda didn’t need to see my face. She must hate me for what I did to her and seeing me again would only be adding insult to injury. I parked and began my walk through the grounds. Arlington National Cemetery is a beautiful location. The graves are marked by whit
e headstones, row upon row that rest beneath trees, and the grass surrounding them is green and lush. Overhead that day, the sky was blue and it was peaceful as I wandered among the rows of headstones.
Using the App on my iPhone to locate the graves of several marines from my old battalion, I walked through the rows of headstones. While I walked, emotion built inside of me as memories of my time in Iraq and Afghanistan came flooding back. I found the names of several Marines who died during my first tour of duty during the surge and I bent down to touch their grave markers.
The Columbarium and Niche Wall were also impressive, with plaques on the wall, the whole complex feeling like a trip back to some Greek or Roman temple with the carved stone arches and walls. It was early, and I hoped to miss anyone who might know me – especially Miranda. As much as I would have liked to thank Dan’s parents in person, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt Miranda any more than I had already.
While I was standing in one of the alcoves, looking for Lewis’s plaque, I heard some voices and turned to see, in the distance, Miranda with a couple who I assumed were Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. I quickly left the spot in the hopes that Miranda didn’t recognize me for the brief moment she might have seen me.
I walked along the edge of the field, beneath the trees that grew on the perimeter of Arlington, hoping to make it back to the visitor parking area before anyone stopped me. I heard someone behind me and turned.
Miranda.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miranda
The first few days after Beckett left were hell.
I managed to make it through the day after Scott gave me the package of letters and I realized who left them.
Beckett…
He had the letters all along. He knew who I was from the first moment he walked into the bar.
Why did he pretend to not know?
Did he get some kind of perverted pleasure knowing who I was, that the letters were mine, and he succeeded in seducing me? He was a Marine. Did he have no honor or respect for the fact that my husband died in Afghanistan?
After Dan died, I felt like a big hole opened up in my chest and nothing could fill it. Then Beckett came along and for the first time in months, I felt alive. I felt happy. I had fallen in love with him – or at least, in lust – and looked forward to more time together once I returned to Manhattan to see what could develop between us.
He was so wonderful, in every way.
Or so I thought…
I worked the next evening, glad that it was a pretty slow night, but Steve wasn’t helping things, and kept asking about my ‘boyfriend’ and where he was.
“Stop,” I finally said, holding my hand up to him, palm out. “He’s gone back to Manhattan. He’s not my boyfriend, okay?”
Even saying it made me tear up. Steve held his hands up and backed away, shaking his head.
“Sorry. My bad. It’s just that he’s come in every night for a week when you worked. I wondered where he was, is all.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to get control over my emotions.
“I’m sorry,” I said and wiped my hands on my apron. “It’s just that Dan’s memorial is coming up and I’m a bit down, I guess.”
“Of course you are,” Steve said and moved closer, his hands on my shoulders. He bent down and looked in my eyes. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, feel free. I’m here for you, Mira. Anytime.”
I forced a smile I didn’t feel and nodded. “Thanks.” Then I pulled away, not wanting to feel his touch at that moment. I didn’t know what I wanted – hell, that was a lie. I wanted Beckett. I wanted to hit him and demand he tell me how he got my letters and why he didn’t say anything sooner. I wanted him to explain so we could still be together.
He was a good man. He was honorable. He’d risked his life in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was funny and sexy and so easy to be with. He seemed to be unable to resist me.
Was it all just for an easy fuck?
My mind screamed no – that what we had was more than just hot sex. What we had felt like more than just physical attraction, but my gut felt sick about it. If it had been more than just sex, why did he leave without talking to me, telling me how he got my letters?
I sat in my bedroom after my shift, and sorted through my letters, reading each one over, touching the blood stains on the paper. These were the letters I wrote to Dan after we were married and he was deployed with his Special Operations Forces team in Afghanistan. I had poured out my heart in these, wanting to keep our connection alive, even if he couldn’t always write back. He never knew where he’d be sent or what temporary base he’d be billeted in. It depended on what mission his team was working on.
My Dearest Dan,
It’s been two months since you left and my arms ache to hold you. I can’t imagine going another month before I see you again. I can’t imagine another three years of this separation. I know this is what I signed up for, but it’s so hard! My only consolation is that you’re doing important work over there. We all have to make sacrifices. I guess missing you is mine.
I’m really enjoying the house in Topsail Beach and staying with your parents. Bartending at a beach joint, as your dad calls it, is much, much different from the bar gramps runs in Queens. Tourists are a different crowd than cops and firefighters. I miss my gramps, but he understands that your dad needed a bartender and I was there so… I’ve become fast friends with Leah, so that’s nice. She keeps me busy and laughing and we spend our off time cooking at her apartment and gossiping.
Enough small talk. Our three weeks together, before the wedding and on our honeymoon was so good. My brain was on pleasure overload after being separated from you for six months. Now I’m going cold turkey! No Dan inside me every day twice a day is not a good feeling. I feel empty without you in me and in my bed and in my house. Staying with your parents makes it somewhat more tolerable, because I get to sleep in your old bedroom (love the Star Wars sheets, BTW…I made your mom keep them on your bed LOL She wanted to put something frilly she bought, but I said, no. I was as big a SW freak as you! My only complaint is that I prefer Chewy over 3PO) but when I go back to Manhattan for classes in September, I don’t know how I’ll cope. Maybe I’ll have to steal your old Star Wars sheets. Seeing you in August will be some consolation.
Stay safe. I love you more than anything.
Love, me.
I sorted through the rest but they were all the same. Beckett read all these letters. He read the intimate details of my mind. He knew my husband had died in Afghanistan the day he walked into the bar.
How could he do that to me?
Beckett Tate McNeil.
I wanted to hit him, I wanted to yell at him. Most of all, I wanted him to tell me why? Why did he do it?
I googled his name, and came up with a confusing array of hits but no single Beckett Tate McNeil. Not even a Beckett McNeil. Only Beckett Tate, CEO of Brimstone Solutions, Inc.
There were many McNeils in Hell’s Kitchen and a few news articles about Donny McNeil, who ran a company manufacturing that supplied the high tech industry. Colm McNeil, who had several restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen. I wondered if they were relatives that Beckett said he didn’t want to talk about. Whatever the case, there was absolutely nothing about any Beckett McNeil.
I’d seen his DEA ID. It looked legitimate, but I began to wonder if his DEA badge was fake. Maybe his whole story as well. If so, Brandon had to be in on it because even he let slip that Beckett’s last name was really McNeil.
There was a website, a pretty fancy one, for Brimstone Solutions, Inc. It was very military-themed, with images of soldiers on a battlefield, with planes in the sky, drones, and heavy artillery. They provided security and threat assessment services, security training, and of all things, guided tours of ‘conflict zones’ for the more adventurous traveler. At least I knew that his story about Brimstone was the truth, for there were testimonials on one of the pages promoting the security training. There was also a monthly newslette
r about the security situation around the world, of interest to investors. On the About Us page were images of Beckett and two other men – one was a Graham McKenny, Operations. There was an obituary for McKenny, who had been killed during a mission in East Asia, the text read. The other picture was identified as Brandon Kent, CFO, who Leah spent a few nights with while he was in Topsail Beach.
They were real.
Beckett Tate did exist. His image was at the top of the page, his handsome face making my heart squeeze in regret, his blue eyes so intelligent, neatly trimmed dark blond beard, slightly longish hair, square, square jaw. His eyes appeared kind. He had a pleasant smile on his face. He looked like the type of man you could trust.
I couldn’t accept that I’d been so wrong.
I fell asleep with my letters surrounding me on the bed, an old photo of Dan in my hand.
On Thursday, we packed up the car and left for Arlington. We were staying at a hotel on the outskirts of the city, close to the cemetery. I dreaded seeing Dan’s plaque on the Columbarium, because I’d know that behind it sat the urn with Dan’s remains. It made me think of his death in that chopper in a desert storm. We had so few details of the mission because it was classified, but I knew he died in the crash along with two Marines.
Their families would be at the memorial and we planned on meeting up with them for lunch. I was not looking forward to it – rehashing everything would open the old wounds again. After Beckett, I didn’t need anything else to hurt.
