A Hero's Homecoming

by Havel, Carlene;

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  You Can Help!

  God Can Help!

  Free Book Offer

  A Hero’s Homecoming

  Carlene Havel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A Hero’s Homecoming

  COPYRIGHT 2007, 2012 by Carlene Havel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Publishing History

  Prism Edition, 2012

  Electronic Edition ISBN-978-0-9858941-0-8

  Published in the United States of America

  CHAPTER ONE

  Colonel Rich Martino was more exhausted than he could ever remember being. After so many delays and time zone changes, he couldn’t even figure out how long he had been traveling. It was three-twenty p.m., Manila time, when he left the Philippine Islands. His flight was supposed to have left at noon, but a mechanical problem held things up for three hours. He missed his connection in Hawaii and spent an extra day in the Honolulu Airport waiting to get on a flight to San Francisco. After a brief stop in Guam, he finally touched down in California. Back in the good old U.S.A. for the first time in two years. He would have enjoyed it more if he hadn’t been so worn out.

  By the time Rich reached San Francisco, his whole travel itinerary was a mess. He’d been through enough delays to take it in stride—up to a point. Eyes gritty, he went to the airline counter to see what he could do. Somehow, he managed to get in the slowest line. The trainee agent had to ask for help three times to get Rich ticketed. Since he sounded almost incoherent to himself, he sensed he wasn’t making a lot of sense to the ticket agent. After what seemed like an eternity, the arrangements were made, his boarding pass in his hands, and he was on his way home. Home. San Antonio, Texas. That was going to be a welcome sight.

  After clearing through security, Rich located a pay phone to call his wife. There was no line, since everyone else who wanted to make a call was using a cell. Technology had no use in the jungles of Mindoro. There, a man needed a reliable weapon and his wits about him. Rich promised he would fix himself up with a cell phone as soon as he got a chance. Maybe even tomorrow. He smiled at the thought. Who was he kidding? Tomorrow he would sleep all day.

  He knew he couldn’t be functioning well when he heard a recording indicating the number he entered was not a working telephone. “Can’t even remember my own phone number,” he groused to no one in particular.

  Rich had emailed Rita from the American Embassy in Manila to inform her he was on his way home. He couldn’t remember if that was on Sunday or Monday. Occasional email and even rarer phone calls had been Rich’s only contact with his wife since their brief vacation in Hawaii last summer.

  During the last year he’d reached the realization he was tired of living in the jungle, chasing terrorists. Though proud of his work as a special agent, he figured at forty-four it was someone else’s turn to carry the load.

  Realistically, Rich knew as long as he was in the Air Force he would have essentially the same kind of job. Not many American Air Force officers were fluent in Tagalog. Even fewer could survive for months at a time in the jungle. The more he let himself think about retirement, the more Rich wanted it. He could live in a comfortable home with his beautiful wife, spend time with his Dad, take a cruise every year, and fly off to Vegas any time he desired. After a while, retiring seemed not merely the right thing, but the only thing to do. He could always work for his dad if he got bored. But he wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t choose to.

  Rich had planned his finances carefully. He and his wife could live comfortably on his savings and substantial stock portfolio, without ever touching his retirement pay or Rita’s income. Some of his friends sank into depression just thinking about leaving the service. He told the embassy staff—when was that? Monday?—“I’m leaving with mixed emotions, happiness and joy.”

  That tired old cliché made the rounds in military circles for years, but it still got a laugh.

  A broken seat delayed the flight from San Francisco to San Antonio for thirty minutes. After they pushed away from the gate, the pilot announced bad weather brewed over Texas and they would wait just a bit before taking off. While serving a third round of free drinks, one of the flight attendants doubled over with stomach cramps and started throwing up in the aisle. So they returned to a gate to wait for a cleanup crew and a replacement flight attendant.

  As tired and frustrated as he was, Rich couldn’t help thinking the whole situation was somewhat comical. What a way to end his Air Force career! Maybe it was the liquor. He chuckled, thinking how much fun he would have telling his wife and dad about the trip home. Rich wondered if his dad would be present when he arrived. Several of Rita’s recent emails mentioned his father was doing a lot of traveling back and forth to New York. Must be some kind of business deal.

  Rich’s plane touched down in what his dad always called the Great State of Texas a few minutes after midnight. The weary travelers straggled into an almost deserted airport. Rich was glad he hadn’t asked Rita to meet him. He always said you never knew what could happen with an overseas flight and this trip clearly demonstrated Murphy’s Law had not been repealed. He was mildly surprised when his suitcase came around the carousel. Losing it would have been the final touch. When Rich saw an available taxi sitting outside the baggage claim area, he decided his string of bad luck had run its course. He was only a thirty-minute ride from his cool, comfortable bed.

  A twinge of guilt nipped at Rich when he slumped into the back seat of the taxi, leaving his oversized bag for the short little driver to load into the trunk. I’ll take care of the guy with a good tip, he thought. He was way too tired to fool with luggage.

  Normally, Rich would have chatted with the taxi driver, asking where he was from and catching up on San Antonio’s endlessly entertaining local politics. Instead, he said curtly, “Fifty-seven hundred Glen Oak Meadow, near Randolph.”

  Only when he heard the high-pitched, “Yes, sir. I know right where that is,” did Rich realize his driver was a woman. Regret cut deeper for making her lift his suitcase, but h
is remorse wasn’t enough to keep him from falling asleep.

  A noise startled Rich awake and he reached for his assault rifle. In a single quick motion, he was on the sidewalk. His suitcase too. The thumping noise proved to be the little driver closing the trunk of her taxi. Reality presented itself.

  Nothing but twenty-dollar bills in his wallet. Rather than wait, he paid for his nineteen-dollar ride with two twenties and said, “I don’t need any change.”

  The girl’s eyes bulged. “Thanks!”

  In an instant she was nothing but tail lights, obviously making a quick getaway in case the big tip was a mistake. For a brief moment, Rich wondered why that little girl drove a taxi on the night shift, but his attention turned quickly to the front door of his tan brick home.

  The neighborhood was quiet, the only movement a yellow cat stealthily prowling across a nearby lawn. The spacing of street lights and front porch lights gave the street a dim glow of suburban security. Yards were neatly maintained. Everything looked so clean. Back in the U.S.A. at last. San Antonio was equally as hot and humid as the jungle, but on the other side of that door would be a wonderful invention called air conditioning.

  Rich’s luggage made a muffled, rubbery noise as he rolled it to the front porch. Rattling keys out of his pocket, he wondered if Rita had thought to put his favorite flavor of ice cream in the fridge. A bowl of dulce de leche would be great.

  Rich fought to unlock the door, which only rattled in his grasp. He pulled the key out of the lock and examined it. Fatigue overwhelmed him...maybe he had the wrong key. But, no, that was the one, the silver key that said TRU-SEC across it. He tried again, but the lock was frozen. A light came on upstairs. Well, as long as Rita was awake, he would ring the doorbell. The chimes sounded at the press of a button. The upstairs light suddenly flicked out, but no one came to the door. He rang again, trying to shake off the sense that he was being watched. If this was Rita’s idea of a joke…

  Fury mounted as he stood outside his own home and knocked sharply on the door. “Rita? Let me in. It’s Rich.”

  There were scurrying sounds, but still no Rita. This time he pounded on the door with his open hand. “Rita! Open this door or I’m going to break it down.”

  Too bad if he woke up the neighbors. He was hot, hungry, and exhausted. He wanted inside that house. Now.

  The safety chain kept the door from opening more than a few inches. In the soft porch light, Rich made out the concerned face of a man he had never seen before. Pakistani, perhaps? Indian?

  In his clipped British accent the man asked, “Is it possible you have arrived at the incorrect street address?”

  For a moment, Rich thought he might be at the wrong place. But, no. This was his house. He had planted that boxwood under the front window. He had painted the shutters and trim white.

  With a voice of authority, he fired questions. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I am Chandra Pulashty. This is my home. Is it possible you are searching for the previous owner, Mrs. Martino?”

  Previous owner? “I’m Mrs. Martino’s husband.”

  “Quite so?” the man said gently, almost sadly. “My family bought this house last month. It is possible you will be able to locate Mrs. Martino elsewhere, but I do not know where.”

  With that, he slowly closed the door. Rich heard the deadbolt click. If he were twenty years younger, Rich would’ve kicked down the door. The wisdom that came from making too many mistakes of that kind reminded him breaking and entering would not solve his problem.

  He was stunned. The scene was surreal. Rich collected himself for a few minutes, then pulled his suitcase to the next block and sat on a bus stop bench. He needed some time to clear his head.

  Things had been great between him and Rita when she was married to Jack. When the couple split over Rich and Rita’s affair, Dad warned him, “Son, if she ran around on her last husband, she’s going to run around on the next one.”

  He didn’t listen. Rita was gorgeous and Rich lonely. He tried to ignore the way other men looked at her when they went to a bar for a few drinks. Although he often resented the way she looked back at them, he tried not to think about that too much. He suspected she was glad when he got his orders for the Philippines, but didn’t want to believe their marriage was falling apart.

  Somehow, he convinced himself Rita would be waiting when he arrived home, ready to welcome him with open arms. Well, maybe she was waiting, somewhere. Maybe things were not what they seemed. Rich would sort that out as soon as he could. The immediate problem was finding a place to spend the night.

  Rich considered his options. He could wake up a neighbor and ask to use the phone to call his dad. But he didn’t know for sure who lived in any of these places now. If he could talk his way into someone’s house, there was a good chance his father would still be out of town.

  He could find an unpopulated area and sleep under the stars. He’d done that more nights than he cared to remember in the last twenty years. But that had been in the real jungle, not the urban one. How many houses had been built, and where, since he left town? Sleeping in some guy’s yard could get a man picked up by the local cops and slapped with a record for misdemeanor vagrancy.

  So far, retirement had nothing to recommend it.

  Rich opted for his long-time refuge, the U.S. Air Force. He had driven from this neighborhood to Randolph Air Force Base and back five days a week when he was assigned there. So he knew the distance—four-point-three miles, one way. On a good day, jogging the round trip wouldn’t work up a good sweat. Dog tired, hungry, hefting a carry-on, walking and dragging a suitcase? Probably an hour and a half. That would put him at the main gate about three a.m. With a little luck, he could secure a place to spend the night at Randolph, maybe even catch a ride from the main gate to his room.

  Rich opened his carry-on bag and removed the duty-free champagne he had planned to share with Rita. It was good liquor, but he didn’t feel like carrying it four miles tonight. He grinned, thinking about some surprised schnook finding the intact bottle at the bus stop the next morning.

  One would think any fool who would carry a magnum of champagne eight thousand miles would at least have a drink. The prospect was tempting, but his survival instincts told him to stay completely alert until the situation was under control. He fished around in his luggage for some fresh socks and athletic shoes. Thus prepared, Rich slung his small bag over his shoulder, grabbed the handle of his suitcase and started hiking.

  “Welcome home, Colonel Martino,” he muttered. “A grateful nation thanks you for your many years of faithful service.” What else could go wrong today?

  The first raindrops began to fall.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charlotte Phillips looked strangely out of place in the emergency waiting area. Most of the people who drifted in and out of the room were dressed casually. Charlotte wore a pastel pink suit, her ivory silk blouse covered with tiny pink flowers framed by pale green leaves, her high heels polished and gleaming. A few strands of her exceptionally long chestnut hair were starting to escape the braid wound around her head, but otherwise she looked crisp and professional.

  Dr. Stephens, still wearing his green scrubs, strode over and sat by Charlotte.

  “Mr. Martino is going to make it,” he said. “It’s fortunate you got him here when you did. A few more hours...well, he’s lucky you checked on him. Now, I can’t say he’ll be all right. But he’s going to live. In a week or two, if everything goes well, you can move him to a rehab facility. The hospital has a list of places we recommend if you don’t already know of one. Make the arrangements now, so you will be prepared when, and if, he’s ready to be moved. I will be by tomorrow evening around seven. Meanwhile, here’s my office number. You can call me any time and I’ll get the message.” He handed Charlotte a business card. “You are his daughter, correct?”

  “No, Dr. Stephens,” Charlotte replied. “Mr. Martino and I are not related. I’m trying to find his daug
hter-in-law, but so far I haven’t been able to reach her. As long as Dick is all right, I’m only a friend. If he’s not able to make his own decisions, my understanding is that I will become his legal guardian.”

  Dr. Stephens’ air of medical competence fell away at the first mention of family relationships. “You’ll need to talk to the business office, then. I really don’t know how all of that works.” He was halfway out of the room before he finished talking.

  Charlotte tucked Dr. Stephens’ business card into her purse. “Oh, Lord,” she prayed silently, “thank you for sparing Dick. And please show me how best to help him. Amen.”

  Things had started to unravel earlier that morning when Charlotte’s normally punctual client did not show for his nine o’clock appointment. Nor did he call. That wasn’t like Dick Martino. If anything, he was too structured, too much a slave to deadlines and timetables.

  Anita, Charlotte’s office manager, phoned the Martino house and received no answer. Charlotte could not work past the feeling something was wrong. And, in a way, she had agreed to take responsibility for Dick.

  Finally, the feeling of dread became so strong she drove to Dick’s house. His car was idling in the tree-lined circle driveway with Dick slumped over the steering wheel. Charlotte immediately dug inside her purse for her cell phone. She rapped on the window of the locked car, but there was no response. Praying she hadn’t arrived on the scene too late, she called nine-one-one.

  An ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes, although it seemed to Charlotte to take forever. The locked car door didn’t hinder the emergency technicians. In a whirl of controlled chaos, the two men had Dick out of the car, onto a stretcher, and into the ambulance.

  Charlotte reached inside the car, switched off the ignition, and removed the keys. So close to tears, she stared at them for a moment, then slipped them into her purse. Poor Dick.