She took some details from me, asking all the right questions. Even though I wasn’t firing on all cylinders, I recognized a professional when I saw one, although it wasn’t my style to do the emotional ‘how are you feeling now?’ stories.
Then she carefully combed her silky blonde hair and added a fresh layer of gloss to her already shiny lips before summoning her cameraman. Beside her I looked like a homeless person, but she said that would add to the pathos of the story and I was past caring.
“We good?” she asked the cameraman who nodded and started to record.
She pulled her face into the ‘serious but sympathetic’ expression that all TV reporters seem to know instinctively.
“I’m outside Camp Pendleton, scene of the appalling terrorist massacre of four Marines, and as the numbers of the wounded continue to rise, our hearts go out to the loved ones who are left wondering if it’s their parent, brother or sister, or even their child who lies among the fallen. One of those awaiting devastating news is here with me today. And as a leading reporter on the New York Times, Margaret Buckman is usually behind the camera on a news story, since she’s based in the Middle East, one of the most dangerous places in the world . . .”
She was really piling on the emotions.
“But Margaret . . . known to her friends as Maggie . . . has just flown for twenty hours, over 8,000 miles, because her boyfriend, Gunnery Sergeant Jackson Connor, is here at Camp Pendleton. Like many other families, she awaits news of her loved one.”
She pushed the microphone toward me.
“How are you feeling, Maggie?”
“Shocked and worried,” I answered honestly. “I know the military has protocols to follow, but not knowing . . . it’s unbearable.” I took a deep breath. “I have to hope for the best.”
“Where did you two meet?”
As I told her our story, her eyes grew bigger, pleased with the direction her scoop was taking her. I didn’t begrudge her—she was only doing her job.
“Jack’s mother Evelyn and his sister Lucy are at home in Gulfport, Mississippi, waiting for news, too.”
She brought the microphone back to her mouth as the cameraman swung toward her.
“As the clock ticks down, we can only hope that Maggie’s Marine comes home, but already knowing as we do that four families will be mourning the loss of their loved one tonight. This is Heather Lake, Camp Pendleton, San Diego for Fox 5 News.”
Her words cut me to the heart. If Jack lived it was because someone else had died. I had to walk away as hot, angry tears leaked from my eyes.
The Road Home
JACK’S EYES BURNED with tiredness but he had a job to do.
He’d taken a man’s life. A man who wanted to kill him, a man who’d already killed four men, but a life nevertheless.
He felt empty, emotionless, with the great weariness that comes from running on adrenaline without sleep for too long.
He’d joined in with the EOD team and dozens of other men to search the base for any incendiary or explosive devices. As he had the clearest idea of the path the enemy had taken, he had to stay with the bomb disposal team the whole time, barely having a minute to take a piss, let alone eat a meal, although someone had brought him a cup of coffee during the long day and night.
Once the base was given the all-clear, and half a ton of fertilizer packed with nails had been neutralized by the EOD team, he’d also been interviewed by senior officers, MPs, and an incident team, telling the same story each time. And now he had to fill out a ton of forms to account for discharging his weapon. There hadn’t been nearly so much paperwork when he’d been in Afghanistan, he thought bitterly.
Trudging back to his office, he glared at his cell phone, still dead and without his charger, unlikely to be resurrected any time soon. It was the first chance he’d had to pick up a phone in nearly twenty-four hours and he needed to call Maggie again, his mama and sister. He longed to hear Maggie’s voice, but still uncertain if she wanted to talk to him and not sure what he’d say, he fired up his laptop instead and turned to a news channel to see what the reporters were saying.
He was stunned to see Maggie, red-eyed and exhausted, being interviewed by a busty blonde.
“I just need to know that he’s safe. Jack, if you’re listening to this, please call me. Evelyn and Lucy are desperate to hear from you, too. We all love you. Be safe.”
He couldn’t believe she was here, standing with the other journalists on the base’s perimeter. He knew how many hours it took to fly from Cairo—he’d thought about it often enough. Hell, she must have gotten a flight within an hour of the attack.
With that realization, all his doubts melted away, and he felt furious and ashamed that he’d ever questioned that she was anything but sincere. Or that she loved him. Hell, she’d just announced it to the whole damn world!
His chest felt tight and full as he let her love fill him, as he let himself believe.
He picked up his landline and dialed, knowing her number off by heart.
“Maggie . . .”
“Jack? Jack! Oh my God, Jack!”
And then he didn’t know if she was laughing or crying as choked sobs reached him.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
And perhaps for the first time in a long time it was okay.
“I can’t believe you came all this way.”
There was a long pause as she sniffed and cleared her throat.
“I was so afraid . . . there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I love you so much.”
Jack’s heart swelled with gratitude, love overflowing his tough demeanor. But it was several seconds before he could speak.
“I love you, too, Maggie. Christ, I’m so sorry, sugar. I forgot to charge my cell phone . . .”
This time she was definitely laughing, just one stop before hysteria central on the crazy train.
“You didn’t charge your cell?! I’ve been going nuts! Your mother . . . Jesus, Jack!”
“I know, I know. I’ll get a new phone first chance I get. But the base is still on lockdown—I can’t leave, I can’t come to you. God, Maggie! I just want to hold you so I know that you’re real.”
“Oh, I’m real alright, Sarge,” she whispered, the stress and strain of the last twenty-four hours apparent in her voice. “You’re not getting rid of me now.”
He hoped that was true. It was all that he hoped for. And when he’d faced down the enemy, faced death as the gunman’s spray of bullets missed him by inches, it was her face he’d seen.
If I hadn’t slipped, I would be a helluva lot dead about now. Luck. Sheer dumb luck had saved him. Or maybe, he thought in his most secret self, maybe he’d been saved. And even while he stared at muzzle flashes from the enemy AK47, he’d wanted to survive for her, for Maggie.
They talked for another fifteen minutes, but he could hear the exhaustion in her voice and tried to persuade her to check into a hotel to get some rest, but she was reluctant to leave the perimeter in case the lockdown was revoked. Finally, she only agreed when he promised to call her the moment there was any more news or he was allowed to leave the base.
After they’d reluctantly said their goodbyes, he called his mother and sister. Listening to them crying over the phone, he gave them as much reassurance as he was able.
Finally, alone again in the deep silence of his empty office, he swore at the pile of paperwork on his desk, gave it the bird, then stumbled back to his room and fell into a deep sleep.
He was woken four hours later by the CO’s clerk knocking on his door and asking for the report that Jack should have emailed by now.
Wearily, he sat up rubbing his gritty eyes, remembering at last to plug his cell phone into his charger, frowning as it beeped at him in a long, angry jingling of missed calls and text messages. He listened to them all, his eyes clouding as he heard Maggie’s increasingly worried words from Cairo, Istanbul, LA and finally outside the base.
He felt even guiltier that he’d ever doubted
her and was determined to put that right as soon as possible. He was still a little overwhelmed that she’d flown 8,000 miles to be with him. She was an amazing woman and he was a lucky bastard to have her in his life.
Back in his office, he read the updates on the incident. The newspapers and TV were calling it a terrorist attack, but the military were carefully avoiding giving it that title.
The killer had been an unemployed 28 year old from Escondido with a police record for petty crime. No one knew yet why he’d decided to attack the base, but the authorities were working on it, going through his rented apartment, laptop and cell phone.
In little more than eight minutes, he’d fired over forty rounds from inside his vehicle, killing two Marines on the gates and two more inside. Seventeen others had been injured, and one of them had since lost an arm. Another two were in ICU and it wasn’t yet certain if they’d survive. Men he’d served with, men he’d known.
Where did such hatred come from?
He rested his head in his hands, took a deep breath, then started punching the letters on the keyboard, stoically completing his report, doing his duty. Sometimes life was shit.
Then he remembered that Maggie was waiting for him.
Sometimes life was good.
Five hours later, the lockdown ended. But Jack, being the key witness, had to wait another two days before he was granted leave. Two excruciatingly long days while he waited to see Maggie. They spoke for a couple of hours both evenings when he was off duty—it was killing him not to be able to see her.
At least in his dreams he could hold her in his arms.
Maggie
I did a lot of thinking while I was stuck in my hotel waiting for Jack. I went for long walks over the sand dunes, lost in my thoughts, wondering what the future would bring, asking myself what I wanted from it: what I wanted and what I was prepared to give up, what I could compromise on and what I couldn’t.
I was fairly sure what my decision would be, but not rushing in, weighing the evidence, those were the marks of a good journalist. But who is sensible when they’re in love?
Each evening, we talked for so long that we were both yawning by the time we said goodnight.
I spoke to Evelyn, too, reassuring her that Jack was fine. I even chatted with Lucy whom I’d never met, and found her sweet and funny, proud of her big brother and very welcoming to me.
I yearned for Jack, I craved him. I wanted to feel his hands on my body, I wanted to be able to look into those cobalt blue eyes. I wanted his smile and his laugh, and I wanted to make love to him, to make up for all the nights we’d been apart since we met.
And I didn’t want to say goodbye again. I was afraid that if I did, it would be the last time. Stupid to think like that because I’d never been superstitious, but when I’d learned that it was Jack who’d shot the attacker, a shiver of dread had worked its way into the very core of my being, into my soul.
I’d come too close to losing my love. The thought made me physically sick.
So I kept busy, filling those two long days, hardening my resolve and testing the words that I wanted to say to him.
So when he called to tell me that he was on his way to the hotel at last, I wanted to cry and laugh and hug him forever.
He was still driving his crappy Jeep when I saw him from the window. It tore up the driveway to the hotel in a cloud of dust, the exhaust even louder than I remembered.
I flew down the stairs and through the lobby, flinging myself at him, making him stagger back. And then I kissed him until neither of us could breathe.
I let my fingers rove his freshly shaven cheeks, the faint scent of soap clinging to his tanned skin. My hands stroked his regulation hair, the soft bristles tickling my palms, and I felt that strong body shiver as I clutched him to me, and he buried his face in my hair, hugging me so tightly I could barely draw breath.
Jack spoke first, brushing his thumbs over my mouth and cheeks, pushing my tangled hair out of my eyes.
“Why are we wasting time, Maggie? It could have been me. You know that, right? Or next time it could be you. We can’t keep playing this game.”
It wasn’t the opening I’d expected, but Jack was nothing but direct.
“It’s not a game, Jack,” I said urgently. “Not for me. When I heard . . . when I saw . . . I couldn’t . . . it wasn’t . . . my life flashed in front of my eyes, Jack. Your life, my life. I want to be with you. Forever. No more goodbyes. We’ve said those words too many times. I don’t want it anymore.”
His blue eyes burned with an almost desperate passion, a need for certainty.
“I’m a Marine. That’s what I do. I could be deployed again next year for six months, longer. There will always be goodbyes.”
I nodded slowly, knowing he was right, and knowing I couldn’t, wouldn’t ask him to give this up, even when it put his life in danger. He had a strong sense of duty and he loved being a Marine. I wouldn’t make him choose between his job and me.
I hadn’t forgotten Marc’s words about living Jack’s life instead of my own, but I’d come to terms with them, too.
“I can live with that,” I said quietly. “I won’t like it. I’ll never like saying goodbye to you, but you’re a Marine and I’m so damn proud of you—and I always will be.”
His eyes scanned my face, keeping his hope in check.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I do. With all my heart.”
He pulled back to look at me, gripping my shoulders almost painfully.
“What about Cairo?”
I thought carefully about my answer, wanting to explain it so he’d understand, so there’d be no uncertainty.
“My whole career I’ve wanted that assignment, to be a foreign correspondent.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped.
“I know.”
“And I’ve achieved it. I think, in some small way, I’ve made a difference. Maybe that’s arrogant, but I believe in my work, I do. Even though sometimes I feel like Canute, trying to hold back the waves, but in the end only proving that no one can stop the ocean from rolling in. What I’m saying, Jack, is that I’m done. I’ve achieved what I set out to achieve. I can’t do it anymore. I’m finished. I’m leaving Cairo. I’ve already given my month’s notice.”
His eyes widened.
“But . . . you did? When?”
“Two days ago.”
“You . . . you didn’t say anything!”
“I was waiting to hear back from my editor. I wanted to be sure . . . about everything.”
“What did your editor say?”
I gave a wry smile.
“Well, he wasn’t very happy, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter either.”
“So . . .” Jack drew out the word painfully. “You’ll go back to New York now?”
I lowered my eyes until I was gazing at his chest.
“That’s certainly one possibility and my editor offered me my old job back . . . but there’s another option that I’m considering.”
I glanced up, feeling his burning eyes on me.
“The International Rescue Committee is a small but growing charity. They’re looking for someone to head up their publicity department—and they’ve offered me the job.”
Jack gave a strained smile.
“That sounds real great, Maggie.”
“It is. They do amazing work all over the world: health, education, famine, refugees—wherever they’re needed, and I’ll still have a chance to make a difference. There’ll be some traveling, but I won’t be living abroad, and . . .” I took a deep breath, “their offices are in Glendale. It’s only 85 miles on the I-5 from Camp Pendleton. I looked it up.”
Jack’s deep frown smoothed slowly and his tanned cheeks lifted in a smile that grew broader and happier.
“That means we could . . .” I began to say.
Jack interrupted me.
“I know what it means, Maggie. Hell, yeah! Are we really going to do this? I’m not talking
about dating, seeing how it goes; I’m talking about the whole tamale.” He paused. “Because I love you, Maggie. I’ve been hiding from the truth for a while now. I know that being married to a man in the Marines hasn’t been on your to-do list. I spend a lot of time away or on training, sometimes deployed at short notice. I could be away more than I’ll be home. It’s not much of a life for a Marine’s wife and . . .”
I pressed my fingers over his lips.
“You can stop selling it to me now, Jackson.”
He swallowed and straightened his spine.
“I want to marry you, Maggie, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
I glowed with love and relief.
“I’d better say yes then.”
“Fuck, I’d better ask you then.”
We both burst out laughing at the same time. Then his expression became serious and muttering under this breath, he tore off a thin sliver of silver paper that must have come from a candy bar and fashioned it into a ring.
His cheeks flushed red as he sank to one knee and held up the improvised ring.
“I got a real one back in my desk,” he muttered sheepishly.
“You do?”
“Yeah, but this is kind of impromptu . . .”
He shook his head, staring up at me beseechingly.
“I can’t offer you much. I guess this ring about says it all. I can’t even give you my heart, because you’ve had it for quite a while now. But I promise to love you and cherish you, argue with you and make up with you, hold you and care for you every day of my life.
“You are the most frustrating and ornery woman I’ve ever met, but you’re also brave and loyal and kind, and you fight for the world to be a better place. There’s nowhere else I want to be but by your side fifty or sixty years from now, God willing.
“Margaret Jean Buckman, will you do me the honor of marrying me and being my wife?”
I nodded wildly as tears streaked my cheeks and I discovered that the woman I was, the one who was never lost for something to say, the woman who was paid by the number of words she hammered out couldn’t find a thing to reply.
“Is that a yes?” he mumbled. “You sure?”
Battle Scars Page 18
