by J. M. LeDuc
Brent swallowed hard. His saliva felt like shards of glass scraping his throat. He fought the pain in his lungs and inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent—receiving strength from the action. “I will do what is asked of me in remembrance of you.”
Chloe bent down and kneeled in from of Brent. “I need you to understand that you are not at fault for my death. It was my time. My destiny, my journey was complete and that is why God called me home.”
Brent cried into her hand.
Chloe spoke in whispered tones, the tones spoken between a man and wife. “Brent you must live your life to the fullest.”
“I don’t know how to do that without you in my life.” His words cried out like a wounded animal.
“In time you will find love again.”
Brent shook his head. “No, I won’t. I don’t want to. It would taint what we had.”
“What we had was pure. What we had was what pumped the blood through my heart. What we had,” she whispered, “you will not forget and you will make sure that Faith grows up knowing that her mother loved her.”
Brent prostrated himself before her. His tears soaking her feet.
“But,” Chloe continued, “you must live a life complete. A life with love and Chloe must know a mother’s love. She needs that. We,” she emphasized, “must ensure it.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Through God all things are possible. Lean on Him when times are hard, look to Him for all answers, both big and small and you will know when the time is right.”
Chloe once again cradled Brent’s face in her hands. “Promise me you will stay with Faith and that you will try to love again.”
Brent’s words were broken by his grief. “I—promise—to—try.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regain his composure.
When he lifted his body from the frozen tundra, he saw Chloe walking back into the mist.
“I love you,” he yelled.
“I love you more,” she said as she disappeared into the heavenly light.
Brent opened his eyes, reached deep within himself, and began to claw dirt from around him. For the next day, he continued to dig himself out of his earthly tomb. He used his tattered clothing and a couple of busted support beams he found to form a splint for his broken right leg.
Not knowing how he was going brace his weight, he dragged his body through the rubble. With raw, bloody fingers, he removed one stone at a time from his path. His only source of direction was a faint light that shone through a small crack at the blown entrance of the cave. Sweat covered his flesh and clothing. He took that as a good sign. He knew when he stopped sweating, dehydration would begin to ravage his kidneys. Every few hours he took a sip from his canteen. A canteen that grew lighter with each sip. All other sustenance came from his promise to Chloe. He refused to give in to weakness.
Every time his eyes closed in exhaustion, Seven’s words screamed at him like a mantra. “Sleep is a crutch! You need to learn to walk without leaning on this crutch. No one sleeps until the time is right. The time is never right if you are engaged in a mission.” Seven would circle his exhausted men. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. We have all been awake for six days—one-hundred-and-forty-six hours and thirty-two seconds to be exact. If any of you fall asleep, we all die. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be responsible for any of your deaths and I will be even more ticked off if any of you cause my death.”
Seven’s words gave Brent the little burst of energy he needed to continue his dig. He reached forward to drag another rock out of his way and when he did, he felt something cylindrical. Something smooth in its structure. When he released it from the rubble, he looked and saw that he was grasping his staff.
He lay on his back and clutched it to his chest. A weak sound emanated from his throat. Laughter—painful laughter—the greatest laughter of his life.
With his new find, Brent dug at a speed he didn’t know he had. He used the staff to leverage larger rocks out of the way. When he came to an area, nearer the light that seemed impassable, he pushed the recessed button on the staff and used the blade to dig through the wall of rock and debris.
Pulling himself through the hole he had dug, Brent was finally able to stand inside the cave. Leaning on his staff for support, he wondered if Tag had left this part of the cave intact on purpose.
Brent took the last swig of water from his canteen and moved with a confident limp towards the shimmer of daylight. Three hours later, he climbed out of an anthill. He stood on the Afghan side of the Hindu Kush Mountain range.
Brent leaned on his staff, scanned the horizon, and beamed at the glory of the barren, desolate landscape. He removed his knife from its sheath and unscrewed the end of the handle. Inside was a compass. Taking his bearings, he headed south toward his and Tag’s first resting point. It was two days away. He looked up towards heaven and asked for the strength to make it to point A, to a place where they had hidden extra water and their weapons.
CHAPTER 64
In the two days that followed the squad’s return to Palm cove, President Dupree made a remarkable recovery from his injuries. He was still in serious condition, but he was stable and improving. His concussion had begun to resolve itself and he began to speak of his forthcoming trip to National Arlington Cemetery.
Susan Collins, the administrator of the infirmary, the doctors and Scarlet tried to dissuade him from his trip, but there was no changing his mind. When anyone brought the subject up, he became increasingly agitated and his vital signs would spike. The only good news was that there was still time before the scheduled memorial service—time for the president’s health to improve.
Maddie and the remaining squad members were in constant contact with Seven and Alana who had made it safely to Alpha Camp. Per Brent’s orders, the camp was to stay vacant. No new soldiers were to be moved in and no military investigators were allowed to tour the facility. That job was left to the three who now resided at Alpha.
The one concession that Seven made to Brent’s orders was the removal of the soldiers of Alpha Camp from their shallow makeshift grave. Military helicopters landed and the medical staff removed the men and women so they could be taken home for a hero’s burial.
On the second night, they gathered around the radio and listened to Maddie tell them of the president’s improvements.
“The squad is chomping at the bit,” she said. “They hate being here doing nothing. They have asked repeatedly to join the three of you at Alpha.”
“Negative,” Seven replied. “We will follow the colonel’s orders until we are told otherwise.”
Maddie’s next words stuck in her throat as she tried to speak. “What if you receive no word? What if Brent is . . .”
“He is not,” Seven interjected.
“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”
Seven took a sip of bad coffee. “Do you remember when Brent disappeared after his fight with the Butcher? When that Blackhawk landed and scurried him and Chloe away?”
“Of course,” Maddie replied.
“Do you remember what I told you while I prayed in the chapel?”
Maddie smiled. “You said that Brent told you not to believe with your eyes but with your heart and you knew deep in your heart that he was not dead. You said that it was the only thing keeping you going.”
“That’s right,” Seven said.
Maddie leaned into the radio and softened her tone. “I can appreciate your faith, but how do you know he’s alive?”
Seven shook his head. “I have no proof,” he replied. “I only have the same feeling deep in my gut that he will return.” He took a sip of coffee. “Tag said that we were to remember the time when he sent us to the Wailing Wall. That was the first time I saw Brent rise from the dead like a ghost and began to believe with my heart and not with my eyes. Until my gut
and my heart tell me otherwise, we will wait here.”
CHAPTER 65
Brent dragged himself toward the slight relief made by the dune in the sand. After two days, every dune looked alike. Over the past hours, his confidence became lax as each dune he came to was the wrong one. He stopped and for what seemed like the hundredth time consulted his compass. I know this is the right way, he thought, I just pray I’m not hallucinating.
He pulled his body over the top of the knoll and dropped into the rock-strewn rut on the other side. His vision was blurry from dehydration and he had to squint to try to clear his sight of its interminable haze. Hands burnt and blistered from the sun reached out and touched the etching in the rock. His fingers traced the signs of the Alpha and Omega which he had cut into the rock just days ago. Brent collapsed in an exhausted lump of satisfaction.
With an unsteady grip, he pulled his knife from its sheath and frantically dug below the rock ledge to find the two canteens buried beneath. He rolled onto his back and unscrewed the cap of one with his teeth. The water burned his bloodied lips as he drank with a ravenous thirst. It took all his will not to down the entire contents.
Brent spent the next few hours shielding his body from the scolding sun and taking small sips from one of the canteens. He knew if he drank too quick, his stomach would revolt and he would throw-up. By nightfall, the heat had diminished and his thirst was somewhat quenched. At least he began to sweat again.
He would give himself the luxury of two hours of sleep before making his final approach toward Alpha. He only hoped Tag got the squad out of the mountain on time and that someone would be waiting for him when he got there.
Two hours later, he woke to his internal alarm, took one final compass reading and trudged off, limping towards Alpha Camp. He had a full day of walking in front of him and wanted to make it there before dark once again fell over the desert.
As the hours passed, the pain in his busted leg became unbearable. Another of Seven’s mantras played through his head: Pain is weakness leaving the body. This mantra played on a repeating loop through his mind as he limped toward his destination.
Six hours later, he saw the outline of the camp off in the distance. The sight of the camp invigorated him and he picked up his pace. Tag’s story of his final approach after his last mission flashed through his mind. Brent stopped long enough to check his pistol. He removed his clip, made sure that sand hadn’t become lodged in the trigger mechanism, snapped it back in place, pulled back the slide chambering a bullet, removed the safety and gripped it in his hand for his final approach.
Tag had drawn the night watch at camp and was keeping watch for anyone who might approach. In the last three days, his optimism for Brent’s return had waned. He thought about Brent’s orders to Seven and Alana and wondered about the story concerning the Wailing Wall. He had not asked about it and neither was forthright in giving information. What he did know was that Brent’s words seemed to give them both promise that Brent would somehow make it out of the bombed out mountain and make it back to Alpha. Their optimism helped sustain him on these long watches.
Scanning the horizon with night goggles, he thought he saw a form off in the distance. Tag rubbed his dry, sand-scratched eyes. His eyesight had been playing tricks on him during the past couple of hours. Twice during the night he called to both Seven and Alana to tell them that he had spotted someone, only to have been wrong.
He put down the goggles and picked up his sniper rifle. He had more confidence in its sight than he did the infrared goggles. He dialed in the sight and continued to keep the image in his crosshairs. The image—now in sharper focus—brought a smile to his face. “I’ll be,” he mumbled. “Colonel, you never cease to amaze me.” Supporting the gun on its tripod, he put his fingers to his lips and once again gave the warning whistle to the others.
Seven and Alana appeared at his side in less than a minute.
Alana approached yawning and rubbing her half-open eyes. “If you woke me again with false hope, I will take your gun and shoot you myself.”
Tag looked over his shoulder at his friends and smiled from ear-to-ear. He handed over the goggles and said, “Take a look before you kill me.”
She ripped them from his grip and looked to where he was pointing. She dropped them in the sand and began running toward the shuffling image.
Brent could see someone running toward him. Moments later, he could make out the long hair and shape of a woman. Alana. His heart rate quickened as he stood still and awaited her arrival. His heart filled with relief that she was alive.
Alana ran at full speed until she got close enough to see that Brent’s leg was splinted. It took all of her composure not to jump into his arms. She wrapped her arms around him and felt his embrace in return. No words were spoken.
With her support, Brent lowered himself to the desert floor.
Alana lay on the sand so close to him that she was partially on top of him and finger combed his hair away from his face. Her sweat intermingled with his. Brent tried to wipe the moisture from his lips with his tongue, but it was so swollen from dehydration that it was an act of futility.
He pushed Alana’s hair away from her face, looked into her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes and in a sand-scratched voice said, “Is this the way you greet all men?”
“Only those who have come back from the dead,” she quipped.
As they stared and began to laugh, they heard another voice. “As soon as she pries herself off of your broken body, I just might do the same thing,” Seven drawled.
Brent looked past Alana and looked at Seven and Tag. “If that’s the case, I hope she stays right where she is.”
Red with embarrassment, Alana rolled off of Brent and went to help him up.
“It might take more than one of you,” Brent said. “I’m pretty busted up.”
He wrapped his arms around both Alana and Seven while Tag braced his leg. The three of them lifted Brent into a standing position.
“Can you make it to camp?” Tag asked.
Brent’s smile was still plastered on his face. A smile he wasn’t sure would ever go away. “I’ve made it this far, I think I can make it the rest of the way.”
When they let go, he wobbled and started to lose his balance. Seven quickly reach for him and steadied his friend and commanding officer. Leaning on his shoulder, Brent and his friends made their way to camp.
Inside the comfort of the camp, Tag triaged Brent’s injuries, set his fracture and put on a proper splint. He then assessed the rest of his injuries. Seven and Alana walked in as he was finishing.
“Well?” Seven asked.
“He has multiple rib fractures, a broken fibula, a dislocated left shoulder, and some minor infection.”
Seven spit in his cup and smiled. “So, he’s fine.”
“I’ll be fine as soon as you reset my shoulder,” Brent said.
Seven looked at Tag for an explanation.
“He wouldn’t let me do it. He said you were the only one he trusted to pop it back.”
“I know how much fun you have causing me pain,” Brent said.
Seven shook his head and grabbed one the canteens. He held the strap for Brent to take. “Which way did you do it this time?”
“It popped out in the front,” Tag answered.
Seven looked to Brent for affirmation. Brent nodded.
Brent bit down on the canvas canteen strap so he wouldn’t break his teeth. Seven stood in front of his friend and told the others to stand behind Brent to brace him. With a gentle touch, he palpated the shoulder, tractioned his arm, and drove the palm of his hand into the humeral head. A loud pop could be heard as he closed the dislocated joint. Brent’s only reaction was a slight grunt of pain.
Seven removed the strap from Brent’s mouth and handed it to Alana. She was surprised by the depth of the marks left by his teeth.
Alana took the tape from Tag. “I’ll do it.”
The others walked from the room and left them alone. When she placed her hands on Brent’s bare skin, she started to tremble. Brent covered her hands with his good one. His touch made her shake even more.
When he looked into her eyes, the same emotions he had had when they first saw each other back in her village outside of Jerusalem returned.
“I want to apologize for the way I treated you when you tried to contact me after Chloe’s death.”
“No apologies necessary.” Her words were barely audible.
“When I heard that you had come to Palm Cove, it brought me hope,” he said.
“How so?” she breathed as she began to tape his shoulder to his upper body.
“Knowing that you cared enough to come and the way I saw Faith respond to you helped me realize that there was another reason to live.”
Alana stopped for a moment and sat beside him. She put the tape down and pushed his hair away from his eyes.
Thinking back to the way they ‘communicated’ at her home, he smiled. “Are we going to play that game again?”
She stared into his eyes with concern. “This is no game. What do you mean by another reason to live?”
Brent reciprocated and brushed her long, matted, dark hair from her face. “After everything that had happened, I shut down. My only thought was getting back at the Brotherhood. It was the only thing that kept me going.”
“And, now?”
“Now,” he said, “I have other reasons.”
Alana wanted to push the conversation but she knew this was not the time. She finished taping his injury and stood. “You smell like a goat. I hope you don’t plan on smelling that way forever.”
