Jack tried to remember if at any time he had touched any of his images. He didn’t think so, but wasn’t really sure. He knew he had felt contact when he was Casey. He had felt the corpsman’s hand in his; felt the pressure in his chest when Doc Barton did whatever had made him breathe better; had felt Mac touch him.
But what about as Jack?
He had a clear memory of the feel of arms and hands on him, pulling him down into the cyclone of sand that had barfed up out of the hole in the sidewalk, but had he initiated any contact with any of the images?
Then he remembered the night in the desert, when Hoag had become hysterical and started shaking him. Hadn’t he grabbed the commander by the wrists and broken his hold on him? He was sure that he had. That seemed important. He had initiated physical contact and more importantly, altered things that Hoag was doing.
Very fucking important, in fact.
The other thing that was crucial to the plan was timing. When he had gone to the nighttime desert that day, he had been with his Marines before the assault on Fallujah. They had been smoking and grab-assing by the berm outside the city, a moment he vaguely recalled outside of his visit to the event as Jack. And he was pretty sure that had been the night before they had gone into the Jolan neighborhood as part of the assault force, and a full day or so before his squad had been split off from the platoon and pinned behind the wall. In other words, well before any of them had been injured or killed. That was critically important, too, Jack realized. He had to be able to get to Fallujah before they were all shot up, preferably before they even got separated from the rest of his platoon. The timing was going to be everything.
Lastly, was his ability to go where he needed to go. He felt pretty good about that one. He knew he had left Hoag that night, somewhat of his own free will. And he was certain he had left the dirty street of Fallujah, had willed himself away and back to the arms of his wife, on at least two occasions. If he could leave Iraq by a sheer force of desire, shouldn’t he also be able to go there as well? Jack realized that while that certainly seemed reasonable, he had no way to really know. After all, he still didn’t really understand any of this. He thought he had a better understanding of what it all meant, but it was still just his own personal interpretation. Jack tried not to dwell on the things he didn’t know. Hoag had said some things that implied his plan couldn’t possibly work, but hadn’t the Navy chaplain also admitted that he didn’t understand it all either? That night in the desert, Hoag admitted he had no idea what came next, but somehow seemed to believe that they had to “all leave together.” The chaplain being wrong about that was going to be incredibly important, too.
There were a lot of uncertainties in his plan, he realized, but he had no other ideas. If this didn’t work, then he doubted he had any hope at all of staying with Pam and Claire. He would die in the street in Fallujah and leave Pam a widow and single mother. That was a thought he couldn’t bear. He would alter his destiny, and hopefully that of his Marines. Hoag, he assumed, was on his own. He had bought it miles away in an unrelated IED attack, and Jack couldn’t think of any way to incorporate the chaplain’s death into his plan. He didn’t let himself think about what that meant for his hope for success for him, and Bennet, and Kindrich, and Simmons—especially poor, young Simmons. He felt particularly responsible for his youngest Marine, whom he had pulled himself helmet to helmet with that day in Fallujah. He had promised the boy that they would be fine.
Maybe now he would have a chance to make good on that promise.
Jack also felt an incredible press of time on him. Would he even make it to the night, or for that matter, to the airport? Hoag’s threatening promise echoed in his mind over and over, interrupting his attempts to focus on the plan.
We will come for you… We will take you and those around you will suffer…
Jack wasn’t sure he could tell Pam, even if he wanted to. He was worried that her reaction to the madness of what was going on, and the insanity of what he was planning, might shake his own resolve if he were to tell it out loud. He hoped she wouldn’t ask again for the details, that she would just trust him. He believed telling her would ruin his chances for some reason.
After they landed and collected their carry-on luggage, they headed out to the parking lot hand in hand. Jack felt lucky that his wife seemed content to just hold his hand and let him work things out. Lucky, but not surprised.
The Volvo was where they had left it in long‐term parking, and Jack threw their two small bags into the trunk unceremoniously. They picked up Claire at Bev’s and Jack felt his heart come alive at the cooing shouts of joy when their little girl saw them.
Bev assured them that Claire had been a “joy” and had done very well during her short sleepover. Having Claire in the car for the brief ride home erased some of the uncomfortable, surrealistic haze that seemed to envelop his life more and more the last several days. Jack marveled at how having the three of them together seemed the only cure, and that when the fantasylike veil was lifted by their closeness, his fears and anxieties seemed so small, almost petty. Then the weight of his plan for the night sunk back on him, and he sighed heavily. Might this be his last night with his family? He shook the thought off violently, physically shaking his head and making himself a bit dizzy. There was no point in letting his mind go there.
It is what it is.
He was trapped between his family and a world of death and ghosts no one could possibly understand.
Including him.
Chapter
26
Jack stared at the stubborn and unwavering ceiling while his wife slept beside him. Nothing was happening. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind seemed unwilling to take the hint.
Maybe I’m trying too hard.
He tried to let his mind wander, to kind of sneak up on sleep while holding onto his destination in his mind.
Nothing.
Not a move, not a flash, not a grain of sand or dust. No sound of gunfire or helicopters.
Just a swirled stucco ceiling with a slowly turning fan.
Trying too hard.
Jack shifted his mind away from the stubborn and insistently normal bedroom ceiling and instead tried to map out some details of what he could remember about where he was going. He had no idea how the fuck this worked (or if it could) and he had a sudden fear that he would “arrive” at the wrong place, or time, or whatever the hell it was. So he tried to remember some details about the journey of Kilo Company, Third Battalion, First Marines, into the hell of Fallujah. It felt ridiculous to try and remember details of a place and time his memory swore to him he had never really seen, but it was there. He felt it. Jack forced himself to relax and settle into the memories. He just went to the memory like he was making it up, knowing that he was not.
They had moved into the city on the ninth of November, leaving behind, maybe forever, what he realized now was the relative peace and safety of the sand berm they had guarded for the days leading up to the siege on the terrorist‐held city. His company, Kilo, had been assigned to move into the Jolan neighborhood in the northwest corner of the city. They had been told to expect violent resistance but had been asked, nonetheless, to retain fire control discipline. This was because, despite days of warnings, there was no way to be sure that innocent Iraqi civilians were not left behind in the city. Kilo and their sister company, Lima, would take Jolan while First Battalion, Eighth Marines worked to their east. Several army companies would be between the two Marine battalions and together they would all push south, eventually pushing the enemy ahead of them and across Highway 10, which cut across the city east to west. South of the highway they would join up with other units waiting there, establishing a kill zone bordered to the north by Highway 10, and to the south by the southern border of the city. It was a classic, time‐tested, beautifully simplistic Marine Corps plan.
Jack felt himself drifting softly, nowhere near asleep, but following his mind along on its journey.
Casey had been in charg
e of second platoon for Kilo Company. He knew his men well and considered them more than friends. They were a family. Like most families they didn’t all get along, but when the shit hit the fan, Casey had no doubt they would come together and fight like a family, taking care of each other. The first night had proven that. The initial push into Fallujah and the Jolan neighborhood was nothing any of them had imagined, despite the months—for some of them years—of training together.
Jack sighed and stared at the swirling shadow of the ceiling fan.
Maybe he wasn’t supposed to make the ceiling change. Maybe it just happened, kind of crept up on you when you were distracted by other things. Jack closed his eyes with some difficulty, and he felt himself drifting deeper and farther away…
* * *
He woke up cold. There was a chill in the air that was in no way what his mind told him he should feel here, in a hammock slung between palm trees, his arms and legs wrapped around Pam’s warm and wet bare skin. The hammock was the dream he found while searching for the other, dark reality in Iraq. Not the target, but he would take it for a few more minutes, he decided. Eyes closed he reached for a blanket, searching for the corner his wife must have pulled off him in her fitful slumber. His fingers dug instead into cool sand, fine to the point of being a powder. He realized that a similar grime coated his teeth and throat.
Jack’s eye sprung open in realization, but he was met with darkness so complete that he momentarily thought his mind had fooled him and his eyes were still closed. He stretched his hands out behind him as he sat up in the dark, his fingers probing the now-familiar berm. He leaned his weight against it and struggled to his feet, leaning over slightly to steady himself, the blackness nauseatingly disorienting.
As his brain steadied his legs in the dark, Jack let go of the berm and stood up straight, his eyes scanning a half circle in the blackness, searching for any speck of light to focus on. As he adjusted to the dark he became aware that the sky above him, though moonless, was a field peppered with points of light so rich that he was again swept away to another place, cutting through the Pacific Ocean late at night aboard the LHD. As his eyes dropped from the sky above he made out a faint line of yellow light that marked the top of the berm.
I’m here. I made it.
He was at Checkpoint Four, an overstatement of the desolate berm that he and his men had occupied for the days before they had moved into Fallujah. He was in the right place, but Jack’s stomach tightened as he realized that he was alone and that could only mean he was in no way at the right time. Was he early or late? Hours or days? There was no way to know and Jack felt a growing panic. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?
Jack scrambled up the berm, desperate for information. His fingers dug into the powdery sand and occasionally stung as they caught on bits of wood and metal, trash caught up in the berm as it had been pushed up into place by the Army bulldozers that had arrived long before he and his men had called Checkpoint Four a temporary home. Jack slowed as he neared the top of the hill of dirt and garbage and then slowly peered over the crest of the berm.
Fallujah.
There were only scattered points of light, but Jack saw burst after burst of red streaks lighting up the night—tracers from firefights spread out all over the city. Jack became aware of sporadic cracks of rifle fire, the burping bursts of machine gun fire, and occasional louder explosions of mortars and rockets. His ear was able to discern the subtle difference between the M16A of the American soldiers and Marines and the higher pitched crack of the AK-47s favored by the insurgents.
So it would seem he was late. Maybe by only minutes or hours, but definitely too fucking late.
He expected panic to start to well up, but mysteriously it didn’t. Maybe he was just too damn tired to panic anymore. Instead he watched the glow and flash of his soon-to-be deathbed and struggled with what to do next. He had gotten here (he realized now he had always known he would and was surprised at that bit of insight), without really knowing how. But he knew why and that was why he knew he couldn’t give up. If he could come here, could he not move about here as well? Could he not just travel again, back a few hours?
Perhaps ten blocks from the perimeter of the city, the squeal of an RPG was punctuated by a rumbling explosion and a burst of light. Jack unconsciously lowered his head, only his eyes now above the crest of the berm.
“There goes Bennet,” a harsh whisper choked into his right ear. Jack rolled violently to his left in surprise, his arms raised defensively, his heart pounding at the unexpected interruption of his private viewing.
Before his eyes even focused on the shape beside him, he already knew, of course, who it was. The glow of the battle for Fallujah a few miles away reflected back at him from the filthy round glasses on the full and tired face. Hoag turned slowly towards him, his face pale and sweaty and his eyes even wilder than before.
“What did you think you would accomplish here, Casey?” the dead officer asked him. “You can’t change anything, Sar’n. You see…” Hoag looked down at his stained blouse and massaged his right hand around the loops of intestines contained there, “All of this is God’s will.” The crooked smile barely hid a wild hysteria that frightened Jack in new way.
Another flash lit up the sky from the city below them, followed a split second later by a sharp boom, the sound catching up with the light over the few miles to the source in the Jolan neighborhood. Jack reflexively pulled his head down behind the berm again. As he did, he saw, or maybe felt, a flurry of motion beside him. He turned to face the now for sure crazy, and still dead, chaplain. Instead of the wet and wild eyes, he looked into the cycloptic black gaze of Hoag’s side arm. Jack tried not to move, hands frozen still beside his head (you got me, Sheriff!), uncertain what to do. Was this possible, even? Could he be shot and killed by a ghost of a dead minister in a battlefield in a dream? With a burst of clarity Jack felt certain that he could.
“It’s God’s will!” Hoag said again, his voice now rising to a shaky holler. “We can’t stop the will of God, Casey!” He looked out over the berm, as if scanning across a riveted congregation that only he could see. The naked black hole of the handgun never wavered in front of Jack’s face, however, and he stayed still, trying to figure out what the hell to do.
“I have been washed by the blood of the Lamb, Casey,” Hoag’s squeaky voice spit at him in the glow of Fallujah. He peered at him now through those filthy fucking glasses, and Jack was grateful that he couldn’t really see the eyes behind them. “But YOU, Sar’n…” The barrel of Hoag’s gun shaking at Jack like a thick black finger in his face. “You cheated. You fucking cheated, you fucking little CHEATER!” Jack didn’t like the way his voice rose, and knew what was coming. “I WON’T LET YOU CHEAT, YOU FUCK! YOU ARE COMING WITH ME! YOU WILL BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB—WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB—WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB…” Hoag gripped his gun wrist with his other hand to steady his aim. He peered down the barrel at Jack, one eye closed and the crooked grin back on his face. Spit dribbled from the corner of his mouth and his voice fell to a raspy whisper.
“You are coming with me, Sergeant Stillman.” The shrill voice choked at him. “You will be washed in the blood like God meant for you to be and we will leave this shithole together. You can’t cheat God you fu…”
An image of Pam, sitting in the glider chair, holding his sleeping daughter to her chest, flashed in Jack’s mind and both of his hands exploded from his sides. His left hand struck the middle of the chaplain’s throat and Jack felt a sickening crunch as the cartilage of Hoag’s voice box collapsed under the blow. His right hand simultaneously grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it downward. The deafening explosion shattered the stillness of the berm and a blinding flash of light erased the dark world around him. He felt a terrible burning in his right hand, which gripped the now-smoking pistol. Jack was sure he was dead, killed by a dead preacher.
The spray of dirt beside his face comforted him and announced th
at he had not taken a bullet to the head. He jerked the wrist in his grip around in a full circle, feeling bone snap as the chaplain squealed again, this time in pain. The gun was free and Jack gripped it in his hand without thinking, swinging it around in a one-handed grip like he had been born with it. His thumb confirmed the safety was off and he squeezed twice in the direction of the heavy‐jowled, sweaty face, now twisted in rage and confusion.
“You must be washed in the…” And then Hoag’s head exploded under the force of two nine‐millimeter rounds at point‐blank range. Blood, bone, and something thick and grey spattered a modern art mural on the trash and sand of the berm. Then the chubby body collapsed, arms by its sides. Two long loops of pinkish-grey intestines snaked out from beneath the blouse, seemingly alive and twisting for a moment, then lay wet and still in the dirt.
Jack took a deep whistling breath as the last echoes of the gunshot rattled off through his mind and the acrid and familiar burnt sulfur smell drifted away in the nearly imperceptible breeze. He dropped the gun beside him in the dirt without looking down, and for a moment mourned the Navy commander, dead (again) in front of him on the berm.
Was there any way around going to hell for killing a fellow soldier, especially a fucking chaplain? Did it matter if they were already dead?
Jack realized with some surprise that he couldn’t possibly care less. He had no intention of going to heaven or hell just yet.
He intended to go home to his girls.
He wasn’t the least bit surprised when a gentle wind started spinning around him, pushing up a growing twister of sand and trash. As it grew Jack held his arms out from his sides like a snowboarder, ready to ride. He watched with some remorse, but no real guilt, as a separate twisting cyclone spun around Hoag’s lifeless body. It picked it up from the dirt and tumbled it about like a broken doll, rising higher and higher. Then there was a brilliant and blinding flash of light and Hoag’s body disappeared. Or at least Jack thought it had. He was now totally blinded by his own cyclone of twisting sand. Instead of picking him up, he was again being sucked down into the twisting tornado’s center. Down into the berm.
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