by Gavin Reese
Walking from the stuffy shed and its low, red glow, Duke ignited his last rollup and stiffly strode a dozen steps into the cool darkness of the March desert night to loosen his legs. Having traded the bulb’s tedious light for a dark and clear, moonlit sky, he deeply inhaled the burned tobacco smoke, stretched his sore shoulders and back, and then exhaled forcefully, clearing his lungs of the calming toxins. Early spring rains had recently soaked the Sonoran desert landscape, which now emanated the earthy, lightly sweet smells of wet creosote and mesquite. Duke shifted his gaze east; first from the lowly scrub brush before him to the stately saguaros just beyond his reach, to the taller, more distant Palo Verde trees along his parcel’s dry washbed, and, finally, to the White Tank desert mountains backlit by the urban sprawl and nighttime light pollution of the Phoenix metroplex. Working to clear his head, Duke crossed his arms over his chest and stood still, moving his right forearm only as necessary to work the slowly diminishing cigarette.
After burning through the first half of the tobacco stick, Duke’s thoughts drifted to Afghanistan’s Kandahar Province and he again closed his eyes. Memories played in rapid, clear succession like a wartime highlight reel; the first time he ever fired a gun in anger, the first time he fired one in fear. A wicked smile spread across Duke’s face as he recalled the joy of forcibly wrestling life from another human being. He specifically relished the memory of his first hand-to-hand kill; his initial, palpable fear of death, then the lustful glee of gaining advantage and plunging his Ka-Bar deep into the Afghan’s torso, the razor-sharp blade propelled deep into the enemy’s left ribcage. Once he felt his victory assured, Duke had slowly and playfully continued carving, even after the man’s gargling, muffled screams had long dissipated.
Images of subsequent battles in Fallujah presented themselves and he revisited the chaotic thrill of vicious house-to-house fighting there. He remembered the sound, a wet thud, of bullets impacting his enemies’ flesh while he stood surrounded by pungent, acrid odors of pooled blood, smokeless powder, and rotting death. Duke took another deep, tobacco-filled breath and calmly exhaled. It was glorious.
He found killing addictive, even erotic at times, and didn’t initially understand how some of his compatriots had suffered anguish and guilt after delivering death to their enemies or witnessing the wartime horrors that felled their friends. Since his discharge, Duke found only pornographic snuff films approximated the arousal of killing, and had soon read enough criminal psychology articles to believe he may eventually be labeled a sociopath. Certain that futile medical treatments would only steal his freedom, he had privately self-medicated with the same, tired memories and underground snuff footage; but none of his previous kills or illegal videos any longer satisfied him. Duke knew he harbored an insatiable bloodlust for new, witnessed death.
Having devised a plot to both satisfy his inner demons and accomplish a political coup, Duke had again given his life purpose and meaning. Unconcerned about death, he now feared only arrest or defeat. The Reaper’s the only one that understands me.
He opened his eyes with steely, renewed purpose and inhaled the last of his cigarette, its remnants heating up the last digit of his right thumb, index, and middle fingers. Forcibly casting the small roach airborne and onto the rocky desert sand, Duke held both hands up in front of his face, fingers spread wide, for examination. Calm and steady.
Duke turned and purposefully strode back into the red-lit shed and to the emerging shaped charge therein. He knew if this, his ninth test device, failed to detonate as intended, he would have to find better bomb-making reference materials. Maybe there’s a disgruntled EOD Specialist in Phoenix, he thought, some 89-Delta with a grudge I can manipulate. He hoped another hour of solitude would allow him to successfully finish the construction, thereby averting the need for further, external resources. Three can keep a secret only if two of them are dead, he reminded himself, and there are already well more than three of us involved.
With renewed excitement for his plan to sequentially detonate a series of carefully placed explosives, Duke aspired to both maximize destruction on a single high-rise floor and eventually bring down the entire structure. Well, actually, he thought, six structures. He picked up the hot-tipped soldering iron and smirked upon recalling one of his conspirators labelling his plan “overkill,” as Duke wanted to use more than twice the theoretically necessary explosive material. Despite the objection, he felt there was no better way to instill fear in the enemy and simultaneously supply his cause with dedicated believers, scapegoats, and sacrificial lambs.
There’s no problem high explosives can’t immediately solve.
Two
Freedom Hall Terminal, Lawson Army Airfield. Fort Benning, Georgia.
Roughly fifty feet from the large fifty-foot flag displayed behind the informal stage area, Colleen McDougal stood against the retractable seatbelt partition at the front of the amassed crowd. Colleen had arrived early to ensure she could be near the front, but she had always found the Freedom Hall and USO crowds friendly and accommodating, unlike those in much of the civilian world. The best part about the Hall, she had always thought, was that only military personnel and their loved ones ever entered. There were no protestors, no unconnected civilian onlookers, no one with a political agenda, and no judgement of the soldiers and their families’ joyous noise. Just a simple ceremony and an unapologetic welcome home that even The Waldorf couldn’t surpass.
Confident this would forever rank among the best days in her life, she scanned the gathering of what she assumed must be nearly two hundred friends and family who had gathered inside Freedom Hall on the US Army’s expansive Fort Benning for a much-needed homecoming. Excited, nervous, and somewhat fearful this was only a dream, Colleen looked around at the Hall as the crowd collectively awaited their soldiers’ arrival. She noticed, for the umpteenth time, the interior of the large, converted aircraft hangar; massive tan acoustic panels hung side-by-side on the wall in front of her, over which a large American flag hung just above a vinyl, camouflaged banner with “Fort Benning” in large white block letters. There was no podium, no raised stage platform, no fancy accoutrements to attempt to rival the emotion of the impending ceremony. At the far left edge of the crowd, she noticed, seemingly for the first time despite the number of visits to Freedom Hall, that several rows of chairs placed behind most of today’s crowd were actually benches. That’s why they’re always so straight! Each individual space was just a plastic seat secured to the same bench, separated by metal arms that rose from the bench and formed a support for the padded backing. Kinda funny the seats and arms are Air Force blue, she thought, I’ll have to remember to rib Jonathan about that later. Colleen looked up at the inadequate, florescent warehouse-style lights that hung from the ceiling, and the high, long windows intermittently placed at the top of the walls just below open steel girders that supported the roof. The bright, late winter light shone in and partially brightened fifty state flags hanging from the girders. Colleen found herself overwhelmed. This is the last time, she thought, I won’t miss it, but I’m so grateful to be here today. Just a simple, open building to allow enough space so that no well-wisher would be turned away, she thought, although, in her experience, not that many folks usually came for the brief ceremony. Lot of hassle to be here for fifteen-minutes.
Anxiously looking around, Colleen scanned the immediate area and nearby crowds. Where did they run off to, she wondered. While searching for her family, she saw several of those around her already video recording their respective groups in anticipation of their soldier’s imminent arrival. Colleen subconsciously fiddled with the collar of her white silk blouse before tugging its bottom seam down; despite being among Jonathan’s favorites, it had been the final, last-possible-second choice after rifling through her suitcase to assemble the best and cutest “welcome home” outfit, which had to include her comfortable shoes. The constant twinge of back pain that emanated from her lumbar vertebrae and shot down the back of her
left thigh had gradually increased over the previous hour while she alternated between standing on the hard floor and sitting in an unforgiving plastic chair. I need to sit down, but I think they’re only a few minutes out. No, she thought, I can tolerate the pain for a few more minutes.
“You look stunning, dear, and Jonathan wouldn’t care if you’d worn a gunny sack.” Her mother’s words landed softly on Colleen’s ears, and she turned to find her parents had snuck back through the crowd with Michael, her seven-year-old son.
“Thanks, mom, you really think so?” Humbly embarrassed by the compliment she desperately needed, Colleen fussed with her ginger hair, again fiddled with her collar and blouse bottom, and leaned in closer to her mother. “Feel kinda bloated this week.”
“That’s more than I needed to know,” her old-fashioned father quietly offered, “but she’s right though, sweetheart, on both accounts. You’re lovely.” His sparkling Irish eyes had always warmed Colleen’s heart.
ding
After hearing the digital alert, her father retrieved his cellphone from his shirt pocket. He unfolded and donned his small reading glasses, but still held the phone at arm’s length to see the displayed message. “Army eMessage says they’ve finished processing, so he should be along any time now. They may be a polite and disciplined group, but I’ve never seen soldiers lollygag a homecoming.” Colleen knew Jonathan and his soldiers had been on the ground for some time, but they had to go through a customs inspection, return sensitive equipment, classified documents, and their weapons before they marched into the Hall. Oh, and the safety brief, she thought, there’s apparently always a safety brief.
A lifelong daddy’s girl, Colleen shifted right to cut in between her father and Michael, held hands with both of them, and turned back to face the four sets of double doors through which the soldiers would soon enter in formation. Her mother shuffled in to stand against the retractable partition next to Colleen and in front of her husband, and placed her right hand over both of their already-clasped hands. Together, they anxiously awaited Jonathan’s final return home.
Colleen’s emotions had oscillated across most of the human experience since Jonathan agreed to resign his commission and return home to her forever: incredulous when the words actually fell from his mouth via Skype, fearful Death would break his promise, worried Jonathan would resent her for forcing him from his beloved Army, and finally, now, Colleen felt only boundless joy as she focused on having survived his military service together. Never again, Colleen thought, leaning left and kissing her mother’s cheek, will I have to see him off to war, or watch him oversee flag-draped coffins. And, now, there’s no chance I’ll ever have to meet his. Even though he’ll be working for a private contractor, Jonathan’s new civilian job will never again send him into harm’s way.
Colleen had hoped to surprise Michael with Jonathan’s homecoming, like all the online videos that invariably made her cry; however, the administrators at his special needs charter school ultimately declared the unexpected excitement too overwhelming for many of Michael’s classmates. She looked down at her little man, smiled, and squeezed his hand a bit more tightly. Michael looked up and smiled back at her, obviously excited by the crowd and spending the morning with his grandparents. “I love you, honey, Daddy’s almost here.”
She watched her son literally jump with joy at the reminder that his dad, his hero, was almost here. Bouncing up and down, his chronic illness returned. “Mom, I’m hungry again, can we eat after dad gets here? I bet he’s hungry, too!”
“We’re going out to eat later, honey, after we see what you and your daddy are hungry for!” The normalcy of Michael’s declaration reminded her of the other reason she so appreciated Jonathan’s return. The last seven years had been so taxing because she often struggled, effectively, as Michael’s single parent. Thank God this is now going to be better for all of us, she thought.
Hearing the metal double-doors open and an NCO calling cadence, the corralled crowd cheered in response. Colleen looked toward the doors and saw the first B-D-Uniformed soldiers marching toward them. The cheers continued until the soldiers marched into three separate formations immediately in front of the large American flag, at which time the gathered well-wishers quieted for the short ceremony to mark the end of this most recent deployment and allow the commanding officers to thank those stateside who had helped support the soldiers during that time.
As the formality quickly approached its predictable close, the elation within Freedom Hall grew palpable as Army personnel quietly retracted the partition that separated the crowd from their soldiers. Colleen held her breath as everyone in attendance silently awaited the Colonel’s final order of the day.
“Dissssmissed!”
Colleen watched the camouflaged soldiers and civilian mass converge as loved ones sought one another out. A few minutes passed as Colleen, her parents, and Michael stood in place; her son was already overstimulated by the boisterous crowd and she knew navigating through it in search of Jonathan would only make him more so. It was too much to hope for, she told herself, that he would be first this time. Colleen greatly respected and admired Jonathan’s dedication to his troops, but wished he would have put himself, and her, first, just this once. He’ll be the last one, she knew, always the caretaker.
“You thought this last one’d be different?” Hearing the familiar voice behind her, Colleen turned to see Graciela, the wife of one of Jonathan’s lieutenants. Graciela smiled at Colleen and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. “It would eat me up to always be the last one waiting here, but I tell you, Colleen, the men are gonna miss him. We’re gonna miss you, too.”
Tears welled up in Colleen’s eyes, and she turned around to hug her friend. Feeling herself begin to lose control of her emotions, she held Graciela tightly, as the two had often done during the last five years, having helped each other through three deployments and the innumerable crises that each entailed. Colleen sniffled hard several times, fighting back tears.
“Don’t cry now, you gotta wait ‘til he gets here to ruin your mascara.” Colleen’s shoulder muffled her friend’s words, but they laughed together just the same. Releasing one another, they both quickly dried their eyes and, before Colleen could say anything else, she saw Graciela smile broadly as tears fell freely onto her friend’s cheeks. Graciela clasped both hands over her nose and mouth to try to stifle their flow, but Colleen saw it was of no use.
“RAMON!” Graciela yelled and stepped forward, and Colleen and her parents moved aside to let her through. Colleen faced the middle of the room and, just a few feet away, she watched First Lieutenant Ramon Martinez meet his wife with joyful tears of his own.
Her father’s hand gently tugged at hers, and Colleen let him guide her and Michael aside so the other families could get by them. Disappointedly expecting another few minutes would pass before Jonathan’s arrival, Colleen followed her parents and helped Michael navigate through the ecstatic masses. They nearly reached the far side of the gathered crowd when she heard and immediately recognized a male voice close behind her. “Mrs. McDougal?”
Colleen turned, saw Jonathan standing before her, and an overwhelming lump immediately expanded in her throat. Tears streamed down her face as they met and embraced, her emotions falling unabated onto his uniform blouse.
“DAD!” Michael wrapped himself around Jonathan’s waist. “Thank you for coming home, dad, I’m very glad you’re here!”
Her face still buried in his chest, Colleen heard her Captain’s voice break. “Me too, buddy, me too. Daddy’s never gonna go away for that long again.”
“Promise, dad? Pinky swear?” Colleen laughed at the innocence and love of Michael’s question.
“I do pinky swear, buddy, never again.”
Colleen pulled her face away from his shirt and stood tall to overcome their nearly one-foot height difference and kiss him. They stayed there for a long moment, lips together, eyes closed. She felt his right arm ti
ghtly around her back pulling her close and up toward his muscular six-foot, three-inch frame, and knew his left arm closely held Michael; at that moment, there were the only three people in the world. They both pulled back and Colleen smiled broadly, gazing into his bright, green eyes. “You didn’t make me wait.”
His toothy, movie-star smile beamed back at her. “Ramon wouldn’t let me, but he also said I couldn’t be first.”
Three
Colleen’s parents’ residence. North Phoenix, Arizona.
After several weeks of paperwork and outprocessing, Jonathan had finally flown home to join Colleen, Michael, and the rest of their family back in Arizona. He always hated that Colleen and Michael had to uproot their lives whenever he deployed, but Michael needed far more care than Colleen could single-handedly provide, and more than could be reasonably asked of their Army friends and neighbors. Now she won’t have to move back and forth every twelve-to-eighteen months, he thought, and we can give this ‘normal’ family thing a real go.
Alone in his in-laws’ guest bedroom, Jonathan Michael Patrick McDougal stood wearing only fresh boxer briefs, a wide, metal memorial wristband, and mild regret. He placed his Army dress blouse on a heavy wooden suit hangar overtop its matching pants; after apprehensively buttoning the shirt closed, he respectfully straightened the sleeves and folded them diagonally across the front of the shirt. Silently standing before the uniform he had donned and doffed dozens of times, Jonathan felt the magnitude of never wearing it again. A deep breath and slow exhale further belied his heavy melancholy. It’s time for change, he half-heartedly thought, they deserve all the passion and effort I ever put into this. Jonathan quickly placed the hanging uniform in the open bedroom closet absent any further fanfare or ceremony, and walked back to the bed, where Colleen had laid out khaki shorts and a Hawaiian camp shirt she had packed for him. Ex-soldier? Former soldier? Retired officer? Private contractor? SecureCorp manager? While his family’s muffled laughter, jubilant conversations, and classic rock-and-roll wafted through the bedroom’s thin, closed door, Jonathan mentally examined his new potential titles, uncertain that he liked any of them, at least not yet. Maybe ‘escaped soldier of fortune living in the Los Angeles underground,’ he thought, chuckling to himself. “If you have a problem, if no one else can help,” he told the empty room, “and, if you can find him, maybe you can hire…pwbhrr pwbhrr pwbhrr…the Captain.’
