“Okay,” he says, making a note on his tablet. “Well, Murph’s gonna be out a while. We’re keeping him in a comma due to his burns. Marines found him dragging himself and what remained of another soldier—don’t think I have a name—down that mountain even though both his legs were blown below the knees. Murph also lost a kidney, his spleen, plus the burns, mostly on his back.
I want to scream, but I can barely talk, and once more I’m starting to pass out, so I just give him a resigned nod, letting him know that I get it.
“Now,” he continues. “About you. There’s still shrapnel lodged between your shoulder blades, so you’re looking at additional surgeries once we get you to Landstuhl, but it is not near your spine, so it should be pretty straight—”
“Chappy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Chappy… soldier with… Murph?”
He rubs his face, browses through his tablet for a few seconds, then says, “Oh, here he is…I’m sorry, Commander. USMC Sergeant James Chappelle was DOA. His body is being flown back to—”
“Cope?”
“Who’s Cope?”
“Bruno… Copeland…last…team…member.”
He looks at his tablet again, fingers it awhile, then back at me. “I’m only aware of the patients that made it to KAF. That’s you, Murph, Dix, and…Chappy. Don’t have anything here about a Bruno Copeland.”
I look away and clench my jaw. The only reason Cope’s not on his list is because he probably took a direct hit from one of those cluster bombs, meaning there wasn’t anything left to drag down the damn mountain. Those bombs have a way of vaporizing you if they hit you just right. Boom. Gone. Forever.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth.
This is insanity.
Madness!
I expand my lungs again, my mind filling with thoughts of retribution, of making sure whoever is responsible for this Charlie Foxtrot pays dearly.
But the whirling has returned, propelling all thoughts, including those of revenge, to the periphery of my mind, leaving my core empty and dark.
Very dark.
PART TWO
LANDSTUHL
Chapter 7
“He should have bought the farm, Law, along with Chappy and Cope.”
I look over at Murph as we stand in Dix’s room on the third floor of the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, our home for the past six weeks.
Murph’s face, which survived the bombing completely unscathed, is the color of eggplant and very smooth. He’s standing next to me balancing his muscular bulk between the crutches he grips tightly and the two prostheses secured below his knees. The right one is just a couple of inches below the knee. The left one is more like mine, fitted right above the spot where the ankle used to be. And, also like me, a fellow brother took the brunt of the blast, shielding him. But unlike Dix, Chappy bled out while Murph was dragging him—and himself—out of the kill zone. And as far as Cope went, we got word via my inside man, Finn, that all a group of Army scouts were able to recover was his left boot with his foot still in it.
It’s actually a bit ironic that I just lost my left foot while Cope lost everything but. It’s a good thing that the military does not tell surviving family what’s actually inside the coffins in cases such as Cope’s.
I’m trying to balance myself, though in my case, I’m just armed with a cane as we violate hospital rules by covertly invading, in the middle of the night, the ICU monopolizing this top floor. But this is really the first time we can even come close to doing this since we have both gone through more surgeries, and not just to repair our legs. Our backs were also a mangled mess, but fortunately, it appears that after the last cut, followed by a few weeks of recovery, we stand a pretty good chance of heading home soon.
Like all of the floors in this wing of the hospital, it is one long hallway with exits to stairs at both ends and a nurse station in the middle, where the elevators are located. Unlike the rooms on the floors below, which hold anywhere from two to four patients, each room here houses just one patient. Dix’s room is located at one end, next to the stairs we’d manage to negotiate to reach the area where LRMC tends its worst cases.
And it’s supposed to be off limits.
But I didn’t spend six hellish months at BUD/S and fight my way through the worst armpits of the world, including surviving Afghani-fucking-stan, to have some stupid hospital rule deter me from visiting a team member.
However, looking at Dix, who has mercifully been in a coma since the attack, the man certainly qualifies to be on this floor, reserved for the worst victims of the War on Terror.
My beloved Jersey native is, well, fucked.
His legs are gone well above the knees. One of his arms was amputated at the shoulder. The other is still there but attached through a myriad of metal pins and screws, and a long cast from his shoulder to his hand, which is big and purple from poor circulation. Apparently, the arm was barely hanging on to his shoulder when the Marines found us, and the good doctors at the Role 3 MMU spent ten hours trying to reconnect it to give him back one limb. But the word we got this morning is that it’s a 50/50 whether or not the multiple reconstructive surgeries he’s undergone at KAF, Bagram, and now here will work.
Dix also suffers from head trauma as a result of the earth-shaking concussion that also blew his right eyeball clean from his head, plus he has first-degree burns over most of his back. The man is breathing through machines because the shrapnel—100% American shrapnel, by the way—is still lodged all along his neck and spine, severing what little brain activity he has from reaching what’s left of his broken body. He also lost one lung, and the other is so badly damaged from the blast, he’s now on the transplant list.
“This ain’t no way for a brother to live,” Murph whispers.
The comment, of course, makes me think of Dix’s almost exact words outside of the DFAC that morning in November, and which is the reason we’re here risking a court martial.
That’s no way for a brother to live, Boss.
Murph lifts Dix’s bed sheet and looks at the man’s groin.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper back. We’re trying to keep our voice low not only because what we’re considering doing could send us both to Leavenworth, but out of respect for Dix. I read somewhere that even unconscious, he could still hear what we’re saying.
Murph ignores me, inspects the man’s groin, lowers the white sheet, leans close to me, and murmurs, “Something’s definitely there, but there are too many bandages to tell exactly what’s left.”
I look about me while trying to control my rising anger, before staring at the lone figure resting in this rectangular room. Machines blink and beep as an American hero breathes to the rhythm of mechanical surrogates.
I know every soldier on this floor—and in this hospital for that matter—didn’t sign up for this.
I know I never did.
I’d rather have died on that mountain than be reduced to this, and I know Dix feels the same way.
You’ll take care of it, right Boss?
I’ll do it for you.
The question really is: do I have the cojones to do what he asked of me that morning?
And as I continue to stare at my beloved Jersey giant, his words continue to echo in my mind.
No fucking way you let me go home like that.
But what he really meant was, letting him go home like that to Franky.
To her credit, she has visited him twice. The first time for Thanksgiving, right after Dix was transferred here from Bagram. Murph and I were still in ICU from our own back-to-back surgeries, so we didn’t see her. The second time was a few days ago, and she was able to visit with us for a couple of hours.
In a nutshell, the girl was horrified. I could see it in her eyes that their story would go down just as I�
�ve seen it happen one too many times: a wounded young warrior returns home to his sweetheart, who runs off within the first few months—even the married ones—and especially when horrifying wounds are involved. And if they don’t run off, they take on a lover, somebody to satisfy them while sticking around to collect pensions.
Franky was supposed to stick around until Christmas, which comes up in a couple of days, but instead, she flew home early to be with her folks in Jersey.
And there it is.
Which brings me right back to Dix’s request—one that I fear will push me beyond my moral line in the sand, and straight into that darkness I talked about earlier, the one reflected in the stares of Ponytail Jones and Uncle D.
You’ll take care of it, right Boss?
I’ll do it for you.
Goddammit, Dix.
“It’s what the man wanted,” Murph says, apparently reading my mind. “And it’s really what any warrior deserves: an honorable death.”
I look at my best friend on his crutches and get this terrible sinking feeling.
An honorable death.
While that may sound fine, even damned romantic, I can promise you it feels pretty fucking far from it when you’re the one having to do the dirty deed.
“I don’t know, Murph. I don’t think I—”
“That’s the thing, Law. It doesn’t matter what you or I think. It’s really not up to us. He asked you for it. It’s the least we can do.”
“I know. But—”
“No buts or maybes, man.”
I stand there another moment contemplating my impossible choices. I either kill my brother-in-arms, or I walk away and let him live precisely in the way he told me he did not want to live—assuming he even survives this in the first place.
“Dammit, Murph. I know I’m gonna hate myself for it.”
“And that, too, is irrelevant. We owe him this.”
After another moment of hesitation, I whisper, “Fine.”
“Want to say something, first?” Murph asks.
I continue staring at what’s left of Dix, hoping the right words will present themselves to me, but all that comes to mind is, “One of the baddest motherfuckers I’ve ever had the honor of serving with.”
“And the biggest,” he says.
“Amen.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this Charlie Foxtrot, Bro,” Murph says.
“That’s a promise,” I add.
“Damn right.”
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s give him some peace.”
Murph, who is also a medic, reaches for the heart monitor connected to what’s left of Dix’s chest and mutes the alarm. He then pulls the four probes off of Dix’s scarred skin and quickly press them against my chest, where I had buttoned down my shirt. The system momentarily blinks, but quickly gets back on track. With luck, the midnight shift nurse we spotted reading a magazine at her station down the hall would not notice the minor glitch.
I wait a moment to make sure she’s not coming. Then, looking over at Murph, I say, “Do it.”
He balances on his crutches while reaching with his right hand and crimping the breathing tube in between his index and thumb.
I’ve seen people unplug their loved ones before, and the noise they initially make sounds as if they’re asphyxiating, gasping for air—which they really are. It’s actually quite unnerving, and hospital staff usually removes the family from the room for the initial minute or two to spare them the horrific memory.
But in Dix’s case, given he’s in such a deep coma, he makes no noise whatsoever. It’s almost as if his body has already given up. I press two fingers against his neck, feeling for the closest carotid artery, and locate his pulse.
It’s still there, pumping against my fingertips but weak, and getting weaker, like a dying candle, slowly, its flame quivering, before extinguishing altogether.
I take a deep breath and so does Murph, before I say, “Rest in peace, Brother.”
“So long, Dix,” Murph adds, releasing the breathing tube. “You’re in SEAL heaven now.”
I keep my fingers on Dix’s neck and verify he’s gone. Then I make sure that the heart monitor remains muted.
“Go,” I tell Murph, who walks slower than me and needs a head start in our planned getaway.
He unceremoniously staggers back to the door, opens it, checks the hallway, and vanishes in the direction of the nurse station.
I wait, counting to thirty before switching the probes back to Dix’s chest.
The flat line alarm, visible at the nurse’s station, is my cue.
I move as fast as I can to the door, open it slowly, and verify that Murph has achieved the desired distraction by reaching the nurse’s station and pretending to lose his balance.
I catch a glimpse of him dropping to the floor and screaming for help to draw attention from the monitors behind the counter. Vanishing in the stairway, I make my way down to the second floor and quickly back to my room in the rehab wing, which I share with Murph.
I remove my prosthesis, set it by the side of the bed, and just lay there in the dark waiting while pondering on what I’ve just done.
This is the first life I’ve taken that was not the enemy, and I don’t feel as guilty as I had anticipated. The emotions running through my mind are more in the category of a deep sadness for losing a brother, a sense of relief for him, and a ton of anger toward whoever is responsible. Like Murph and I, Dix was also an only child and his parents were also long gone, so no one to mourn his loss except for his SEAL brothers and, of course, Franky, who should not have any problems finding another suitor.
And besides, Murph was right. It really wasn’t up to me. Still, I’m glad I kept Franky from being in the position of breaking Dix’s heart by dumping him. Or in the event she chose to stick around, from a lifetime of endless nursing—which is precisely what Dix wanted to avoid.
Now, perhaps they will let us take his body home with us when we get discharged next week so we can arrange a proper burial at Arlington National Cemete—
The door swings open and two Navy orderlies, which Murph and I have nicknamed Cheech and Chong, step in dressed in their NWUs. They’re helping Murph into the room and onto his bed.
I pretend to be woken up, lift my head, and say, “What… what’s going on?”
Cheech, the Hispanic and smaller of the two, glares at me and says in his thick accent, “Please keep an eye on your amigo. We just caught him wandering the hallways.” His face is long and narrow, and at the center of it is this massive mustache that I think makes him look like a porn star from the 1980s, though Murph thinks the man looks more like the Mexican revolutionary, Emiliano Zapata.
“Told you, man,” Murph says. “Couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to bother my brother here.”
“Yeah, well, next time please call the nurse,” Chong says. He’s tall and muscular, like Murph, and also from Harlem. “That’s why she’s there.”
“I thought her job was to make me happy,” Murph replies, winking at them. “I have needs, you know.”
They exchange a look and Chong mumbles, “Fucking SEALs.”
And they’re gone.
“Nicely played,” I say. “What happened after I left?”
“Last thing I saw was a Code Blue team rushing into the room. Then Cheech and Chong grabbed me and almost carried me here.”
I consider that for a moment.
“You think they got us on the security cams?” he asks, removing his prostheses and setting them by the side of the bed along with the crutches. Aside for the leg injuries and the scar tissue on his back, Murph seems to be healing well. And so am I, at least physically. Mentally, well, I have new issues, which the resident shrink claims is PTSD from the experience.
Murph crawls in bed and props two pillows under him to lay sideways facing
me.
“Doubt it,” I tell him, also laying on my side while reaching down and scratching the stub where my damn ankle used to be. The thing is always itching.
“You sure?”
“Yep.” I had scouted their video system for a week now, since we were able to start moving about on our own, and knew the blind spots in the stairway and the halls. “We’re good, man.”
“And so is Dix,” he says.
Silence. Then, “So, Murph, no regrets?”
“Hell no. Dix’s where he belongs, with Chappy, Cope, and the rest of our fallen SEAL brothers. We owed him that. I’m more concerned about what’s in store for us.”
I tilt my head, having spent plenty of time considering that. “Well, we got to keep our arms, enough of our legs, and our balls, so…”
“We did,” he says, briefly touching himself, apparently for reassurance. “But I was talking about the teams.”
“I know that, and the answer’s that our wounds disqualify us for SEAL duty, but there are plenty of other options.”
We lay there in silence for a bit, then he asks, “Thinking about reconnecting with that pretty doctor? Didn’t you say she’ll take you back if you leave the SEALs?”
I sigh. I exchanged emails with Kate two weeks ago to let her know I had survived, minus the bottom of my left leg. She replied that she was now stateside, working at the VA hospital in Norfolk, and that she was relieved and happy for me that I would be alright. But pushing the notion of getting back together again just didn’t feel right. Kate was my rebound girl, and somehow, she knew that. Though for the life of me I don’t know how she could tell. No one, not even Murph, has a clue about my feelings for Franky. I’ve kept them locked down hard since the night I lost her to Dix.
And no, my decision to let Dix go has absolutely nothing to do with that. I would have loved for the Jersey giant to be in good enough shape—like Murph and I—to go home to her. But he just wasn’t, and the horrified stare in Franky’s blue eyes a few days ago only made me want to honor Dix’s request even more.
Murph starts to snore before I can answer. The Harlem warrior always had a gift for falling asleep in seconds, even right in the middle of a conversation. In fact, we used to joke that he was like one of those damn dolls that closed her eyes the moment you lay her on her back.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 7
