"What the fuck?"
Those were the first words that escaped from my lips when I awoke, not in the blood and ash of an Afghan weapons depot, but staring at the white ceiling of a military hospital.
The first thing I did was raise my head from the soft pillow and check my extremities.
They were all there. Two arms and two legs.
I leaned back once more against the fluffy pillow supporting my neck and shoulders. My head ached like I'd been hit by a train, and I could feel the tightly wrapped bandages spun around my hairline.
"Good morning, LT." The voice belonged to a young nurse walking the concrete floor, her feet falling lightly as she stepped towards me.
"Where am I?" I asked, pressing myself closer to a sitting position as she approached.
The hospital was set up like a barracks, with beds spaced every ten feet or so. Most were unoccupied.
"You are in a field hospital at Bagram Air Force Base." She said.
"You were hit in the head by a piece of flying debris. Your helmet likely saved your life. You've been unconscious for a few hours."
"My team?" I asked, looking around the ward.
"I'll get the doctor." The young Air Force nurse shook her head, and stepped down the long passageway.
They were dead. I knew that already. Her eyes told the whole story; she just wasn't authorized to tell me.
I clenched my fists on the itchy hospital sheet and waited.
My head was spinning as I closed my eyes and stilled my breath.
"LT Pike?" The voice was in stark contrast to the twenty-something nurse who I'd spoken with moments ago.
It was rough and gravely, the voice of a man who's seen too much suffering.
I opened my eyes and looked up. An Army doctor stood above me in green scrubs.
He held a chart and was flipping through the pages.
I nodded. "I'm LT Pike."
The doctor cleared his throat. "I'm Dr. Smith. You've already met LT Taylor," he said, indicating the young nurse from moments ago.
I nodded again. Behind the doctor stood two men in dark suits, still unidentified by the doctor.
The Captain must have noticed my curious gaze.
"The gentlemen standing behind me are agents from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."
He cleared his throat before continuing.
"Medically, you suffered a head injury which resulted in a severe concussion, loss of consciousness and a minor skull fracture. You'll need to be observed for the next week or so, following which we will order a battery of tests to determine the amount of damage that may have been done."
"I understand." I said, all the while staring at the men who stood behind the doctor with expressionless eyes.
"It is also my duty to inform you that this mission resulted in the loss of six American lives. All members of your team. You and one other member survived." He looked down at the chart once more. "A Chief Petty Officer Michael Jones."
He nodded. "I'll let the agents fill you in on the bulk of the details."
The doctor stepped away, the young nurse close in trail as they continued their rounds of the near empty medical facility.
The two men in suits stepped closer, the first clearing his throat as he pulled a note pad from his jacket and clicked a clear, government-issue blue pen.
"LT Pike," he began. "As the doctor stated, last night's mission resulted in the loss of six American lives."
He looked at the other agent before looking me in the eyes. "But that's not why we are here."
I nodded. Waiting.
"LT Jackson Pike, he said. You are being charged with violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, article 113 for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and article 118, premeditated murder."
I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Murder?
I finally stammered something unintelligible, followed by a mumbled question "Murder?"
The taller of the two agents, who had been silent until now finally spoke. "LT Pike, you have the right to remain silent…"
I tuned out the rest of the litany of Miranda rights. My head was spinning. I laid back on the uncomfortable hospital bed and did just what the men had recommended.
I remained silent.
Chapter 6:
Day was breaking and my legs ached as we stepped down the cargo ramp of the C-130 at Marine Corps Air Station, Oceana, VA.
It had been a week of tests and observation in Afghanistan. Once I was medically cleared, we had departed for the United States.
I turned one last time and looked into the cavernous cargo bay of the huge aircraft, which had been occupied by only three men. It had been only me and the two NCIS agents who were escorting me to the Naval Brig in Norfolk to await trial for the premeditated murder of twenty Afghan civilians.
Although it had been more than a week since I was read my Miranda rights, I'd still said nothing. To be honest, I was struggling to comprehend the accusations.
It was all over the news.
A rogue Navy SEAL Team had destroyed a mosque and school in the mountains outside of Kabul, killing more than twenty children in the boarding school nearby before calling in an airstrike on the facility.
At least that was the story that was being broadcast on the airwaves around the world.
And I'd be the first to admit, that's what it looked like from the outside.
Only my team and I knew the truth.
And all but one member of my team was dead.
The props of the C-130 aircraft thudded to a stop as the agents escorted me further down the cold metal ramp of the cargo plane and to a waiting black SUV that would bring me to the Naval prison colloquially known as "The Brig".
I climbed into the vehicle; my body exhausted from the more than 20 hour flight from Afghanistan, my mind racing as the reality of my situation sank in.
Al Jazeera International had covered the story from the very beginning.
The images were disturbing, to say the least. The charred bodies, the blood, the destroyed school, and only a few armed and fully grown men distributed throughout.
It was a far cry from the estimated forty armed men who had set upon us the night of the mission.
And what was worse, there had been no enemy arms store located at the facility. The trucks had been destroyed, whatever weapons remained burned beyond recognition by the air strike that had saved my life but killed my team.
The engine of the black government vehicle turned over and the Petty Officer outside the rear of the vehicle tossed the agents' luggage unceremoniously into the vehicle. He slammed the metal doors shut, saluting smartly as the driver pulled away from the huge gray airplane.
We crossed the ramp to the main drive of the base, where an escort of two police cars awaited our arrival.
They took up position in front of and behind the black Suburban and we rolled down the road, other vehicles moving to the side as the flashing of police lights drove them from our path.
The need for the escort became obvious when we passed the fading gray sign that read "Drive Safely" and indicated the exit of the Naval facility.
Outside of the gate, reporters and protesters alike waited.
Though the driver maneuvered easily through the crowd, held back from the road by Marines, I was staggered by the size of the crowd.
The tale of the "rogue" Navy SEAL had gone international.
It seemed trials these days were tried less in court and more in the court of public opinion, and in that courtroom my team and I seemed to be losing.
I sighed and pressed my head wearily into the leather back seat of the Suburban.
The agents were silent, as was I… As I had been since I was read my rights.
I would be assigned an attorney here in Norfolk.
The SUV was on the interstate now, proceeding rapidly past vehicles that pulled to the side as the police escort's lights flashed in their rear view mirrors, the unaware drivers probably thinking me some kind of dignitary.