“Stations C and D, too?” Crocker asked.
“The whole kit and caboodle,” Henne answered. “Including the Taliban attackers.”
“Sweet.”
The first thing Crocker did when he reached Presley was grab ANA Major Jawid Shahar Mohammed and hold him at gunpoint while Davis disarmed him and Akil used tie-ties to secure his wrists behind his back.
Captain Battier, seeing what was going on, got in Crocker’s face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m detaining this man.”
“On whose authority?”
Crocker had to stop himself from punching Battier in the throat. He growled, “I strongly suspect that Major Mohammed was communicating with the enemy the whole time, right under your nose, Captain.”
“No way. Impossible!”
“I think you are a criminal!” Major Mohammed shouted.
“I really don’t care what either of you think,” Crocker explained. “When we return to Jalalabad, I’ll inform your CO, Captain. He’ll order an investigation. We’ll find out if I’m right.”
“Go to hell!” the Afghan shouted.
Next he called Mancini, who was still guarding the ridge above the post, and told him to climb down to Presley. Then he did a quick inventory of his men and their injuries. Aside from some minor scrapes, burns, bruises, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, they were all okay.
Jake slipped in and out of consciousness. Also, his blood pressure was low, his pulse rapid and weak-symptoms of neurogenic shock. Crocker administered a shot of dopamine to help elevate his blood pressure and ordered Phillips to continue keeping him warm and monitoring his IV.
He was halfway through his dinner of hot green tea, an energy bar, and a cup of noodles when he fell asleep. He dreamt he was alone in Station C, firing the GAU-17/A minigun at men in black turbans who kept charging from all directions.
In the morning when he awoke, the muscles in his arms and hands were clenched tight. His attention quickly shifted to the sun shining through intermittent clouds. By 0930 hours, medevac and relief helicopters had arrived. By noon he and his men were back at Jalalabad.
Humping toward his tent, he remembered something his former SEAL buddy and workout partner Neal Stafford always used to say: If it don’t suck, we don’t do it.
It did suck that his friend had to die defending a mountaintop in southeastern Afghanistan. They had shared a strong belief in the cause of defending freedom, a love of friends and family, and an unconquerable will to win.
As long as men like Neal fight on our side, Crocker said to himself, we’ll be okay.
Chapter Four
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.
– Charles Bukowski
Two days later Crocker pulled his pickup into the driveway of his home in Virginia Beach. He parked on the graveled drive and looked at his watch: 0214 Thursday morning, November twenty-second.
Exhausted and happy to be home, he entered through the garage past Holly’s silver Subaru and climbed the concrete steps to his combined rec room/home office, which was crowded with stuff-weights, a desk piled with mail he had to either answer or throw out, an elliptical training machine he had partially assembled. Photos on the wall-one of him in his white uniform the day he received his SEAL trident, various platoon and skydiving photos, others of him crossing the finish line at the Hawaii Ironman competition, and kissing Holly on their wedding day.
He opened the door to the hallway and saw their German shepherd Brando curled up on the floor asleep. The dog looked up at Crocker as if to ask, “Where the hell have you been?”
You don’t want to know.
Seductive smells emanated from the kitchen, but he wasn’t hungry, so he set down his kit bag next to a potted ficus and climbed the steps to the second floor. Moonlight streamed through the skylight. The grandfather clock chimed once, marking the quarter hour.
He wanted to look into Jenny’s room at the end of the hall, but she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was seventeen and hypersensitive to people entering her private space unannounced. So Crocker walked in the opposite direction along the carpeted floor toward the master bedroom, turned the brass knob, and pushed the door inward.
He stopped and inhaled the sweet smells of jasmine and rosewater-two scents his wife favored. She slept on her side on the far side of the bed with her back facing him. Setting his backpack on the floor, he entered the bathroom on his right. Splashed water on his face, which looked like it belonged to someone else, brushed his teeth, and undressed.
Reentering the bedroom, he lifted the soft white duvet and sheet and slipped into the big bed. The warmth of Holly’s body surrounded him.
He lay on the bed taking it all in-the sound of Holly breathing, the shadows on the ceiling, the LED TV screen on the opposite wall-thinking it was hard to believe that he was really here and not in a tent in some far-off land. He realized that he felt even closer to and more protective of Holly since her kidnapping in Libya. Her colleague had been tortured and killed before her eyes. She had been tied up for days and told she was going to die. Yet she still had the strength and grace to pull herself together and continue to be the loving, generous person she had been before.
Silently, he thanked God as the trees outside swayed in the breeze. An owl hooted. Holly sighed, turned, and opened one eye. “Tom?” she asked half asleep. “Tom, is that really you?” as if she was still dreaming.
“It’s me, sweetheart. I’m back, but I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Wake me? Don’t be silly.” She reached out, wrapped her arms around him and held on as if she didn’t want to let go. “Oh, Tom. I missed you so much. Welcome home.”
He said, “I’m sorry about Neal.”
She flinched slightly, then rolled over and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “It’s awful, yes, but it’s the price he knew he might pay.”
“How are Alyssa and the boys?”
“They’re grieving and trying to cope. But let’s not talk about that now.”
He kissed her back, and held her, and they gently made love.
The next thing he knew it was morning, and Holly was walking toward him through the dappled light carrying a glass of orange juice. She caressed his forehead and informed him that the first guests would be arriving in an hour.
“What guests?” Crocker asked, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was almost eleven.
“Your sister and her family. My brother.”
“Why?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, Tom. Jenny and I are making dinner.”
“I didn’t realize.”
He carved the turkey, sat at the head of the table and said grace, ate, talked to Jenny about school, and conversed with everyone about everything, including the approaching end of the Mayan calendar, the recent presidential election, Hurricane Sandy, and the resignation of General Petraeus. He even retired with the men and boys to watch the Redskins-Cowboys game on TV.
He did everything that was expected of him, but he wasn’t completely present. Part of him was still on the mountain in Nuristan Province, fighting the enemy, making split-second decisions, arguing with Captain Battier about the need to reinforce Station C.
The adjustment from combat to civilian life was always difficult. This time it was especially hard because of the four SEAL teammates who had returned in flag-covered coffins. He carried his memories of them like an extra weight on his shoulders.