Henry would always wonder what Lieutenant Cox meant to say on January 2, but he would never know. The man died in his arms. No ring of Jesus fire that day, no hedge of protection. The last thing he’d said was “Wilkins.”
America had long since lost its fascination with that particular war. Henry and the rest of his platoon were stranded, and repeated requests for evacuation were denied. The Rangers had to climb twenty miles of hard ground back into Afghanistan before they were extracted. Throughout the trek, they were harried by enemy sniper and mortar fire. On those jagged, windy mountains, Bart lost his knee, Henry became a leader, and Jesus Christ abandoned the Rangers and Henry and especially Lieutenant Cox.
Later, Henry would admit that the lieutenant would have disagreed with Henry’s assessment of life and even his own death on that forlorn mountain. The only people he would share those thoughts with were fellow Rangers. Lieutenant Cox probably would have told Henry to keep the faith, to trust in God even though God appeared absent.
Stateside, after a long ride in a cargo plane, Henry stood with some of his fellow Rangers in a field of stone. Arlington was somber and gray, and the rows of markers stretched off into the distance over rolling hills. The grounds were manicured and somber, and many of the graves were from the first Civil War.
A preacher from Kentucky spoke kind words and a widow received a folded-up flag, and Lieutenant Cox’s eight-year-old son cried quiet tears while Henry sat next to Suzanne. Henry did not cry that day, although he wailed inside. His face was a mask, a hard shell, clean-shaved and false and strong-jawed. The honor guard fired shots with crisp efficiency and pressed uniforms and the rain drizzled cold and bleak.
Henry sent Mrs. Cox money over the next ten years. Budget cuts had reduced veterans’ benefits, making it hard for a surviving widow to get by. When Suzanne got her first big check, she graciously agreed to make an anonymous donation to Lieutenant Cox’s son’s college fund. Whatever it was, it was not enough, and could never be.
With a thought, Henry activated his night vision lenses. The twilight became clear and crisp following a moment of vertigo. The wind was a blade with a keen edge cutting his face, and the snow was up to his waist in places. Ahead, Carlos blazed a trail like an elemental force of nature. Over the ridges behind them, the sound of sporadic gunfire still echoed through the deep forest.
Henry could only hope some of his fellow Wolves made it.
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
The night appeared normal as Suzanne swept Taylor up into her arms at the dock. Bart helped Mary step off the boat, then secured the lines. Taylor wrapped her tiny arms around Suzanne’s neck, and for a moment there was peace and relief. The canal behind her home was quiet; the Christmas lights along some of the windows at homes up and down the waterway cast friendly reflections onto the dark water, and a group of teenagers in a skiff went past, waving, the sound of their engine like a lawnmower.
Ginnie stood hugging herself several feet back. “The net is down,” she said.
“I know,” Suzanne replied. “Do you want to leave? You can, if you need to. Or you can stay, whatever you like. You’re welcome here for as long as you want. Your call.”
“I don’t know,” Ginnie said, her face in the shadows and her voice full of worry. “I tried calling my folks in Miami, but there’s just a beeping sound. One of the neighbors came over earlier to check on us. And of course, there’s Bobby. He’s taking a nap on your couch.”
Suzanne led the way down the coral path lined with palms and orchids. The pool lights were on, and, it seemed, every light in the house as well, as if Ginnie had tried to banish the war with wattage.
Ginnie had been with Suzanne for about two years. The only child of affluent parents in Coral Gables, Ginnie had an artistic bent, and was taking a few years off before going back to college. She helped Suzanne take care of the home and watched Taylor for four hours every morning so that Suzanne could write. Ginnie was good-hearted, but with a sadness on her Suzanne felt she understood. The girl’s childhood had been lonely and full of great expectations.
On the leather sofa, old Bobby Ray snored. Bart padded into the great room and took a seat in the easy chair while Taylor sat on Suzanne’s lap. Ginnie sat down beside Suzanne, and Mary squeezed in beside Bobby. Mary looked vacant, a shambling, shocked woman.
“I guess for now, we should wait here,” Bart said. “We’ll go into full hurricane mode. Fill up the bathtubs with water. Start stockpiling our food. We’ll make a run into town in the morning and see what we can find out.”
“You don’t want to try for the base tonight?”
“No. Too risky. It sounds like everything is pretty calm here. But I’ll feel a whole lot better going out in the daytime.”
“All right.”
“Tonight we’ll alternate watches. I’m gonna need the code to Henry’s gun safe. You all get showered and fed, then try to catch some sleep. I’ll take the first watch, then wake you up at about four.”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah, I know. But you’ve got a lotta windows. Somebody could throw a brick through and be on top of us before we knew it. We’ need to stay vigilant. One of us will remain awake at all times.”
“Right.”
“Um,” Mary said. Everyone turned to look at her. She was sunburned, and her hair was a riot of curls.
“What is it, dear?” Bart said. The exasperation just below the surface.
“I was just wondering if you had anything?” Mary’s voice was small and thin. “Anything to help me sleep maybe?”
“I’ll see what I can scrounge up,” Suzanne said. “I’ve probably got something.”
“It’s just… My nerves, you know.”
“I know, hon. It’s all right.”
Great. Mary is in full-blown helpless mode. What have I got? Maybe some Lortab from the last time Henry was home. He had a prescription, but he never takes anything. Worst comes to worst, I bet Ginnie has some weed.
Suzanne went into the bathroom and searched for a bottle, ultimately found one beneath the sink. She handed it to Mary.
“You might want to save them,” Suzanne said. “That’s all there is.”
“Thanks,” Mary mumbled, looking at the floor.
Suzanne went back into her bathroom and stripped out of her clothing. Her bathing suit was dry, but the residue of salt made her itchy. Steaming water blasted the salt and stress from her. She washed her hair and luxuriated beneath the jets, knowing that this shower might well be her last for a long time.
She was grateful Taylor was safe, but as she thought about what might be happening around the country, a chill came into her bones in spite of the hot shower and she turned up the heat.
Hopefully, this will be over quickly. Hopefully, it’s not as bad as people are saying. Yeah, the country is divided, but America is stronger than that. We’re not some third-world hellhole where people are used to slaughter in the streets.
Even as she attempted to push away desolation with hope, ugly thoughts and images sprung unbidden to her mind. A senator banging his fist on the podium, face red and angry. A militia group with white hoods and swastikas and guns spewing hatred for the cameras. Inner city war zones after hurricanes, looting, shootings, beatings, gangs, and riots. Black-and-white images of the first Civil War with trenches filled with dead American boys, bloated, uniformed, and clutching guns fitted with bayonets.
The country, she decided, had forgotten what war is. To them, war was something to watch on the net, entertainment. A video game that didn’t affect them in the real world. War happened someplace else. She thought about generations of soft, angry people who were convinced they wanted a fight; they would bleed and regret and then die. Because soldiers are not soft. And if they are unleashed on our own soil, pitted against one another, they’ll do what they have been trained to do. They will kill.