Chapter Ten
May 2008
“Shit, my lighter’s out.” Riley tossed the empty Bic on the ground. “Throw me yours, Watty.” He cursed when Watkins, instead of passing it over, hurled it over Riley’s head so that it landed several feet away.
“Fetch,” he chortled, and Riley half rose, reaching over to shove Watkins off the ammo crate he was perched on. Before he could turn and go for the lighter, Watty tackled him, and they rolled in the dirt, grappling, until Riley pinned him.
The men hooted and hollered as Watkins struggled futilely beneath Riley’s wiry frame.
“Call uncle, Watty,” Jesse drawled, cracking up when Riley shoved his middle finger in Watkins’s face before pushing off of him. He stood up, sweaty and dirty, olive drab T-shirt untucked from his uniform pants, boots on but unlaced. Stalking over to the lighter, he grabbed it and lit up, leaning against a HESCO, drawing the smoke deep and blowing it up to the sky.
The fleeting excitement of the wrestling match over, everyone fell silent.
“It’s too quiet,” Riley muttered around his cigarette. “What are those fuckers up to? You heard anything, Enriquez?”
Enriquez didn’t even bother opening his eyes, sprawled as he was on his ass in the dirt, leaning against the sandbag wall. “Nah, man, you know I’d tell you. Tactical command ain’t picked up enemy chatter in over twenty-four hours.”
“Makes me fuckin’ nervous. What’re they planning?”
“Fuck what they’re planning.” This from Watty. “Twenty-four hours with no one shooting at my ass? I’ll take it.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a lazy fat fuck,” someone else said. “Rather jerk off in your bunk than serve your goddamn country.”
“Just dreamin’ about your sister,” Watkins shot back. “Trot your ass over here and lemme—” he turned his palm up and made a lewd squeezing motion “—just so I know what she’s gonna feel like.”
A couple people guffawed, and Jesse snorted. Riley was right, it was too quiet. The fighting lately had been fierce and unrelenting, and everyone was beyond burned out, on edge, and ready to fucking go home. They each dealt with the pall of dread hanging over their heads in their own way, with crude humor, or in Riley’s case, smoking and brooding.
“Shut the fuck up, you idiots,” he growled now, flicking his cigarette away in a shower of sparks.
“Well, shit, we just can’t keep you happy, Estes, can we?” Smitty drawled. “Bitching about getting shot at, bitching about not getting shot at. Which is it, motherfucker?”
“He bitches here, he bitches there, Estes bitches everywhere,” Watkins sing-songed, obviously hoping to get a rise out of him again. “Cold or hot, spring or fall, Estes bitches about it all.”
There were shouts of “Lame!” as some of the men hurled empty water bottles or trash in Watty’s direction. He ducked, laughing, and Jesse heard the sick, hollow snap a split second before a bullet slammed into the sandbag inches from his head.
“Jesus!” he yelled, diving to the side and eating dirt. The report of two gunshots echoed through the air a split second later, sending a flock of birds screaming from the nearby trees. Men scrambled for their helmets, vests and guns, shouting, as the guy in the observation tower unleashed hell with the .50.
“Where’d it come from?”
“From the south, I think! Go, go!”
Tracers flew in both directions as the platoon hunkered behind the sandbag wall and engaged with the enemy, who were suddenly raining down a withering fire on them from a narrow spur they’d never used before.
“Estes? You okay?” Watkins’s voice behind Jesse sounded strange, choked, and Jesse whirled around to see Riley slumped against the HESCO, one hand clasped to his throat. His knees folded as he slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on it.
“Riley!” Jesse screamed. Riley’s green eyes were wide, shocked, and as he crumpled his hand fell away from his neck. Blood gushed out in a red flood, and Jesse leaped toward him, slamming his own palm over the wound in Riley’s throat.
“Get him in here now!” Smitty beckoned to Jesse frantically from where he was crouched inside the command center, already gloved up and with his medical bag at his side. Jesse couldn’t pull him and let go of his neck at the same time, so Watkins ran to grab Riley’s arm and leg, helping to haul him behind the plywood and sandbag barrier before disappearing to join the fight.
“Keep pressure while I get an IV started,” Smitty instructed Jesse tersely as he ripped some packages open and stuck a needle in Riley’s arm. “Now hold this.” Jesse held the bag of fluid up in his free hand, squeezing it, as Smitty tore into some packets of Kerlix, shoving Jesse’s hand away from Riley’s neck in order to pack the wound.
It immediately turned red as it soaked through, and Smitty kept packing in more, feeling beneath Riley’s neck and shoulders with his other hand. “No exit wound, goddammit,” he grated.
“What does that mean?” Jesse demanded, and Smitty glanced up at him, his eyes stricken.
“It means the bullet didn’t come out, that it bounced around inside him doing fuck-all-knows what damage. He could be bleeding internally, and he needs surgery ASAP.” Smitty turned his head and bellowed, “Enriquez! Call it in! We need medevac now!”
No answer, and Jesse could tell the outpost was getting absolutely rocked. Outside the command center was chaos, men shouting, bullets flying, mortars exploding. A terrible realization turned Jesse’s body to ice: there was no way a helicopter was flying in, not with the situation like this. Riley’s eyes were glazing over, and they drifted shut, his head lolling to the side.
“Do what you can for him, Doc.” Farrell’s voice was grim, and he crouched next to them, his comms headset jammed to his ear. “We’ll have a B-1 on station in twenty minutes to try and break contact, and we’ll do our best to get him out of here.” He turned away, muttering into the headset.
“He doesn’t have twenty minutes,” Smitty whispered so Riley couldn’t hear, a thread of anguish in his voice. “He’s bleeding out, Byrney. I can’t stop it.”
Jesse looked down at Riley, a swell of nausea and grief choking him. His face was turning gray, his lips tinged with blue. He was still breathing, but even to Jesse’s untrained eye the breaths were too shallow, ineffective.
“No!” Jesse burst out. “No.” He dropped the IV bag and took Riley’s limp hand in his, chafing it. “You gotta fight, Riles. You hear me?” He lay down on his stomach and pressed his lips to Riley’s ear. “Hey, man. You told me you were gonna get that motorcycle, remember? What color is it gonna be? Red? Black? Oh, God, all those hot chicks are waiting for you back home, Riles. Waitin’ for you to rock their worlds on your sleek-ass bike. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you out of here, buddy. Gonna get you to the hospital and fix you up, but you gotta keep fighting, okay?”
Riley didn’t move, or respond, and from outside there were more frantic shouts for a medic. Smitty sobbed once, grabbing his medical bag and heading out to help those who could be helped.
Jesse ignored his departure, talking to Riley, pleading with him to stay. Riley’s shallow breaths continued, and suddenly Jesse flashed back to the enemy fighter by the side of the road, bleeding out, dying alone, no one to comfort him in his last moments.
Jesse closed his eyes, gathering all of his calm and composure around him. He squeezed Riley’s hand again. “You know what?” he murmured, proud of how steady his voice was. “You did good, man. You did real good. We’re all safe, okay? Me, Watty, Enriquez, Smitty...” He cleared his throat, shoving down the urge to cry. He’d cry later. “All the guys are good, Riles.”
Riley’s breaths were spaced about twelve seconds apart, barely lifting his chest. Jesse kept talking, letting him know he was there, that he wasn’t alone. “We got this, brother. Everyone’s good. You don’t gotta look after us anymore. We got this.”
Jesse could hear the distinctive sound of the B-1 bomber engines overhead, and felt the shock waves and concussion of bombs being dropped. The plywood structure they were in shook, dust and debris raining down. He ignored it all, whispering in Riley’s ear, “Don’t worry about your dad either, okay? He loves you, Riley, and he’s gonna be okay. We’re all—we’re all gonna be okay. Let go if you need to, bud. Just let go.”
Riley’s chest wasn’t moving anymore. Ten more seconds passed, fifteen, twenty, a minute. Jesse pushed to sitting, still holding Riley’s limp hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. He didn’t move as the B-1s made another run, the thunder of bombs and the roar of guns not even penetrating the haze of shock and grief that numbed him from the inside out.
“No!” Watkins rushed in at one point, his face twisted with horror. “Riley!” He fell apart at the sight of him, and eventually Silvera appeared to lead him back out.
“C’mon, brother. There isn’t anything you can do for him now. C’mon.”
One by one the men came in to see for themselves that the terrible news they were hearing was true, and at last Smitty appeared with something dangling from his hand. He crouched next to Jesse. “I gotta get him ready to go home, Byrney,” he said quietly. “Go on outside, okay? You don’t need to see this.”
The memory of stuffing Patterson into that black body bag—ruined head lolling, arms and legs flopping like a rag doll’s—slammed into Jesse like a ton of bricks, and a sob burst from his chest. He choked it back, not wanting Smitty to have to comfort him when he was dealing with his own grief, so he merely nodded and turned to trudge out of the hooch. As he did, he accidentally kicked something, and he looked down to see it was Riley’s helmet.
Jesse picked it up, and he sank to the ground just outside the doorway, turning it over and over in his hands. Something glossy tucked into the liner caught his eye, and he eased it free. It was a picture of Riley with his dad on the parade field at Fort Carson all those months ago, right before they said their goodbyes. Jesse rubbed the spots of blood off it before tracing his fingers over Trevor’s smiling face, his heart breaking for what the man would soon be going through. You have no idea you’re about to have the worst day of your life, Trevor, do you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him. God, I’m so fucking sorry.
Jesse tucked the picture back into Riley’s helmet, and then he buried his face in his hands and wept.
* * *
Trevor woke slowly to the feel of Carl’s lips nuzzling the sensitive skin behind his ear, and he gave a lazy stretch.
“Morning, honey.” Carl strung tiny kisses down Trevor’s neck to his shoulder. “You know what today is?”
Trevor arched his head back to give Carl access to his throat, and he shivered when Carl slid his hand beneath the sheet to brush his fingers over Trevor’s belly, drifting them downward. “Mmm.” He groaned as Carl cupped his balls in a gentle massage. “No, what’s today?”
“Oh, nothing. Only that three months from this very day, you’ll finally be my husband.” Carl encouraged Trevor to lift his leg to give Carl more room to move. Shivery heat moved through him as Carl rubbed the wet tip of his cock with his thumb, smearing the fluid beading there. “I can’t wait.”
“Yeah?” Trevor breathed, thrusting into Carl’s encircling fist. “Anticipating our wedding night, are we?”
Carl gave a throaty chuckle, pushing Trevor to his back and coming down over top of him. Trevor spread his legs and wound them around Carl’s waist, draping his arms around his neck and opening his mouth for a plundering kiss.
“Yep,” Carl said against Trevor’s lips. “And I plan to anticipate it as much as possible between now and then, believe me.”
Their lovemaking was fierce and tender, and when it was over, Carl lay sprawled across Trevor’s chest, his face buried in his neck. Trevor stroked his hair as they drifted, and Carl lifted his head. “I love you. And I really can’t wait to marry you.”
“Mmm. Me either.” Trevor’s voice was husky with satiation, and Carl gave a satisfied grin at the sound.
“Fucked you that good, did I?” he asked smugly, and Trevor gasped in mock outrage, smacking his ass. That led to wrestling, groping and more kissing, and when the doorbell rang, they were both breathless with laughter and arousal.
Carl pushed off the bed, grabbing for his robe. “I’ll get it. I had those fabric samples shipped express, so I’ll need to sign for it. Seems kind of early for Fed Ex, though.” He disappeared out of the room, and Trevor glanced at the clock. Eight thirty.
He got out of bed and headed for the shower, humming. Three months until he married his love, and a little less than two months until his son came home. Trevor replayed Riley’s surprise phone call of a week ago in his mind.
“Got our ex-fill date, Dad!” He made a drumroll sound. “July 12th!”
“Wow! That’s when you’ll actually be here? Be home?”
Riley laughed. “Nah, that’s when we’re supposed to head back to Italy. I’m not sure when we’ll actually be flying out for Colorado, but you know I’ll keep you posted.”
“I know you will, son. I’m circling July 12th on the calendar right now. So close, yet so far.”
“Tell me about it,” Riley said drily. “But there’s light at the end of the tunnel, Dad. Easy peasy.”
“Easy peasy,” Trevor echoed. “Take care of yourself, Riles.”
“Always. See you soon, Dad. God, it feels so good to say that!”
Before Trevor could reply, the call dropped.
Now, he lifted his face into the hot spray of the shower, wondering what to do to celebrate Riley’s homecoming. Throw a party? Whisk him right off to Hawaii? The next time he called, Trevor would ask him what his preferences were, find out how long his post-deployment leave would be.
“Trevor, get out here!” Carl called from the other room. “You have to see this!”
Trevor grabbed a towel and dried off before slipping his robe on, gratefully taking the cup of coffee Carl handed him when he got to the kitchen. A box with the top split open was on the island, and Carl rooted enthusiastically through it, pulling out different fabric samples and holding them up.
“Now we can decide on the tablecloths and chair covers for the reception,” he crowed, draping a swatch over the back of one of their dining room chairs. “I needed the visual to help me make up my mind on the color.”
Trevor feigned enthusiasm, content to let Carl fuss about the wedding details, his mind full of ideas for Riley’s homecoming. Suddenly his vision was filled with blue as Carl dropped a piece of fabric over his head.
“You’re not even listening to me, Estes! I swear, the wedding is off!”
He pretended to flounce away, and Trevor leaped from his chair, grabbing Carl and pressing him back against the counter, the blue swatch still hanging from his head.
“Don’t even think about dumping me,” he growled, shoving his hands inside Carl’s robe and bending down to kiss him roughly. “You’re mine.”
Carl mock-struggled, but Trevor held on tight. Things were just starting to heat up when the doorbell pealed again, and Carl sighed, pushing Trevor away and tightening his robe. “Shit, I’ll get it. I wasn’t expecting another package, but—”
He headed for the front door, and Trevor grabbed his cup of coffee, taking a long, satisfying sip before yanking the fabric off his head and adding it to the rest of Carl’s silly swatches. He really did need to pay more attention to the details, since it was important to Carl and—
“Trev?”
Carl stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his face ashen.
Trevor put down his cup and strode to Carl’s side. “My God, what is it, babe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—” His words trailed away as he glanced over Carl’s shoulder toward the front entryway and the two men standing there wearing crisp, blue uniforms.
“Trevor, they want to come in.” Carl’s voice was hushed. “They—they need to speak with you. I didn’t—I—”
Trevor was frozen, unable to move, or even blink. He jumped when Carl spoke again. “Trev?”
Trevor swallowed, and he sucked in a deep breath, managing to rasp, “Show them in, please, Carl. I need to—I’m going to get dressed.”
He turned and fled to the bedroom, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. No. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when he’s so close—Trevor leaned against the wall, gasping for air, willing himself not to faint. There was a picture of Riley at his high school graduation stuck in the corner of the mirror above the dresser, and at the sight of it Trevor clasped his hand to his mouth, nausea surging up as he doubled over and vomited his coffee all over the cream-colored carpet.
No, no, no, no, no. Not my boy. Not my Riley—
Trevor’s knees started to buckle, but he caught himself on the edge of the dresser right before he collapsed to the floor. Black spots danced in front of his vision, and he struggled to hold on. Another picture caught his eye, this one of a preteen Riley in a hospital bed proudly displaying his new ankle-to-knee cast, the result of a football tackle gone wrong. He’d been so brave, so strong—
Get out there, Trevor, goddammit. Riley needs you. No matter what, your son needs you to be strong for him right now.
Trevor threw off his robe and yanked on the first thing that came to hand, a pair of sweatpants and a wrinkly T-shirt. He concentrated on breathing—in and out, in and out—keeping his mind blank as he left the bedroom, putting one foot in front of the other, each step taking him closer to the news that was about to shatter him into a million pieces.
Outside the living room he paused for a moment, letting the words those men were there to say go unsaid for just a few more precious seconds. He hadn’t heard them yet, so he closed his eyes, pretending this was just another normal day, a day where his twenty-year-old son still had his whole life ahead of him...
Praying for strength, Trevor at last stepped into the room to face the uniformed men standing stiffly in the middle of it. Carl was perched on the edge of the couch, still in his robe, clutching his lapels together, face pale.
“I’m—” Trevor cleared his throat. “I’m Trevor Estes. Riley Estes is my son.”
The man on the left spoke, his voice deep and surprisingly gentle. “Sir, the Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that Private First Class Riley James Estes died on May 20, 2008, during combat operations in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Please accept the condolences of the President of the United States on behalf of a grateful nation.”
“Thank you.”
“Trev—” Carl’s voice was hushed, and he got up, coming to Trevor’s side. “I’m so sorry.”
Trevor patted his shoulder. “Go get dressed, Carl.”
“No, I—”
“Go get dressed, please. I’m okay.” He tried to smile at him, but it must have looked ghastly because Carl visibly flinched. “Please. Then make us all some fresh coffee, if you don’t mind.”
Carl’s eyes were swimming with unshed tears, but Trevor’s were dry as a bone. He felt cold as ice, and he kept his breaths shallow, not daring to take in too much air lest the fragile control he was clinging to by his fingertips gave way to the darkness he could feel lurking along the edges of his consciousness.
Carl nodded once before fleeing the room.
Precisely, carefully, Trevor invited the men to sit, and he settled himself on the edge of the love seat opposite them.
“Mr. Estes,” the same man who spoke before said, “my name is Staff Sergeant Julian Meyer, and I’ll be your casualty assistance officer. I’m here to support you during this very difficult time. With me is Major Stuart Greene, US Army chaplain.”
“Trevor,” Major Greene said, and Trevor met his eyes, which were alight with sympathy. “PFC Estes indicated no religious preference on his dog tags, but if you wish it, I’m here to pray with you now.”
“What? No one gave Riley last rites, or—” Trevor’s voice didn’t sound like his own. He and Riley weren’t religious, but for some reason the thought there hadn’t been anything said over him made his stomach roil.
“Riley won’t have had formal last rites, no,” the chaplain answered, “but while he’s being prepared for transfer, the base chaplain in Afghanistan will pray for him.”
“What will he say?” Trevor whispered. “Will you tell me what he’ll say?” He was dimly aware of the couch dipping when Carl sat back down next to him, his warm hand covering Trevor’s cold, clenched ones.
“Of course.” Greene’s tone was deep, soothing. “He’ll say, ‘Lord, we entrust this young man into your care. We pray for your comfort for his family, his unit and his friends. Thank you for his life, and his service to his country, and we pray his death will somehow be used to hasten the cause of peace, to help bring an end to this terrible war.’”
Trevor pressed his trembling lips together and nodded, one lone tear escaping to streak down his cheek. “Thank you. It helps to hear that.” He turned his palm up and laced his fingers with Carl’s. “What—what comes next?”
He and Carl huddled together as they listened to Staff Sergeant Meyer detail how Riley would be placed in a hard-sided case, his body surrounded with ice, and flown directly from Afghanistan to the military mortuary in Delaware with only brief refueling stops.
“Every time he’s moved, whether it’s from plane to plane, or plane to hearse, he will be afforded dignified transfer. He’ll never be left alone, because a designated military escort will be with him every step of the way.” Meyer stopped to let Trevor process this, then said, “Once he’s embalmed, he’ll be dressed in full uniform and his casket will be personally escorted here to Colorado, or to Arlington, or wherever you instruct his final resting place to be.” Another pause. “He is eligible for burial with full military honors at Arlington.”
Trevor stared at the floor. “Do I have to decide all that today? I—”
“No, no, Trevor. Absolutely nothing has to be decided right this minute. Take as much time as you need.”
Meyer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I think we’ll leave you alone now,” he said gently, “but I’ll return tomorrow, all right? I’m here for you, every step of the way, Trevor. To help navigate the paperwork, clarify the process, answer any and all questions you might have.” He laid his card on the coffee table in front of him. “Call me anytime, day or night.”
They all stood, and Trevor was grateful for Carl’s arm around his waist. He reached out to shake both men’s hands. “Thank you,” he said, “for your kindness and professionalism. I appreciate it.”
As they headed for the front door, Trevor suddenly stopped. “Please, can you—can you tell me what happened to him? How he died?”
Meyer turned to face him. “I don’t have any specifics,” he said quietly. “The information I received indicates PFC Estes died from a gunshot wound incurred during combat operations.”
“But will I be able to see him?” Trevor asked, the tenuous hold on his control starting to splinter as a tremor ran through him. “Is he viewable?”
Greene stepped forward and rested his hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “We don’t have that information yet, Trevor. I promise you, once that determination is made, we’ll let you know. As his father you have the absolute right to see him, but the mortuary staff in Delaware will make a formal recommendation for or against viewing him, and that recommendation is what we urge family members to follow.”
All Trevor could do was nod, and Carl tightened his arm, supporting him as he sagged against him. The men let themselves out, closing the front door softly behind them.
“Oh, Trev,” Carl whispered as he pulled Trevor against him, wrapping him up in his arms. “I’m so sorry.”
Trevor clutched him. “He’s gone, Carl,” he choked, the cracks in his composure spreading as he acknowledged the truth. “Riley’s gone.”
“I know, honey.” Carl rocked him, running his hands up and down Trevor’s back. “I know.”
Trevor’s knees gave out and Carl eased him to the floor, not letting go as he finally succumbed to the wave of grief that crashed over him, sweeping him away.