When A Warrior Comes Home Read online

  When A Warrior Comes Home

  By

  Pete Barber

  Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth

  —Albert Camus.

  Chapter 1

  January 2008 - Fayetteville, North Carolina

  The front door opened, and Sarah poked her head out of the kitchen. Daniel, her fourteen-year-old, stepped into the hall with a finger to his lips. Mike followed, carrying Christopher—fast asleep—his flushed cheek pressed into his father’s shoulder, legs dangling halfway down Mike’s thighs. He was going to be tall, like his daddy. Mike gifted Sarah a proud-dad grin and carried their son upstairs.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Daniel had the fridge open, browsing. “There’s pizza from last night on the middle shelf. But only one slice—we’re eating dinner in an hour,” she said.

  He folded a wedge, crammed the point in his mouth, and popped open a can of soda with his free hand.

  Mike snuck up behind her, wrapped a powerful arm around her waist, and pecked her cheek. “Smells good in here.”

  “Me or the sauce?”

  A low laugh rumbled his chest and vibrated against her back. “Both.”

  Still encircled, Sarah turned to face him. With a lip-smacking sound, Mike stole a kiss. She wriggled free. “Why don’t you men play a video game while I finish in here?”

  Daniel sprinted from the room. “I’ll set up World of Warcraft.”

  “Ten-four, soldier.” Mike, still smiling, looked deep into Sarah’s eyes.

  “What?”

  “Snapping a mental picture. You with a flour-smudged nose in a kitchen filled with the aroma of spaghetti sauce—a memory to treasure.”

  When Mike deployed, she’d miss these moments—simple things but hard to define—a look like this one, deep and tingly, or a casual comment keenly felt. Mike wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy. She didn’t want that from her man. But to think he’d remember this ordinary domestic moment with fondness meant the world because it showed how much he valued the life they’d built. To hide the mist in her eyes, she spun away and stirred the sauce. “How long has Chris been asleep?” she asked.

  “He passed out before the end of the movie and snored all the way home. That boy can sure sleep.”

  “He’s had a big day. Let him rest until dinnertime.”

  They’d gone to the Waffle House for breakfast, then to the local park to feed the ducks. After Mike had dropped her at home, he, Daniel, and Christopher had headed off. A boys’ outing. Seeing a movie the day before deployment was a ritual. And it had been a lucky one. Mike had always come home healthy and safe.

  Superstitions were only stupid if they didn’t work.

  The spaghetti dinner was part of it. Tomorrow morning, they’d say good-bye at the front door. Butch, Mike’s battle-buddy, would drive him away. Later, she and Butch’s wife, Rosa, would collect their vehicle from the base. A convoluted system designed to ensure Mike’s last memory would be of his wife standing at their front door, waving and smiling. That was the memory he wanted, the memory he needed, so that was the memory he’d have.

  Most army wives had a routine. Tonight, across Fayetteville, NC, two hundred families would try to soften the sense of losing someone dear, try to dull the edge of an aching heart, to blunt the fear that they might be parting forever.

  After dinner, Daniel hugged his dad, said good-bye, and went to stay with his friend. Last year, when Mike left for his second tour, Daniel had gotten upset. He didn’t want his dad to see him cry again. Also, their son was maturing fast, and Sarah suspected he knew Mom and Dad needed alone time.

  Later, Sarah came downstairs from checking on Christopher. “He’s asleep.”

  Mike pulled the cork from a bottle of Chardonnay. He poured, and she joined him at the kitchen table. They chinked glasses. “To being home by Christmas,” Mike said.

  Sarah sipped and then smiled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Remember your first trip to the Sandbox?”

  “Christopher was only, what?”

  “Two,” she said.

  “Daniel was just old enough to grasp what it meant.”

  She nodded and the emotion, still raw four years later, dried her mouth and roughened her voice. “Rosa and I went to all the deployment briefings. I sat at the back of the room in a daze—in denial. I had a drawer full of brochures and checklists, but I didn’t do a damn thing with them.” She focused on her wineglass, avoided his eyes. Anxiety warmed her cheeks; she shouldn’t have brought the memories back.

  He laughed. “You were a little unprepared.”

  But it still wasn’t funny to Sarah. The night before he left, three feet from where they now sat, she had leaned against him and grasped his shirt in both fists. Tears streaming down her face, snot bubbling from her nose, she’d begged him not to go. Of course, he told her he had to. She knew that. But fear overwhelmed logic, and she had pummeled his ribs and screamed at him before stomping up the stairs and slamming their bedroom door. “I gave you a horrible send-off.”

  He reached across and stroked her hand. “But this is nice. We’ve learned.”

  For the ten months he was in Iraq, a ball of guilt camped in her chest, ever-present, choking, immovable. How could she have behaved so selfishly? How could she put that pressure on him when he was already handling so much?

  Sarah wet her finger in the wine and circled the lip of her glass. “The week after you left, we had a power outage, and the electric company wouldn’t take my call because I wasn’t on the account. I’m glad my mom didn’t hear the names I called that poor woman on the switchboard.”

  Mike squeezed her fingers. “We’re old hands now. I don’t need to worry. I know you’ve got my six.”

  Yes. She had his back, and it meant a lot to hear him say it. Even when he was away, they were a team.

  “From what I hear, not many wives are as organized as you, Mrs. Braeman.”

  When she raised her head, the intensity of his stare sent tingles tripping across her belly. She touched her glass to his. “When you’re not here, that’s my job.”

  The run-in with the power company had delivered the kick up the butt Sarah needed. She had spread the brochures on the table and cried her way through the information. Her family was unprepared. This was her responsibility, and she’d flunked out. If something happened to Mike in Iraq, she had no power of attorney, no last will and testament.

  Not anymore. His will and their marriage certificate and his military id and Social Security card and emergency contacts and phone numbers were in a safe deposit box at the bank. Sarah kept copies at home in an indexed three-ring binder. Their credit cards, bank accounts, and utilities were all in joint names.

  He topped up their glasses, and she took another slurp and let the liquor ease her throat. When he had returned home from that first deployment, she had tiptoed around the idea of writing a will. However you spun it, she was preparing for his death. But Mike didn’t see it that way. Knowing his family was taken care of reduced the pressure on him. Every time Mike shipped out, he prepared for the possibility of death.

  “Anyway, you’re worth it. I guess.” She grinned.

  “Hmm. Well, to make sure you remember that—here.” He stuck a hand in his side pocket and produced a small black box, which he placed on the table. “I got you a going-away present.”

  She opened the lid and lifted out a gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket engraved with her name. “Mike, it’s beautiful.”

  He grinned. “You like? It matches the earrings I bought you.”

  “I love it. Thank you.” Emotion swamped her chest and stung her eyes. Sarah cleared her throat and stood. “Finish the wine. Give me twenty min
utes to shower, then come upstairs and I’ll wear it for you. I may not wear anything else!”

 

  At six a.m., Christopher—in Spiderman PJs, his blond hair poking up in tufts—stood beside Sarah on the front doorstep. They waved until Butch’s car turned the corner at the end of the street.

  “When will Daddy be home?”

  “As soon as he finishes his job.”

  Christopher frowned. Only this morning had he learned that Mike was going away. But their son was six years old. They couldn’t gloss over a deployment again. Next time, if there was one, he’d need to know, need to prepare for the worst, need to feel the fear that his father might never return. Damn. Army life was tough on kids. The longer she could postpone that conversation with her son, the better.

  “Come on,” she said, “I’m hungry. How about a Pop Tart?”

  His frown melted. “Strawberry?”

  “Of course.”

  He took her hand and pulled her into the kitchen, but when she pressed down the toaster handle, the sound echoed in the empty house. With forced lightness, she said, “Shall we visit with Aunt Rosa after breakfast?”

  “Yay!”

  Rosa and Butch had a four-week-old baby boy. Her kitchen would also be echoing and empty.

  Chapter 2

  Ten Months Later – December 2008, Southern Iraq

  The Humvee swerved at high speed through a series of orange cones. A plume of dust and stone clattered against the vehicle and sprayed the air behind. At the end of the half-mile course, the driver executed a skid turn, stopping fifty feet from a five-stack of aluminum bleachers. Engine racing, the Humvee rocked on its suspension—a thoroughbred pawing the ground, ready to race.

  “Very impressive, Master Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Standing next to Brigadier General Swain on the bleachers’ bottom tier, US Army Master Sergeant Mike Braeman suppressed the urge to punch the air. A screw-up today would have been typical Murphy’s Law. To continue with the project, Mike needed Swain’s approval, and the general had earned his reputation as a stickler for details—all boxes must be checked before making a recommendation—everything would be done by the book.

  “Tell me again, what’s the operator’s name?”

  “Brian Matthews, sir—civilian contractor, software specialist.”

  “And he is located where?”

  “At Camp Liberation, sir.”

  “Very well. Please proceed.”

  Mike spoke into his headset. “Cleared for second phase.”

  The driver’s door of the Humvee opened. Instead of a soldier, a machine rolled out on three-foot-long twin tracks that tilted and bridged the gap between cab and ground. Once clear of the vehicle, the front of the machine hinged, Transformer-like, until a metal stick figure, five feet tall with two multi-jointed arms, stood erect on top of its miniaturized tank base. Late afternoon sun glinted off two camera lenses set as eyes in its flat, rectangular face.

  An electric motor whined as the robot sped from the vehicle. Twenty feet from the viewing gallery, it stopped and rotated its body away from the observers.

  The general and the five civilians standing behind him on the bleachers raised binoculars and focused on a distant row of targets.

  A three-foot-long rifle barrel hinged out from the robot’s torso and six rapid-fire shots cracked downrange. After the firing arm had retracted, the robot returned to the Humvee. The body folded, the tracks tilted up, and the machine rolled into the driver’s compartment. A metal claw slammed the door shut. Engine screaming, the Humvee sped back through the obstacle course. It cleared the final cone on two wheels before spinning, as before, and skidding to a halt.

  Sergeant Braeman waited while a second Humvee approached from the range. The driver climbed out, carrying a gray folder. Mike brought the papers to General Swain.

  “Shot distance?” Swain asked.

  “A half mile, sir.”

  “And the weapon?”

  “A modified XM110 sniper’s rifle.”

  The general flipped through the targets. “Six bulls, impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As they passed among the spectators, the paper targets received nods of approval.

  “Master Sergeant, have the robot repeat the maneuver. No, wait.” Swain stepped off the bleachers and spoke to the Humvee’s driver. The soldier saluted and climbed into his vehicle. He drove toward the course, picked up the second obstacle, and moved it fifty yards to the right. He altered the positions of five of the twenty cones.

  The general returned to his place next to Mike. “The only certainty in combat, Sergeant Braeman, is change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now. Have him drive back.”

  Mike spoke into his headset. The Humvee started toward them. As it reached the space created by a moved cone, the vehicle swerved and rounded the obstacle in its new position. After zigzagging through the course, the Humvee pulled up in front of the observers.

  The robot, code named VCOM for virtual combatant, opened the driver’s door and rolled toward the bleachers. It covered the ground at speed, stopping three feet from the general. The VCOM looked up at the six-foot-tall military man who held its future in his hands.

  “Does the controller have audio and visual reception?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general stared into the lenses, centered on what passed as the machine’s face. “Mr. Matthews, congratulations on an excellent demonstration.”

  The stick-man lifted its right arm and performed a crude salute.

 

  A mile away, in a trailer at Camp Liberation near the Kuwait-Iraq border, Brian Matthews sat at a metal desk. His thin, pale hands were bathed in a blue cube of light projecting two feet above a flat panel, similar to an iPad. The VCOM’s cameras delivered video to his heads-up display, worn as a pair of oversized sunglasses. Brian saw, heard, and controlled everything the robot did.

  He was the robot.

  Uncertainty flickered across the general’s face. He hesitated, then saluted the VCOM, and said, “When I return to the US, I will recommend we begin field trials. Dismissed.”

  Brian grinned, and with a flick of his wrist, he returned the robot to the Humvee.

 

  Humvees collected the general and the observers from Militec—the company responsible for the VCOM hardware. Once everyone had left, Mike climbed into the passenger seat next to the robot. “Home, Brian,” he said. “I think drinks are in order.”

  They drove a mile cross-country, in silence. Although he knew Brian could hear his voice, it weirded Mike out to talk to the VCOM. After clearing security and parking in the main lot, Mike and the machine climbed out.

  Camp Liberation served as temporary quarters to three thousand troops, many fresh from boot camp and awaiting deployment north to Iraq. Mike and the tin-man marched across the camp’s sandy outer perimeter. They passed through a narrow opening between two fifteen-foot-high concrete blast walls. An upside-down tee in profile, dozens of similar barriers surrounded and protected the housing compound. Within the T-walls, air conditioners hummed in hundreds of trailers. The drone of generators delivered a constant background noise.

  As they approached Brian’s trailer, the robot moved ahead and used its three-pronged hand to open the door. Mike followed the machine inside and sucked in a lungful of cool, dust-free air. “That robot has better manners than my kids,” he said to Brian’s back.

  With a couple finger flicks from its operator, the VCOM parked against the wall and folded itself in two. Brian removed the virtual display headgear, laid it on the desk, and powered off the LightCube. He spun his chair and sprang from his seat. Grinning, he offered Mike a high-five.

  Mike pushed the hand aside and delivered a man-hug and a hearty backslap that shuddered through Brian’s bone-thin frame. “You kicked butt out there today, my nerdy friend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can you believe that sn
eaky bastard moved the cones?”

  “Not a problem.” Brian pointed to the goggles. “I have a wider field of vision through those puppies than any human soldier.”

  “Don’t go telling everyone. You’ll put us grunts out of a job.”

  “I thought that was the plan.” Brian retrieved a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the desk and slid them on. “That’s it then. At least you can ship out feeling good about the project. How’s the family?”

  “Excited. Especially Christopher. He can’t wait for Santa to climb down the chimney.”

  “Well, after today, VCOM has a bright future. Looks like we’ll be working together in 2009.”

  Mike shook his head. “Not sure. I’m slated to re-up mid-year, but Sarah and I are considering taking the hit and starting over in the civilian world. It’s a big risk, but there are more important things in life than a guaranteed pension and healthcare—right?”

  “Wouldn’t know. Don’t have either.”

  Mike smiled and punched Brian playfully on the arm. “That’s what Sarah says. The first ten years we were a family—together most nights, and I got to see Daniel grow up. But this is my third deployment in four years. I’m missing out on Chris, and he’s missing out on having a dad.”

  “It’s not such a big bad world out there.”

  Mike grinned. “So you say.”

  “When will you decide?”

  “We’re going to talk it over at Christmas when I’m home.”

  “Do the guys know?”

  “Butch is thinking the same; he just missed Noe’s first birthday. Skype’s no substitute for holding your baby boy.” Mike’s face grew warm. This was the first time he’d revealed his plans to anyone outside the military. Talk of leaving made the possibility more concrete. Sarah could go back to work. They had equity in their home if things got tight. It’d be a struggle. But life wasn’t a rehearsal.

  Brian tapped Mike’s arm. “Drink? You promised?”