When A Warrior Comes Home Read online

  Pacing in front of the full-wall windows, Brian absorbing the cityscape as he sipped chilled Perrier.

  At nine fifteen, Moshe Steinman, dressed in a gray suit and red silk tie, joined him. Brian was surprised to see the vice president in charge of the VCOM project. Militec’s software team normally handled planning meetings.

  “Brian, how are you? Did you have a good flight?” The executive crushed Brian’s hand and waved him to the end seat of the long polished-oak conference table that dominated the room.

  “The plane was late leaving RDU, but we made up time. Isn’t George joining us?”

  Steinman sat, spread his hands on the table, and focused on his fingers for a few seconds as though noticing something surprising there. Then he raised his head and locked lizard eyes on Brian. “Before we start, I must commend your bravery. Pulling those soldiers from a burning building was heroic of you.”

  “Hardly heroic. I controlled the robot from five trailers away. I was in no danger. Even so, I’ve never been more frightened. Mike’s the hero.”

  “Who?”

  “Master Sergeant Mike Braeman. The trailer was an inferno, and he refused to leave until his friends were safe. He chose their safety over his.”

  Steinman offered a tight, disinterested smile. “Anyway, well done.” He brushed a piece of lint from his tie then lifted his head and stared past Brian’s shoulder, out the window. “Brigadier General Swain’s chief of staff flew in from Fort Black this morning. You just missed him.”

  “Oh?”

  His gaze sloped back to Brian’s face. “There’s no easy way to say this. The army has canceled VCOM.”

  Brian gave an involuntary, audible gasp. Blood thrummed through his eardrums, fast and loud. He opened his mouth. No words came. His right eyelid fluttered.

  Steinman spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. “We were shocked as well. Didn’t see it coming. Reports from Camp Liberation were positive, and then the rescue—”

  “Was this because of the fire damage to the VCOM?”

  “Good grief. No. Saving those soldiers worked in VCOM’s favor. The army’s decision is purely financial. Swain had been running the project from a discretionary fund. The field trial budget we requested exceeded fund limits. The general recommended continuation. Washington rejected. To further complicate matters, he’s been reassigned to a new unit at Fort Black. As far as the army’s concerned VCOM is back to square one.”

  Brian sprang to his feet. He turned away from the executive and paced along the table, using his hands for emphasis, talking to himself as much as to Steinman. “I can’t believe it. VCOM’s potential is enormous. It could save thousands of American lives. Controllers could fight from the safety of, well, far from IEDs, anyway.”

  “I agree. But, at our estimated production cost of five hundred thousand dollars each, VCOM doesn’t fit with the military’s new focus on budget reduction and downsizing. The mission has changed.” He frowned, face dramatically serious to demonstrate genuine concern, as genuine as Moshe Steinman could manage. “You know, Brian, when we started this project the military was short of trained troops. VCOM was born in response to that challenge, but they solved the problem by lowering recruiting standards.” Steinman shook his head. “Today, the army is struggling to reduce headcount.”

  Brian returned to his chair and tucked trembling hands under his arms. After hitting every milestone, he’d expected to negotiate an increase in his daily rate and a twelve-month contract extension. Cancellation hadn’t occurred to him. “Will Militec continue the project? Maybe try for funding next fiscal year?”

  “We’ll make a pitch again in October when the new budgets are allocated. And if VCOM gets funded, you’ll be the first to know. But until then, the project is frozen. I’m sorry, Brian. The best I can do is extend you thirty days while you handover to George’s team. He’s waiting on the sixteenth floor. Trust me, he’s very upset.”

  Brian was sure that was true. George Stanislov was the yin to his yang. Brian’s LightCube sent the commands, and George’s software converted them and made the robot respond.

  But George was a salaried employee of Militec. And George hadn’t just put a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit on a shiny new Raleigh apartment. To stop the room spinning, Brian got up and opened another Perrier.

  Moshe Steinman approached from behind, placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder, and eased him toward the door. “Take that with you. I’ll show you out.”

  If Militec’s twenty-second floor was corporate chic, the sixteenth was frat-house grunge. No runway-model receptionist waited for Brian at the elevator; he knew the way.

  George—phone clamped to his ear, leaning too far back in his chair, sneakers crossed on a cluttered desk—noticed him through the open door of his glass-walled office and waved. Brian signaled back. He padded down a three-hundred-foot-long central corridor that always reminded him of a scene in The Matrix. Either side, in dozens of soft-partitioned cubicles, hipster-hackers, ears stuffed with white buds, squinted at oversized screens. An occasional colorful poster brightened the blue fabric walls. A large, green, stuffed dinosaur poked its head over one divider. A helium-filled Happy Birthday balloon, cut loose, drifted against the ceiling. Carpeted floors and white noise deadened sound. Brian stretched his jaws a few times to pop his ears.

  Mid-thirties, dressed in bleached jeans with designer rips and a sixties tie-dye T-shirt, George finished his call and met Brian at his office doorway. He ushered him in, closed the door behind them. And opened fire—both barrels. “Did Steinman tell you what that ass wipe from Swain’s staff said?”

  “They’ve canceled VCOM.”

  “They’re idiots.” George pointed to the seat next to his desk, and Brian sat. “We deliver the perfect ground force solution, and they get their calculators out and figure it’s cheaper to kill American kids than to build robots.” Brian opened his mouth to comment, but George had turned to stare out the window. “Or maybe the officers realized they wouldn’t have a bunch of grunts running around following their stupid orders and stiffening their cocks with power trips.” He spun and waved a hand in the air as though swatting the problem then took his seat and let out a sigh. “Sorry, dude. I know you’re pissed off too. Three freakin’ years. We built them the most beautiful interface known to man, and they can’t see past their egos.”

  “So it’s final, then?” Brian asked, still grasping.

  “Done. No funding, and no further requisitions being submitted.”

  “Steinman said you’d try again in October.”

  George’s eyebrows lifted. “Moshe’s full of it. Not going to happen. Swain has already slinked off to manage a unit at Fort Black. I’m sorry for anyone in North Carolina that has to listen to that self-righteous prick.”

  Brian slumped lower in his seat. “Crap.”

  Twirling a pen, George leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet on the desk. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m still in shock. My contract ran out in December. Steinman said he’d extend me one month while we clean up the documentation and do a handover.”

  George put down the pen. “What a tightwad.”

  Brian shrugged. His left eye twitched. He snatched a gulp of air and stared at the first drops of rain splattering the window. He felt George studying him.

  “Look, if it’ll help, I’ll tell management we need sixty days to close the project.”

  George’s kindness tightened Brian’s throat. He feigned a cough and took a deep breath to steady his voice. “That would be great. I could use the time to look for something else. I was blindsided by this. Completely blindsided.”

  “Yeah, I know. We were too. Friggin’ army.” George bounced to his feet and wagged a finger at Brian as he paced in front of the window. “You know what you should do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You should turn the LightCube into a game controller.”

  Brian gave an ironic laugh. “Yesterday, I might have agreed, but… wan
t to hear about the icing on this cupcake?”

  “Pray tell.”

  “This morning I put thirty thousand down on a condo in Raleigh. That’ll teach me to count my money while I’m sittin’ at the table.”

  “Brian, man. Come on! It’ll take what, two, three weeks to mock up a demo?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pretend you’re back in college. Close the curtains, drop Ritalin, and inhale coffee. You’re the best coder I know.” George waved an arm at the floor of technicians beyond his office. “There’s fifty hackers out there. If I had five Brians, I could replace them all. Why’d you think I insisted you build the controller?”

  Brian felt heat rise in his cheeks. Coming from George the compliment meant a lot. The Militec version of his LightCube was built on code he’d been improving for ten years: ten years of late nights and missed romantic opportunities. Most of the changes developed for the VCOM could be revised to drive a game instead of a robot. It might work.

  But what if it didn’t?

  George wagged a finger at him across the desk. “You know what? I can get you into GameSoft.”

  “Really?” GameSoft was the top video game producer in the US.

  “Yeah, really. My kid brother, Frank, went to college with Adam Barnes.”

  “The CEO?”

  “Frank owes me more than one favor.” George slapped two hands onto the table as he stood. The noise was loud enough to make Brian jump. He yanked a blue denim jacket off his chair back. “Come on. I’m taking you for coffee and convincing. Heck, I’ll be your first customer. I’m sick of wearing out my thumbs on plastic knobs when I play Call of Duty.”

 

  On January 16th, Mike Braeman received permission to visit Mark Yazinski. With one arm braced on the bedrail and the other on his wheelchair, he eased from his hospital bed and maneuvered the three-quarter cast on his left leg onto a metal support. His bare foot stuck out like a battering ram.

  He released the chair’s brake and rolled past the other beds, nodding to those few soldiers who made eye contact. Nobody talked much on the ward. Everyone worried about being forced out of the army with a medical discharge—didn’t want anything they said held against them, didn’t want to show weakness.

  After pushing through the double doors into the corridor, he stopped and drew a deep breath—disinfectant still, but mixed with sweeter air and a lower temperature than his stuffy ward.

  A couple marines marching toward him broke formation and passed on either side. “Soon be back to killin’ hajjis,” one said.

  “I—” Mike swallowed and tried again. “I sure hope so.”

  “Oorah,” they said in unison and marched off.

  Mike nodded. Those marines got it. Pity Sarah didn’t. They had spoken this morning, and as usual, she complained because he wasn’t lovey-dovey and emotional. What the hell did she expect? He was the breadwinner. If his leg didn’t heal, what then? Was she going to sign up. Was she going to bring in a paycheck? This injury had made him realize what a stupid idea leaving the army was. What was he thinking? And then there was Daniel—dad always said, spare the rod, spoil the child—that boy would sample some tough love when Mike got home. And that pile of Christmas toys Sarah bought for Christopher. She thought money fell from the sky in Iraq. Things had changed in Fayetteville, changed for the worse. The sooner he returned home, the better.

  He rolled along the corridor and called the elevator, a smile on his face—finally under his own power, instead of lying in bed answering stupid questions. Of course his frigging leg hurt.

  At the sixth floor, he headed for the nurses’ station. A male orderly looked up from his paperwork.

  Mike asked, “Where can I find Staff Sergeant Mark Yazinski?”

  “Friend or family?”

  “Both.” Mike pointed to his left leg. “We were hit by the same shell. Yaz is my battle buddy.”

  The man nodded and opened a drawer. He handed over a surgical mask. “He got out of ICU yesterday. Keep this on. He’s at serious risk for infection right now.”

  “How is he?”

  The orderly locked eyes with Mike. “It’s been close, but he’ll make it.” He pointed to his right. “Take the first corridor on the left. Room six-twenty is halfway along.”

  Mike spun the chair.

  “Mask!” the orderly barked.

  “Ah, sorry.” He hooked the elastic over his ears.

  “Keep it on!”

  Mike glared at him.

  Unlike Mike’s ward with rows of beds, Yazinski had a private room. A muted TV flickered on the wall. The bed tilted up so Yaz could watch, but his eyelids were closed and his head inclined to the side. A line of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. Right arm hooked to an IV, Yaz’s colorful tattoos clashed with the white covers. A frame tented the sheets over his lower body. Yaz’s face was gaunt with dark circles below his eyes. He’d lost weight, a lot of weight. Guilt washed through Mike. He should have told Brian to get Yaz out of the trailer first. But he’d been amazed to even see the VCOM. Who knew Nerdman had it in him to rescue them. People were surprising, sometimes.

  “Yaz?” Mike whispered, waited.

  “Yaz?”

  Yazinski’s eyelids flickered then squinted open.

  “Yaz. How ya doin’, buddy?”

  In slow motion, like a tank turret’s turn, Yaz rotated his head. At first, Mike saw no recognition in his friend’s face. Then a weak smile crept across his lips. He nodded and wiped his mouth on his shoulder.

  “Hi.”

  The greeting sounded like a croak. He pointed to the water jug at his bedside and Mike poured for him. Yaz cupped the glass with two hands, childlike, sipped, then passed it back.

  “What day is it?”

  “Friday, January sixteenth.”

  “Damn. I missed Christmas. Forgot your present. How come you’re still here?”

  Mike slapped his cast. “I get this off on Monday. If all’s well, I’ll be heading home soon after.”

  “Lucky bastard.” An attempted smile morphed into a wince.

  Mike laid a hand on Yaz’s arm. “Need something?”

  “My foot burns, man. Hurts like crazy. Can’t even rub it ’cause of this contraption.” He gave the topside of the frame a light slap then reached behind him, snagged a call button suspended above the bed, and pushed. “Got a cute nurse though. Wait till you see.” He grimaced again.

  “Should I leave?” Mike asked.

  “Hell no. I just need something for the pain.”

  The nurse blew into the room, all fresh air and efficiency. In German-accented English she asked, “You have pain, Sergeant Yazinski?”

  “Left foot again.”

  “It’s not quite time for your meds. Pain number out of ten?”

  Yaz winced. “Twenty.”

  She frowned.

  Yaz grinned. “Eight point five.”

  The nurse offered a sympathetic smile. “I think we can make an exception.” She whisked around the bed: Cropped hair, square shoulders and face, she reminded Mike of an East German shot-putter from the seventies. Her nametag read Anke. “You have a visitor, Sergeant Yazinski.”

  “Good buddy of mine. Got caught in the same blast.”

  The nurse nodded to Mike. “It seems you were the lucky one.”

  Mike hadn’t thought of himself as lucky. But compared with Yaz…Yazinski didn’t look so good.

  After measuring liquid into a hypodermic, she inserted it into the saline drip. Anke smiled at Mike. “This will make him sleepy.” She took Yaz’s vitals, marked his chart, and left with a curt nod.

  “Want me to go?” Mike asked.

  Yaz shook his head. “God, no. I’ve been in solitary. Haven’t seen anyone without a white coat on since I got here.”

  “I tried, but no visitors allowed in ICU.”

  “S’okay. I don’t remember much. They kept me busy with some hard core drugs—way better than we get at the front. I hope they don’t pull me off co
ld turkey.” Yaz’s face softened. He drew a deep breath. “Christ, I want to walk to the head so bad. I hate pissin’ in a bottle and shittin’ in a pan. Maybe you can hep me.” The words slowed and slurred, thick like molasses. “Heh, Mike. Thans for comin, dude.” Yaz’s eyes closed and his breathing deepened.

  Mike sat with his friend for a few minutes, watching him sleep. He turned off the TV before leaving.

  At the nurses’ station, Anke was punching data into a computer. Mike cleared his throat and removed the mask. She looked up. “How is Sergeant Yazinski? I mean how long…”

  She glanced at Mike’s name badge. “He’s your friend, yes, Master Sergeant Braeman?”

  Mike nodded.

  A smile softened her features. She lowered her voice. “His legs suffered fourth-degree burns. The field medics were very efficient. Sergeant Yazinski is lucky to be alive, but we could not preserve the limbs.”

  Mike gasped in a breath. “He lost a foot?”

  “Both legs, Sergeant.”

  Heat pulsed into Mike’s cheeks. His stomach swirled and swooped, ready to puke. He swallowed a few times. “Where? I mean how much.” He pointed to his leg.

  “Both above the knee.”

  Mike nodded, took a few seconds to gather himself. “But the pain. He said his left foot hurt.”

  “Residual feelings. Quite real, but not what he envisions.”

  “You mean he doesn’t know?”

  “He only transferred from the Intensive Care Unit yesterday. The surgeon will speak to him this afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “Afternoon.” She turned up her palms and shrugged.

  “I’ll come back later.”

  She nodded, smiled, then turned back to her computer screen.

  Chapter 6

  Rosa leaned in to the vanity mirror on her bedroom dresser and applied a final touch of mascara. For the first time in weeks, her image smiled back at her. This morning, she’d packed Noe off to her mom’s because Butch had agreed to a date night. One dinner out wouldn’t fix everything, but it was a start. The family briefings she and Sarah had attended at the base said even spouses had to get acquainted again after a deployment. Although, Rosa had always assumed that meant other couples.