When A Warrior Comes Home Read online

  “He—” Yaz gave a half-laugh devoid of humor. He told me he’d amputated both legs. Said it was the only way he could keep me alive. I laughed, real sarcastic like. Didn’t believe him. “Wrong room, Doc,” I said. “I’m the guy with the painful left foot.” His voice cracked. He pointed to his water glass. Mike tossed out the dregs and refilled it from the tap. Yaz sipped.

  “So the doc pulled back the covers and told me to look.” Yaz’s face crumpled like a paper wrapper. Soft sobs shook his chest, then he squawked in a lung full of air and bawled like an infant.

  Mike grabbed his friend’s arm and squeezed. He wanted to say something, to comfort the man, but his mind was a blank wall. He stared at the bed. Below the cage, where Yaz’s legs should have been, the sheets were flat. He hadn’t paid attention when he visited earlier.

  Yaz cleared his throat. “Sorry, man. I’m whining like a baby.”

  “You’ve earned that right, soldier.”

  He pointed down the bed. “Uncover them.”

  Mike shook his head.

  “You need to, man. Otherwise, you won’t get it.”

  Mike reached out. His fingers trembled as he pinched the corner of the sheet. “You sure?”

  Yaz nodded. Mike rolled the covers off the cage. He winced and peered through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t look. And he couldn’t look anywhere else. Stinging tears spilled down his cheeks.

  Where Yaz’s legs should have been there were two fat bandaged stumps.

  Chapter 7

  Brian Matthews trudged fifty yards across a rain-slickened parking lot to reach the entrance to GameSoft’s five-story concrete and glass headquarters in Raleigh’s Research Triangle Park. He took the elevator to the third floor. A friendly receptionist settled him into a conference room with coffee and a plate of Orio cookies. “Mr. Barnes is running late. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Is this where we’ll be meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m fine, thank you. I need time to set up.”

  Brian synchronized his laptop with a projector positioned on a stand at the head of a small table. He clicked through his PowerPoint presentation once to make sure he had the correct version. Then he displayed the ten slides more slowly, mentally rehearsing his pitch.

  When Adam Barnes arrived at ten thirty, Brian’s stomach was churning, and he needed the bathroom. He’d never met GameSoft’s founder, but the man’s face was familiar. The twenty-four-year-old multimillionaire attracted plenty of publicity.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” The CEO extended a thin hand and Brian accepted a limp, warm handshake. Adam reminded him of a pale, bespectacled five-foot-tall marionette. A woman, also mid-twenties, accompanied Adam. He introduced Mia as a project manager. Both wore dark T-shirts and scruffy jeans—child prodigies could set their own standards. Brian felt overdressed in pressed chinos and a crisp white shirt.

  “No problem. I’m grateful you could fit me in. I have a short presentation covering the LightCube technology. Then, if you wish, I can demonstrate an early version.”

  “The floor’s yours.” Adam and the woman settled at the table.

  The familiar sales pitch calmed Brian’s nerves. But with no questions, he finished the slides in under fifteen minutes. “If the concept is clear, would you like to get hands-on?”

  The CEO checked his watch, which did little for Brian’s confidence. “I have until eleven.”

  “That’ll work.” Brian switched on his prototype LightCube—larger and thicker than the military version. Thirty seconds later, hundreds of thin beams projected upward from the device, forming a cube of light. Brian pushed the tablet in front of Adam and waved his fingers through the beams. “This is the controller.” He plugged the viewing goggles and a headset into the side of the tablet. “I’d expect a production version to be more attractive.” He grinned as he offered the CEO a black-rubber diver’s mask he’d modified to build his heads-up display. The gear looked like a poorly executed science fair project. But the slick equipment that drove the VCOM in Iraq was US Army property and unavailable to him.

  Adam positioned the goggles over his eyes and secured them with the strap. “Cool,” he said, and extended his hands so his fingers interrupted the lights coming from the tablet. “Very cool. Wow!”

  Brian said, “The demo is a primitive Mario-like simulation, but it should give you a general idea of the gaming experience.”

  Adam pulled on the headphones, and a wide grin cracked his face as his hands moved and flexed across the LightCube, controlling the images projected onto the inside of the goggles. Monitoring the man’s hand motions, Brian visualized Adam’s progress as his finger flicks maneuvered a cartoon character through a maze; the CEO was a quick study. Three minutes in, Adam’s head jerked back. “Neat!”

  Hopeful tingles surged through Brian’s chest. Multicolored explosions had just filled the goggles, and Adam Barnes had enjoyed the experience. Brian had programmed the effect to illustrate the advantage of the retina display. The experience was immersive. Adam removed the headset, his grin still fixed in place. He handed the equipment to his project manager. Mia gave Brian a warm smile that reached her dark-chocolate eyes. She had perfect caramel skin and a cute button nose—totally out of his league.

  “Can you restart it?” Adam asked.

  “Sure. Just press the red button when you’re ready, Mia.”

  Once Mia was up and running, Adam said, “Extraordinary software. Kudos. You’ve exceeded my expectations.” Adam drummed his fingers on the table and fell silent for a few seconds before clearing his throat. “Honestly, Brian, I only met you as a favor to George’s brother. He told me I owed him one. I probably owe him more than that.” The sly smile that softened his face made him look even younger. “But after experiencing your… What do you call it?”

  “LightCube.”

  “Huh. Not a fan of the name. No matter. I’m glad you brought it along.”

  “I’m a techie, not a marketing guy, but I think this interface could add tremendous value to your games, particularly a first-person shooter such as Alien Smackdown. The operator would be inside the battle zone.”

  Adam frowned, shook his head. “I disagree. LightCube is a different experience altogether. We code for Xbox, PlayStation, and PC so our graphics are optimized for delivery on a video screen. This is a paradigm shift. As with the change from 2D to 3D movies, the images have to be designed to leverage the 3D effects. Our hackers would have to code for your LightCube.”

  Brian’s enthusiasm evaporated. His left eyelid fluttered. His voice dried up. He had no argument to contradict the man’s assessment because Adam Barnes was right. The LightCube was a disruptive technology—the most expensive kind. It required goggles and a three-dimensional light-sensing display, and a new coding approach. The technology was exciting, but the business challenge of bringing it to market was enormous, and expensive.

  The CEO sprang to his feet. He tapped Mia’s shoulder, and she pulled off the goggles and headset and laid them on the table. Adam offered his hand. “By the way, George told me how you used the LightCube to rescue those soldiers in Iraq. Three of them, right?”

  “Right. I—”

  “How are they doing?”

  Heat blistered Brian’s face. He’d been so self-absorbed since leaving Iraq, he hadn’t inquired about Mike and his team. “Two are hospitalized in Germany. The third only suffered minor burns. I don’t have an update on their recovery.”

  Adam nodded. His eyes far away, mind probably focused on his next meeting. “Good. Anyway, thank you for the demonstration. Give me a couple days to think it over?”

  “Sure. I appreciate the opportunity.”

  They shook hands, and Adam and Mia left, closing the door behind them. Brian sighed, packed his kit, and headed for the exit.

  Back to square one.

 

  An hour later, back home in his one-bedroom rental apartment in downtown Raleigh, surrounded by boxes—he d
idn’t close on his new apartment until January 30th, he kicked himself again for putting such a large chunk of escrow down on the condo. The realtor had told him with multiple competing buyers, the juiciest down payment usually won. The realtor had been right, but the realtor didn’t have to make the mortgage payments.

  Brian logged on to his email and fired off a “How are you and the guys doing?” message to Mike Braeman.

  “Better late than never,” he said to his reflection in the window, although the words did little to convince. What if one of the guys was seriously injured, or even dead? How would he feel then? Like shit. The new apartment and the VCOM cancellation had filled his mind. And once George had set up today’s meeting, he’d burned up the keyboard to create the demonstration for GameSoft—another waste of time and money.

  His laptop beeped. Mike had replied. “Yaz is pretty bad off. We’re both still in Landstuhl Hospital, but I ETA Fayetteville next week. Butch is home. Let’s meet so we can thank you for saving our butts.”

  The message did nothing to ease Brian’s guilt—some friend he turned out to be—his financial problems were inconsequential when compared to what Mike and Yaz and Butch had faced in Iraq.

  Chapter 8

  Sarah came downstairs a little after seven to an empty couch. The bedcovers, neatly folded, were stacked on the back. In the kitchen, Rosa, still dressed in the blue robe, slouched over the table, head in hands. When Sarah coughed, her friend looked up and pointed to a cup of coffee. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Course not. You should have woken me.”

  “I haven’t been up long.” On her left cheek, a blue swelling trimmed with yellow and black edges distorted her features.

  “Did you sleep?” Sarah asked.

  “On and off. You?”

  “Fine.” Sarah poured coffee. Actually, she’d lain awake for hours worrying about her friend, and then fighting off more worry about Mike. Was he really recovering in Landstuhl? He’d been strained on their Skype calls and brusque on emails. She suspected he was more severely injured than he had told her. That would be typical of Mike—not wanting to bother her, taking the responsibility on himself.

  “Where are the boys?” Rosa asked.

  “Daniel’s sleeping, of course. When Noe grows up, you’ll see, that’s what teenagers do—eat and sleep. Christopher’s at my mom’s.”

  “Sorry, you covered that last night.”

  “Christopher and I both needed a break. You know how it gets when it’s just you and them all the time. Look. We’re not big on breakfast. How about a slice of toast?”

  “Thanks, but I better get going. I tried to wash the dress, but—”

  Wrinkled and forlorn, Rosa’s little black dress draped the back of a kitchen chair.

  “Aww, Rosa. You shouldn’t… How stupid of me, I never thought. I’ll find something for you to wear. What are you, size ten?”

  “Eight.”

  “Good for you! Luckily, I have a few wishing clothes.” When Rosa raised her eyebrows, Sarah said, “Wishin’ I was a size eight again. I kept them for motivation.” She patted her stomach. “Didn’t work, but you’ll look great in my skinny jeans. Come upstairs and pick something out. You can use my bathroom to freshen up.”

  Thirty minutes later, Rosa came downstairs, hair wet, wearing Sarah’s jeans with the bottoms turned up and a black sweater, sleeves bunched to make it fit. Sarah had a plate of buttered toast and a fresh pot of coffee on the table. She pointed to the seat opposite.

  “I don’t know how to thank you—” The words caught in Rosa’s throat.

  “That’s what friends are for. Now grab a slice and tell me what you plan to do.”

  Rosa nibbled at a piece of bread and stared at her hands. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I overreacted. Butch was tired. I should have asked him when he came home from work if he still wanted to go before I got dressed up. Perhaps he forgot the arrangement. He does forget the damnedest things.”

  “Or he’s being selfish. If this was the first time he’d lost his temper, maybe, but from what you told me last night, this is your new normal.”

  Rosa winced.

  Sarah leaned across the table and laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “Whether he forgot or not, I think Butch should talk to a doctor and find out what’s really going on.”

  Rosa’s chin trembled. She wiped at her eyes.

  “Rosa, Butch is a good man. Wouldn’t harm a fly. First to volunteer if someone needs help. My kids love him, and they’re no pushovers. That’s not the person you ran from last night. This sudden change can’t be just your fault.”

  Sarah got up, stepped across to the kitchen counter, and riffled through a drawer. She brought back a Military Community Awareness pamphlet titled Homecoming and laid it in front of Rosa. “Read through the bullet points—the warning signs for combat fatigue. Aren’t these things happening to Butch?”

  She pushed the flyer away. “I know this, Sarah. You and I attended the briefings together, remember? But what’s the point? He won’t report sick. It’s a sign of weakness. It’ll reflect badly on him. Three guys from the last deployment got booted out with other-than-honorable discharges. They lost everything—healthcare, pension. Everything.”

  Rosa took a deep breath and let it ease out. “And to be honest, I’m scared too. While he was in Iraq, we discussed him leaving the service. He’s missing out on Noe. Even with a big cut in income, at least he’d be home more. It’s tough enough for ex-military to land a civilian job, but without an honorable discharge, it’d be impossible.” Rosa stood. “Thanks, again, but I’ve got to go. Mom will be expecting a call.”

  “I’ll come along.”

  “No need. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, yeah? Even though you’re locked out and I have the spare key to your house?” Sarah grinned, tried to make light of the situation. She wouldn’t let Rosa walk into God knew what at home. At least this way, she could get her there safely. And if there was more trouble from Butch, she could offer an escape route, or call someone.

  Rosa shook her head, but a smile tweaked her lips. “Okay.”

  After leaving a note on the fridge for Daniel, Sarah found an old parka for her friend; the hood hid Rosa’s bruises. The rain had stopped, but the damp cold had a raw bite. They drove the four blocks in silence with Rosa twisting at the hem of the parka, rolling and straightening it in her lap.

  When they pulled up outside Rosa’s home, she jolted upright and grabbed the dashboard. “The car’s not here.” Her voice was thick with panic.

  What thoughts must be racing through her friend’s head. Sarah gritted her teeth and choked down her own fears. Good job she’d insisted on coming. Rosa needed her support. What the hell was Butch thinking? Thank heavens Mike never pulled stunts like this.

  They walked up the path together. Sarah handed over the spare key, and Rosa opened the front door. “Wait here while I check upstairs.”

  Standing in the hallway of the empty house, Sarah studied the broken glass on the floor and hoped the picture had just fallen and not been thrown. Doors opened and closed as Rosa moved through the bedrooms. Seconds later, she appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed. “He hasn’t been home.”

  “You sure? Maybe he fell asleep on the couch.” Sarah beat Rosa to the living room, but Butch wasn’t there. Rosa grabbed her purse and tipped the contents onto the table. She snatched up her cell phone. “I’ve got a voicemail. Five a.m. Oh, God!” Her hand trembled as she punched in her password. She pressed the phone to her ear and her eyes filled with tears as she listened.

  Sarah waited, expecting the worst. Butch was showing symptoms of battle fatigue. At the base briefings, the presenter, a psychiatrist, had discussed self-inflicted harm—a cry for help, he’d called it. He’d talked about suicide, listed the warning signs. Sarah had heard the words but never connected those symptoms to Butch. They were other people’s problems. A wave of nausea churned her stomach, and she steadied herself against the back of the sofa
. What if Butch had hurt himself? What if…?

  Rosa lowered her phone. Her face was pale as paper. “He’s been arrested. I have to pick him up from Fayetteville Police Station. He called,” tears spilled down Rosa’s cheeks, “and I wasn’t here for him.”

  Sarah put an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Come on. At least we know he’s safe. What happened?”

  “Driving While Impaired. He still sounded drunk on the message. Wait—” She held up a hand and spoke into her phone, “Call Butch.”

  “I’ll be outside in the car.” Sarah hurried from the room.

  Her friend followed a few seconds later and climbed into the car.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No. The phone’s turned off, or dead, because he didn’t pick up.”

  They drove to town. In front of the police station, Sarah slowed. Butch sat on the sidewalk, slumped against the building’s brick façade. Chin tucked into his collarbone, his head lolled to one side. His left knee showed pale through a bloodied rip in his jeans. Rosa jumped from the vehicle before it stopped. She ran to her husband and knelt next to him. Sarah followed but held back, gave them space. The crumpled man her friend was hugging resembled a hobo not the reliable family man Sarah knew him to be. What a mess. How Sarah ached for Mike to be home. Butch would have been his responsibility. But, as with everything else, she had to handle both sides of the marriage during deployment.

  Only when Rosa tried to haul Butch to his feet did Sarah move closer. They each took an arm and helped the big man stand. He stared at Sarah for a second. Then his gaze sloped away.

  “Where’s the car, Butch?” Rosa asked. He stood there, swaying, stinking of alcohol, tobacco, and body odor. Rosa had a tight hold of Butch’s arm, struggling to keep him erect. Her eyes were full of tears; her lips twitched; Rosa was cracking.

  Sarah said, “Let’s get him into the car before he falls over, then I’ll ask the cops where they found him.”