Page 9 of A Hero Comes Home

“Be reasonable, Jake.”

“I have nothing left, man. I am nothing. What the Taliban didn’t take from me, my own military is. They think they can control everything about me. When I eat. When I sleep. When I piss. What I can see or hear. They’d like to reach in and mold my mind to their specs. Well, fuck that!” Without thinking, he reached down, grabbed his half-empty bottle of beer, and threw it, smashing the television screen into a gray cobweb with the German baseball announcer still blathering on, before falling to the floor into a mess of booze and shattered glass.

“Oh, man! Oh, Jake! No!” Izzie said, as he stood, too.

Through the red haze of his vision, Jake barely registered Attila the Nurse come bursting through the door. Before he could react, the nurse had him in a head hold and was jabbing his arm with a needle. Almost immediately, he began drifting into the peacefulness of tranq-induced waves. Not the bloodred ones of his rage. These waves were crystal clear. Like a sweet summer day on Bell Sound.

It was a sign of how broken Jake still was that he could swear he heard the bells of his Outer Banks hometown ringing in his head. In fact, during his three years as a POW, he’d often heard those annoying bells. Back then, he’d thought they were calling him home.

The thing was, he no longer knew what, or where, home was.

Chapter 3

Facilitate that! . . .

Jake was lying flat on his back in bed when he awakened from his Ambien sleep.

He was calm now . . . and full of regrets. He hadn’t had one of those “episodes” in weeks. Last time was after he’d gotten the results of yet another failed eye surgery.

Damn, damn, damn!

Was it a one-off, or was he regressing? It better be the former or they would have him on a tighter lockdown than they did already. But, no. He recalled what had prompted this wash of red mist. The fact that Sally was being informed of his existence, without his consent or input.

Damn, damn, damn.

His curse words were head whispers, more a gentle mantra of that mindfulness crap his psychiatrist was always hyping. “Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe.”

Or his version, “Damn, damn, damn.”

At first, he remained motionless, his good eye shut. Then he realized what had awakened him . . . the sound of low voices coming from the other side of his room. It was a sign of his improvement here at Landstuhl that he didn’t immediately jackknife up and into a shooting position, sensing a threat.

Yeah, yeah, he’d lost control a short time ago—two hours ago, in fact, he realized by checking the wall clock—but he chalked that up to extreme provocation . . . as in, his cover was blown, or about to be blown. Not just with his wife, and family, and friends, and fellow soldiers, but the whole freakin’ world. Who wouldn’t overreact to that?

Slowly, he turned his head, without changing the position of his body. There was a group seated around his small dining table, talking softly. Extra folding chairs had been brought in. Four people. Izzie; Dr. Sheila, his shrink; Dr. Muller, his general physician here at the medical center; and some guy in full military dress uniform that he didn’t recognize, probably a major if Jake’s one eye didn’t miss a stripe or see double.

Slowly, he eased himself up and over to a sitting position on the side of the bed. He hadn’t showered since his workout this morning, but figured he’d have to wait until he faced the music from the “firing squad” over there.

That little bit of movement got their attention, and they all turned to look at him, with concern. Dr. Sheila Benoit, a fortyish woman from Louisiana whose Cajun husband was a pilot stationed at Ramstein Air Base, came over to him and said, “How do you feel? Is the red tide over?”

He regretted confiding in a counseling session once about his rages, which she constantly wanted to talk about. She was the one who’d given them the name “red tides.” It would probably end up in one of her books on PTSD.

“I’m fine now. Just a blip.”

She raised her brows at that dismissal but reached out a hand to help him up. “Come, join us. A cup of tea might help.”

Yeah, right. He was going to guzzle down a gallon of her chamomile, which tasted like perfume to him, and lickety-split he would be cool, calm, and collected.

He’d rather have another beer.

Or a glass of iced water.

He got up on his own, without her aid, and walked over to the mini fridge. Taking out a bottled water, he chugged down half of it, then turned to the table, where everyone was gawking at him like he was some specimen under glass, or a bomb about to implode. “So, what’s up?”

“Have a seat, Captain Dawson,” Dr. Muller said, pulling out a chair for him. Muller was wearing a golf shirt and lime-green pants today, probably off to the links at Woodlawn or Barbarossa once he left here. Landstuhl had a mixture of military and civilian staff. Dr. Sheila and Dr. Muller were among the latter.

Jake sat and glanced pointedly at the military guy. “And you are . . . ?” Not the required protocol in addressing a superior officer, but at this point Jake wasn’t in the mood for politeness or military etiquette.

“Major Raymond Durand, Pentagon, division of global communications. I’m here as part of a team to facilitate your Transition Plan, Phase One.” He pointed to a folder on the table, which actually had those words on it. “Captain Jacob Dawson, Transition Plan, Phase One.”