Page 5 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Repeatedly clenching and releasing his fists, Logan glared at Sawyer’s retreating back and then glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. He wouldn’t put it past the retired SEAL to have someone observing from nearby. The man may not be a living legend, but he was damn, fucking close. He’d been highly respected in the spec-ops community, and that had rolled over to the security business he owned with his brother. Several former teammates of SEAL Team Four had faithfully followed him into the private sector and now worked for him.
He has the best of the best—so what the fuck does he want with a broken-down has-been?
Taking one more inventory of the surrounding area, Logan strode toward his truck that was parked at the curb. Climbing in, he started the engine but didn’t put it in drive—he just stared out the window at nothing in particular. Today’s session with his shrink hadn’t gone well—he was almost ready to give up on the therapy—and he’d already been stressed out when Sawyer had walked up and introduced himself. Logan was sure his former uncle, Larry, had called in a favor and asked for Sawyer to take on the poor, useless retired Marine. But then again, Sawyer’s words came back to him.
“You survived, Marine, when your teammates didn’t. Had the situation been reversed, and you were dead, while one of them came home, would you want them sulking on your grave, or would you tell them to man the fuck up? There’s so much good you could be doing on my team. But if having your own fucking pity party for the rest of your life is what you want to do, so be it.”
Logan’s jaw tightened as his anger level rose again. Who the fuck does Sawyer think he is?
Yanking the gearshift, he threw the truck into drive, and with barely a glance over his shoulder to check the traffic, he peeled out of the spot with no idea where he was heading. Rolling the windows down, he breathed in the fresh air—well, as fresh as Washington, D.C. air could be.
He drove aimlessly for about twenty minutes, not wanting to go home to his empty, undecorated apartment. After staying with his folks in Virginia for six months after his release from the military hospital in Germany, he’d finally insisted it was best if he moved out. He hadn’t been able to return to the condo he’d shared with Danny Coleman—there were too many memories of his best friend there. Besides, Clutch had owned it, and his family had decided to sell the unit. It’d taken Logan an entire day to pack up the shit from his room, and after he’d stored everything in his parents’ garage, he’d gone out and gotten rip-roaring drunk.
When he’d sobered up again, the pain he saw in his parents’ eyes had registered. They’d been afraid—not of him, but of what he was doing to himself. His life had become a cycle of restless sleep, eating out of necessity, attending his therapy sessions, running four miles a day, and getting shit-faced two or three times a week. While he hadn’t died in that shack in Afghanistan, he might as well have. Inside, he was just as dead as his buddies—only his heart hadn’t stopped beating yet.
While his parents had told him it was fine for him to stay with them, he knew it was hard having him in the house. They had to walk on eggshells, worrying something they would do or say would trigger a negative response from him—especially when he was asleep. They’d taken to using an old cowbell to announce themselves if they needed to awaken him since he usually came to swinging. Thankfully, he hadn’t hit either of them, although he’d attacked a male nurse during his stay in the hospital when he’d stirred from a medicated sleep to see the dark-haired man standing over him. It had taken two orderlies to pull him off the nurse who Logan had almost strangled to death. Thank God, the poor guy had survived, but Logan had ended up being afraid to fall asleep until he’d been released and flown back to the US. Even now, he was worried he’d hurt someone without realizing what he was doing.
A honking horn startled Logan, and he moved his foot from the brake to the accelerator, sending the vehicle lurching forward before he gained control again. It took him a few moments to realize where he was. Somehow, almost on autopilot, his truck had steered itself to the entrance of Arlington National Cemetery. Passing through the gates, he drove into the visitor’s parking garage. Throngs of tourists, young and old, were heading toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for the dramatic changing of the guards, but Logan didn’t follow the crowd. Instead, he headed in the other direction. The rows of white on a sea of green spread over 624 acres, where more than 400,000 individuals were interred or inurned. Each one had either served their country, many dying while doing so, or they’d been married to someone who’d served in the military, dating as far back as the American Revolution all the way through to today. In fact, far up on a hillside to Logan’s right, another hero was being brought home to the hallowed ground while their family mourned.
Three volleys of seven rifles being fired for a twenty-one-gun salute had his muscles tensing and heart rate speeding up before the somber bugle notes of “Taps” floated through the air. Logan swallowed the lump in his throat, grateful his watery eyes were concealed by his sunglasses as he passed two middle-aged women tending to a young soldier’s grave site. Jesus. The tombstone said the poor guy had only been twenty years old when he’d died five years ago—not even old enough to drink legally, yet old enough to give up the ghost for his country. According to the information under his name and dates of birth and death, he’d been awarded the Purple Heart and the Silver Star, so it was likely he’d been killed in action, and the medals had been given to his family.
With his gut churning, Logan continued his three-quarter-mile hike to the section where his teammates were interred—at least most of them were. Seth Granger, one of the guys killed during the initial ambush, and Kevin Mooney, the first one slaughtered at the insurgents’ camp, had both been buried in other veteran cemeteries closer to their families in Oregon and New Mexico, respectively. The only other teammates from that fateful mission who weren’t buried here were Logan and Joe Moretti. The latter had recovered from the bacterial infection he’d developed in that hell hole but was suffering from a severe case of PTSD—worse than Logan’s. The two men had only spoken a few times by phone since returning to the US, and Logan was afraid someday he’d receive a call that Stash had committed suicide in his hometown in Maine. The man was seriously fucked up in the head, and half the shit he’d said in their brief conversations hadn’t made any sense. He was on some heavy-duty psychotic meds and had been in and out of the hospital over the past year with PTSD-induced episodes that had scared the shit out of his family.
As he neared his buddies’ grave sites, Logan slowed and shortened his stride. The last time he’d been here was about two months ago, and instead of getting easier, each visit was harder than the last. The first tombstone he came to was Gunny’s. A few feet to the left were Clutch’s and Flipper’s. And buried in the row directly behind those three were Kandy and their four other friends who’d been killed in the initial attack. All had been awarded the Purple Heart and several other medals posthumously.
Logan squatted in front of Clutch’s grave and stared at the white inscribed stone, waiting for his grief to overtake him as it did every time he came here. His eyes closed as the painful memories assaulted him. These men had died protecting what this country had been built on. They’d joined the hundreds of thousands of men and women who’d made the ultimate sacrifice for people they’d never met—people who would never know their names or truly understand why they’d died. No sacrifice on earth was greater than laying down your own life so others could live and be free. And in this day and age, so many were too self-absorbed to comprehend that fact. The disrespect some young people showed to veterans nowadays was similar to what those who’d served in Vietnam had experienced upon returning to the States. To see your flag trampled, pissed on, or set on fire by the very people who lived under it was disgusting. If they only knew how oppressed and terrifying their lives would be without that flag, the Constitution, and the men and women who defended them with their dying breath, maybe they’d understand and give the rightfully earned respect.
“Is he a hero?”
Opening his eyes, Logan found the source of the tiny voice. A little boy, about six years old, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the US flag on it, was staring at him with a curious expression. Glancing around, Logan saw a woman, who was probably the boy’s mother, since she had the same blonde hair and blue eyes, hurrying toward them from a few rows away.
“Charlie! Don’t run off like that and scare Mommy. Leave the gentleman alone.” She stopped behind her son, placing her hands on his shoulders, and gave Logan an apologetic gaze. “I’m so sorry he bothered you. We were just visiting his grandfather’s grave.”
Still squatting, Logan shook his head. “No need to apologize, ma’am.” He smiled at the boy. “Hi, Charlie. My name’s Logan, and yes, my friend Danny was a hero.” Pointing to the stones bearing the names of the rest of his buddies, he added, “They’re all heroes. That’s Phillip, Gavin, Brent, Dwayne, Javier, Stuart, and Brandon. They were my teammates.”
Little Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “So, does that mean you’re a hero too?”
Oh, fuck. How did he explain to a kid so young that the last thing he would call himself was a hero? Yeah, he had a bunch of medals in a box in his apartment, which only came out when he had to wear his dress whites or blues. But many times over the last year, he’d felt like a fake, pinning them to his uniform. He hadn’t died like these men in order to get those medals. He hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice like they had.
Logan let out a sigh and removed his sunglasses. “What do you think a hero is, Charlie?”
He’d expected to hear something like Superman or Spiderman flying through the air, but damn if the kid didn’t surprise him. Charlie gently patted Danny’s white marker. “A hero is someone who fights the bad guys, so I can sleep at night and go to school and watch TV and play outside. Heroes keep Mommy and me safe. My grandpa was a hero—he died in-in-in . . .” He glanced up at his mother. “Where did Grandpa die, Mommy?”
“Lebanon, sweetie.” The woman’s gaze met Logan’s, her pain still evident in her pretty, blue eyes. “My dad was a Marine killed during the Beirut bombings in 1983. I was only two then, but my mother kept his memory alive for me.”
Logan knew all about the bombing of the US barracks in Lebanon that had killed 220 Marines, eighteen sailors, and three soldiers. It had been the deadliest day for the US Armed Forces since Vietnam and the deadliest single terrorist attack on American citizens prior to 9/11.
“He died in Lebanon,” Charlie said, continuing his explanation to Logan. “My daddy’s a hero too. He’s a police officer. He fights bad people too.”
Sometimes it took the words of a child to make things clearer in your mind. This right here . . . this little, six-year-old boy and his mother were exactly why Logan and his teammates had signed their lives over to Uncle Sam, put on those uniforms, and picked up their weapons. They’d sacrificed their own lives, liberties, and pursuits of happiness so this little kid and millions like him felt safe enough to sleep at night and smile and laugh during the day.
Logan still had demons he’d have to face, but sweet, freckle-faced Charlie had reminded him why he’d enlisted in the first place all those years ago. His buddies were gone, but he had the opportunity to continue the fight in their honor. He imagined they would be telling him to man the fuck up, just as Sawyer had, instead of rolling over and waiting for the day he would take his last breath. Until now, he’d just been a dead man with a pulse, and it was time to change that. There was so much more he could do before he joined his buddies here on this hallowed ground, and it was time to find out if he could be a part of a team again. A team that put the lives and freedoms of others before their own.
Instead of answering the boy’s earlier question, Logan stood tall and peered down at him. “Do you know how to salute, Charlie?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I always salute my teammates before I leave. Will you salute them with me?”
