Saving Emmy by Rayne Lewis

Chapter 15

Slate was in the ready room going through gear and packing his bag for the next day’s mission. They were off to Yemen on a K & R. His mind was heavy. His focus was on the mission and the plans they had gone over repeatedly, each detail committed to memory. He focused now on what needed to be packed and what needed to be on his person to make the mission a success.

He also had T-BAR on his mind. Things hadn't aired out between them, and Slate wanted to get things squared before he left. T was sitting this mission out due to his eye. He was still wearing the eye covering, and his quality of vision was still unknown.

And, because T was on his mind, so was Ember. King put T on protection duty for Ember until they returned. Slate knew T would protect her with his life, wouldn’t let anything happen to her, but he still was worried. Maybe it was a primal, caveman-ish, man-protect-woman impulse, but unless he was the one protecting her, he worried about her. When mission time came, he had to put his trust in his brother because his mind would be nowhere else but on the task at hand; a successful mission.

He packed his things, as always being meticulous in what he was taking. Everything had a purpose. A need. Want had no place in a man’s carry. Each extra ounce became a pound on a long hike. The terrain was going to be hell. They’d be hiking in from a distance and each guy knew his strength and limits, so packing was essential to get the right balance. Extra provisions in case of a delay, but not too many. Extra medical supplies, but not everyone carried the same supplies to balance out the overage they needed. Overcalculating led to extra weight and valuable space within each man's ruck. Under-packing led to disaster. Between each man’s MOLLE and their ruck, they could be carrying anywhere from sixty to one-hundred pounds. But on this mission, it would be a light pack for each man.

Trip and Arctic entered the room joking and bullshitting as usual. Usually before a mission, the high of anticipation was in the air and everyone felt it. It was a great feeling. A feeling that they knew success was imminent, and they were going to be the team of six-becoming-one, to deliver nothing less than perfection. Every guy knew the high and it was towering over Hellforce and piquing in the air. The team was riding the hype of pre-mission bliss. Success was the only objective.

“Gonna need to pack light. We’re in for an eight-mile hike before we even get on-site.” Arctic gestured to Slate's bag as he headed to his own pack.

“We do five-mile runs every day. Not gonna even break a sweat on this mission,” Trip bantered to Arctic. “If you're worried you might break a nail, if you want, I’ll run with you in a fireman carry.” Slate laughed under his breath knowing Arctic hated to be needled. “Or, if you’re too delicate for that, I can carry you in a threshold carry…you being the bride, of course.” Trip laughed when he saw the muscle in Arctic’s jaw flex. He loved to lay it on Arctic, because he knew how much he hated to be the butt of a joke or prank, but Arctic always laid it back on his teammates.

“If anyone’s being carried bitch it’s you,” Arctic seethed, which only made Trip and Slate laugh harder.

“No way, man. Don’t need your groping, wandering hands anywhere near me. Unless I’m bleeding out or missing a limb, don’t put your meat hooks anywhere near me.”

Arctic fell silent and a coldness came over him. The turn was stealthy and deadly. His eyes glazed and pierced into Trip. He entered the supply alcove and the world outside him fell dormant.

“Hey man, it was just a joke.” Slate tried to ease the situation, but Arctic didn’t counter.

The room went cold and the high riding in the air was squashed, snuffed out in an instant.

Trip’s ribbing took Arctic back to Afghanistan. Slate and Trip sat uneasy in the ready room waiting for his reaction. They both knew how bad things went that day when they came to his and King’s team’s rescue. It was a bloodbath with Arctic and King being the lone survivors.

“Sorry, man.” It was a lame apology, but it was all Trip could come up with.

Arctic turned and plastered a thin-lipped grin on his face, not masking the grim emotion of turmoil, sorrow, and anger behind it. “No harm, no foul. It’s all good.” Arctic clapped a hand on Trip’s shoulder and gave Slate a curt chin lift and left the room.

Slate let out a breath and shook his head, reading the truth behind Arctic’s reaction. “It’s been five years, and he still hasn’t dealt with it.”

“He dealt with it his own way, pushing it deep and locking it up.”

Both men felt their teammate’s hurt and knew Arctic was a powder keg waiting to explode. No one knew when, they all just knew he was a ticking time bomb.

* * *

King sat at his desk, browsing the internet, a high filling his heart. Since the cookout, he hadn’t stopped smiling. Mary was having his baby. He was going to be a Papa! Nothing could have prepared him for the love he already had in his heart for his unborn child. Mary told him that it was probably only the size of a pea, but that didn’t matter. His heart was overflowing. After taking his wife home and making passionate love to her, King spent the rest of the evening online looking up pictures and information about the gestation of the baby and all things prenatal.

Mary was second-guessing this whole venture when he started telling her what her diet and calorie intake needed to be and how many hours of sleep she needed and so on. She was ready to throw his phone out the window so he’d stop obsessing over every detail. She knew he was doing it out of love and excitement, but if she thought King nursing her back to health when she had a week-long cold was bad, she wasn’t sure how she was going to survive the next eight months of an overprotective, over sheltering King.

T-BAR knocked on the door and entered his office, and again, congratulated King. “Swear you're going to have permanent smile creases on your face.”

King’s smile widened, creasing the lines around his eyes. “What can I do for you, T?”

T-BAR took a seat. “Since I’m sidelined, was wondering if there was anything you needed me to take care of here while you and the team are out?” King knew T was frustrated that he was sitting this mission out. He was angry that his future at Hellforce hung in the balance. He hated that things were out of his control; couldn’t stand the uncertainty of it all. He always had a plan, but a plan without the team was never an option.

“Things are pretty buttoned up here.” King sat back in his chair. “Until we get back, not much will need attention.”

T nodded.

“Ember’s your priority.” King stroked his short beard. “Got a feeling that Omar Bazwar won’t lay low much longer. He was ballsy enough to step foot in her business, not once, but four times before he left the letter. Tells me he’s determined to get her attention. We’ve seen these types of people before. They become obsessed with getting a reaction. When that isn’t satisfied, they up their game. He’s been laying low, and my gut tells me that’s not going to be the case for very much longer.”

T agreed, adding, “The obsession manifests until they’re out of control if they don’t get the reaction they deem acceptable.”

Slate walked into the office as T was finishing his statement. King looked up and T turned in his chair.

“I was just leaving.” T started to stand when King told him to sit. T stood anyway.

“I can come back,” Slate told the two, and he turned to head out the door.

“Both you two, I need you to stay.”

T and Slate stood, arms crossed over their chests, waiting for King to continue.

“Need you boys to talk.” King stood from behind his desk, his chair creaking from relief of his weight lifting.

“Not a good time, boss.” T shifted from one foot to the other.

Slate ponied up. “T, I think we should talk. I want to talk,” he told his friend.

T stared at Slate but Slate wasn’t holding back. He dropped his arms from his chest and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. T stepped back causing Slate’s hand to fall.

“I fucked up.” Slate said the words in earnest. “If I could do it over, I’d still choose Ember over my job, but I wouldn’t have abandoned my team. I would’ve found some way to protect her and still go on the mission. I would’ve called King sooner before the mission. I would’ve done so many things differently. But, hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Things can’t be changed. The past is set. All I can do now is make amends.”

King came around his desk, to his office door, and turned to his men. Everything that was good at Hellforce was because of his men. Because of the sacrifice they were willing to give for a single cause, and the sacrifice willing to be given for the man to the left and the man to the right. King knew Slate was eating himself alive with guilt for T's injuries, and the fact that T’s future ultimately was in limbo because of his actions.

King looked them in the eye. “When a rift can't be mended, a wound can’t heal. Pride is the poison poured into an open wound and allows it to fester. When allowed to fester, decay and rot set in, eating its host, spreading, growing, destroying a healthy body in its wake. Before you know it, it can’t be stopped. A small cancer has eventually eaten everything that was good, and the good is now tainted and will never be whole. It’s beyond repair. If only the small cancer was cut out at the beginning, the good, the whole, the rest would have been saved. But, because it was left untouched, nothing good remains or will remain. You can either decide to have a healed scar or an open wound. Decide now. The scar can be small, or the wound can be fatal.”

Both men stood in silence letting King's words sink in. What he was saying was absolutely true. Slate wanted to heal, wanted a scar over a wound, but King didn’t know if T was at the same impasse. After all, T was the one suffering most. His future was the one affected. Slate had told King that if T-BAR couldn’t return to the field, Slate was willing to end his career, too, if it would appease his friend. Ironically, and eye for an eye. He would leave when King could find a good and competent replacement. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and leave his team in the lurch.

King’s next words were directed to T-BAR. “If you're going to blame Slate, then you're going to have to blame me as well. I fucked up, too. I didn’t handle the situation the best way. I lost faith and ultimately made the bad call and let him walk.” He looked at Slate. “And, after making that mistake, I let my pride fester and didn’t call him to make amends. We've talked this out,” he pointed between Slate and himself, “now, I need you two to do the same. We share the blame. Nothing we say at this point is going to make a difference to the future of your eye. What is going to make a difference is the way we continue from here on out. We’re either going to mend this rift and have scars to show for it, or we’re going to ignore it and let the decay eat us whole until we have nothing left and can no longer function as a team.”

King let his words hang in the room. Neither man said a word—just stood and let King’s words penetrate.

“I blame you.” T’s words hit Slate in the gut. Not that he didn’t already know T blamed him, but to hear it made the truth knock the wind out of him. Slate’s gaze fell to the floor at his feet.

“I blame you,” T repeated. “But, I forgive you.”

Slate lifted his eyes to his brother. King saw the truth in them—the words brought no solace to his soul.

“But, not all blame lays at your feet,” T continued, sucking in a cleansing breath. “I fucked up as well. I shouldn’t have flanked on my own. Not without cover. I should have stayed with the numbers. We all know that. We’ve trained that way, and I should have known better. I should have let the fight come to us as a group, not abandon and take on the fight on my own. I know we all had our own battles raging, and we could’ve fought better as a team.”

King and Slate said nothing and let T-BAR unburden himself. He continued, “And, I made the mistake of not having my Sig holstered at the ready. Had it strapped but not accessible, and we all know that leads to failure when every second counts. If I would have had it ready, when my rifle jammed I could’ve pulled it and taken out one if not both of the men on me.”

King didn’t know T hadn’t had his sidearm accessible. Made sense now why he hadn’t pulled it.

“And this,” he pointed to his eye,” I blame myself more than I blame you.” He looked from Slate to King. “Pissed off at myself more than you know. Was about to let the cancer fester until your words. Blame, hate, punishing my team isn’t going to make this change. Won’t affect the outcome.”

Slate rubbed the back of his neck and King rubbed the tats on his left forearm. They were all feeling the same. They all felt blame, and they all would’ve made different choices, but they were also experiencing another sentiment; forgiveness.

King studied his men. Was it going to feel like shit every time Slate saw T’s eye? Yes. Was he going to be crushed if T could no longer be on the team? Yes. Did he know his brother genuinely forgave him?

Absolutely.