Don't Go (15 page)

Mike toed the Ripped Fuel bottles, burned paperbacks,
Sex and the City
DVDs, and a Madden video game. He didn’t want to think about whether he would re-up now, while the air still reeked. He didn’t expect to find any family photos, because all the FST docs carried them in their Velcro ammo pockets. He kept his Emily photo with Chloe’s silver crucifix, and he remembered Phil showing him a photo of his sons.

Heah’s my hooligans
, Phil had said, in his New England accent. His sons smiled side-by-side, dressed in bowties and navy-blue jackets.
They look just like their mutha, thank Gawd.

Mike kept searching on the ground. He’d found Phil’s and Oldstein’s boots for the memorial service, and the soldiers had found Jacobs’s and Tipton’s, which had their names and blood types written on the toe, typical for a combat brigade. Mike could tell Oldstein’s boots because he knew Oldstein was a size thirteen, from treating his plantar’s warts.

These warts are disgusting
, Oldstein had said.
Why won’t they go away for good?

Nothing goes away for good,
Mike had answered, but he’d been wrong.

“Heads up!” a soldier called out, and three Humvees pulled up, then their massive engines shuddered into silence. Lieutenant Colonel Colin Davy and his aides emerged from one and were met by Chatty and Joe Segundo. It was time for the memorial service.

Mike, the FST nurses and staff, and the soldiers fell in at the makeshift memorial site. A battered American flag tied to the defunct generator served as a poignant backdrop for four Soldiers Crosses, one for each of the fallen, their rifles driven into the ground upside-down, their bayonets in the frigid Afghan soil. On the butt of each rifle rested a soldier’s helmet, and four pairs of combat boots sat in a row before them.

The 556th stood in a ragged phalanx compared with the neat rows of the soldiers, and when Lieutenant Colonel Davy strode to the front, Mike could see why the man inspired both bravery and fear. Davy was in his forties, well-built, about six feet tall, with a craggy face, a flinty eye and a wide jaw that jutted forward, almost level with his helmet.

“Good morning,” Davy began, in a voice that was commanding, yet carried the genteel lilt of someplace softer. “We gather to remember four of our best soldiers and medical personnel. I will keep this brief, as we’re in theatre.”

Mike’s fingers closed around Oldstein’s glasses.

“I’d like to say a few words in memorial to Private First Class John Jacobs and Private First Class William Tipton.” Davy scanned the soldiers, and each young face was a mask of muted pain, every mouth a somber line. “Private Jacobs was a first-class soldier and the most lovable doofus you’d ever want to meet. Jacobs memorized
Scent of a Woman
and thought he could do the tango. Ladies and gentlemen, Jacobs was no Al Pacino.”

The soldiers chuckled hoarsely, the nurses sniffled, and Mike felt his chest constrict. Chatty hung his head, sucking in his lower lip.

“You will recall the time I caught Private Jacobs dancing with Private Kefauver, at an undisclosed location. It was not a pretty sight. In fact, it was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, including that skittles-and-hotdog cake you made for my birthday.”

Mike couldn’t listen to the rest about Tipton, who was such a Green Bay Packers fan that he wore his cheesehead into combat one day, instead of his helmet.

Davy gestured at Chatty. “Now I’d like to turn the program over to FST Commander Chatham, who will say some words about Majors DeMaria and Goldstein.”

Chatty raised his head, but the whites of his eyes were blood-red and his scratches looked like crayoned tear tracks. He took a moment to collect himself, and the only sound was the thrumming of the blowers ventilating the OR and the shrill whistle of the wind through the Registan.

“Lieutenant Colonel Davy, thank you,” Chatty began, his voice rasping with raw emotion. “The first thing I need to say, before I talk about my dear friends, is that I am sorry. I took an oath before I came here, not only to serve my country, but to do no harm. In both, I have failed.”

Oh no,
Mike thought to himself. A nurse sniffled, and soldiers exchanged glances, but Davy stared ahead, as if Chatty weren’t saying anything.

“I take full responsibility for the deaths of these four fine soldiers, and I will bear that responsibility to my own grave. I apologize to each and every one of you.”

Davy didn’t blink, but some of the soldiers sniffled.

“Now let me tell you about Phat Phil DeMaria. Phattie had the manual dexterity every surgeon prays for, but his trade secret was a voodoo doll of Eli Manning, on which he used to practice his suturing.”

Mike winced at the memory of Phil’s voodoo doll. Tears came to his eyes, and he realized he was losing his family, slipping through his fingers like blood in the OR.

“Those of you who know Phil learned the difference between a Providence accent and a Boston accent, or you pretended that you did, because he would not shut up until you admitted that there was a difference.” Chatty recovered his composure, though his eyes glistened. “Major Phil DeMaria and Major Adam Goldstein came into this war as doctors, but they left as soldiers.”

Mike hung his head, too sad to hear Chatty talk about Oldstein, then Chatty finished and Davy gave the Final Roll Call, in which all of their names were called and each man or woman responded, so that when he called “Major Scanlon,” it was all Mike could do to reply:

“Here.”

Mike bowed his head as the Final Roll Call finished and Davy called the name of each fallen soldier three times, ending with his full name and rank. A heartbreaking silence followed each time, and by the end of the ceremony, Mike had squeezed Oldstein’s glasses so tight they made an impression in his palm. They all fell out, and Chatty made a beeline for Mike, took him by the arm, and walked him from the crowd.

“Scholl’s, we need to talk. Joe told me he asked you to extend. Don’t even think about it. You
cannot
do another tour, much less a year.”

Mike should’ve known Joe would talk to Chatty. “What are you going to do without me?”

“Not your concern, I’ll get by. You’re finished, done. Go tell Joe, now.” Chatty squeezed his arm, and Mike didn’t think he’d gotten his act together, completely.

“Now? Why?”

“You can’t let this get a life of its own. The next thing you know, you’ll spend your freaking life in Helmand Province.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no. Go to Joe and tell him, so he can tell Davy. The train is leaving the station. You don’t know how Davy operates.”

“No, I’m trying to make up my mind.” Mike glanced over Chatty’s shoulder, and Joe and the nurses were looking back, curious.

“You can’t say yes.” Chatty frowned. “You just lost your wife. You have a baby. You want to make her an orphan?”

Mike felt the power of the argument. “I know, but what will happen here? They don’t have anybody to send you now, much less two docs.”

“I’ll manage.” Chatty’s tone remained firm. “Your tour is almost up and you’re shipping out. If I could order you, I would.”

“What if they shut down the 556th? Who’s going to treat the brigade? I don’t want that blood on my hands, Chatty. I’ve got enough.”

Chatty grimaced, his scratches buckling. “I have blood on my hands, too, and if you get your ass shot off because you re-upped, I can’t live with that. They won’t shut us down. Davy has clout.”

Davy was already barreling toward them, with two officers in tow. Mike and Chatty turned, and when Davy reached them, he extended a large hand to Mike. “Dr. Scanlon, good to meet you.”

“Yes, you too.” Mike shook his hand. “My condolences on the loss of Jacobs and Tipton.”

“Thank you,” Davy said quickly. “While I appreciate Commander Chatham’s apology, it is my opinion that your and Chatham’s actions were reasonable in the circumstances. I’m prepared to tell same to Central Command. They’re not starting the investigation yet because we’re about to launch a new offensive, Operation Viper. We have excellent intel on insurgency locations related to the attack. That commands first priority, which is as it should be.”

Chatty’s lips parted in dismay. “When does Viper begin? We need to get ready.”

“You’ll be told as soon as I have further details, but that’s not what we need to discuss.” Davy turned to Mike. “Dr. Scanlon, it’s my understanding that you are extending for another year.”

“No,” Chatty interjected. “He’s not, I can run this FST with new docs, no problem.”

Davy ignored Chatty, his flinty gray eyes boring into Mike. “Dr. Scanlon, I hope that you will extend, given the needs of my brigade.”

“I’m thinking it over,” Mike answered, but Chatty seized Davy’s arm, startling the aides.

“Dr. Scanlon just lost his wife and he has a new baby at home. Don’t pressure him.”

“Pardon me.” Davy shed Chatty’s hand with a deft motion. “The health and safety of my brigade is my highest responsibility. I need the 556th to remain operational.”

Chatty’s eyes flashed. “You have the juice to tell them not to shut us down.”

“I won’t dignify that with a response, and I won’t risk having my brigade go without medical care because Dr. Scanlon wants to go home to his baby.” Davy swiveled his head around to Mike. “Dr. Scanlon, I have children, and all my men have children, and most of us are on third and fourth tours, away from home for five and six years now. I don’t think a year is too much to ask of a man who is partly responsible, as you are, for the fact that two of your unit were KIA.”

Mike’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand. You just said we acted reasonably.”

“There’s more than one way to view the same set of facts. If you extend, the investigation will go easier.”

Chatty’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t threaten him. I don’t care what they do to me, I deserve it. If there’s a punishment coming, I’ll take it.”

Davy scoffed. “Chatham, if you go down, Scanlon goes with you. You did it together, and you just admitted your guilt in front of witnesses.”

“Screw you!” Chatty shouted, outraged.

“Chatty, please.” Mike didn’t want Chatty to get himself in trouble, so he faced Davy. “I’d like to talk it over with my family, first.”

“Done.” Lieutenant Colonel Davy motioned to Joe Segundo. “Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir!” Joe hustled over.

“Major Scanlon needs to speak to his family. Hook him up for a videochat on your network. I’m authorizing it for this purpose.” Davy gestured to one of his aides. “We’ll give you our codes, for this one-time use.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe saluted, then left with the aide.

Davy turned to Mike, his jaw set with grim purpose. “Talk to your family. I’ll await your answer at the Humvees.”

“No, hold on.” Mike had to put on the brakes. “After I speak to my family, I’d like time to think it over. I’ll get back to you with my decision as soon as I can.”

“Make the right choice, Scanlon.” Lieutenant Colonel Davy turned away, followed by his aide, without another word.

Chatty turned to Mike. “He’s railroading you. Don’t let him.”

“I won’t,” Mike told him, meaning it. “It’ll be my decision. Not his, and not yours either.”

“Okay, okay.” Chatty seemed to stand down, his face falling, a bizarre sight with his blood-red eyes and long scratches, like a scary clown.

“Catch you later.” Mike patted him on the arm and walked alone to the Tactical Operations Center.

Feeling for the first time, more soldier than doctor.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Mike waited in a folding chair, and Joe tapped the keys of a heavy-duty laptop in a black Pelican case, on a folding table that served as his desk, blanketed with dusty papers, records, maps, and supplies.

“Doc, sorry, I didn’t mean to get Davy on your ass.” Joe glanced over, with regret. “I jus’ gotta take care of the 556th, yo.”

“I know, Joe. No worries.” Mike was trying to imagine how Danielle and Bob would react to keeping Emily another year. Then he had to figure out how he would react to being without her that long.

“When was the last time you ate? Here, take this.” Joe passed him an MRE, or Meals Ready to Eat, from some stacked on the table. “That’s the cheeseburger, number six. I score us the best. The spaghetti with meat sauce, number twenty. The Southwest beef and black beans, number fifteen. They try to stick us with that nasty pot roast, I toss it out. Phat Phil said it tasted like mouse.”

Mike sensed Joe was trying to make it up to him, for getting him in trouble with Davy. He dug in his pocket for the iPod and glasses, then set them on the table. “You want to send these back?”

“Sure.” Joe put them quickly in a box under the table. “Thanks.”

Mike felt a sudden hunger, out of nowhere. He ripped open the MRE box and slid out the plastic packs, tearing open a cold beef patty, which came with a packet of barbeque sauce. He squirted it on the patty and took a bite.

“Ain’t you gonna heat that up?”

“No.” Mike never bothered with the flameless heater that came with the MREs.

“I always do.” Joe leaned under the table, rummaged around in a box, and pulled out a can of Red Bull. “Here, take it. Okay, your videochat’s up. I’ll give you some privacy. Remember OPSEC.”

“Got it.” OPSEC meant operational security, and Mike didn’t know how he’d explain why he’d been asked to re-up. “Can I say we’re shorthanded?”

“Negative. How do you get shorthanded in war? What if they figure it out, put it on Facebook?”

“Okay.” Mike slid over just as the laptop screen changed to a picture of Danielle in their lovely kitchen, and the disconnect between here and there was impossibly strong. Her hair looked shiny and blonde, her blue eyes were bright with makeup, and she had on a glittery black V-neck. She looked so pretty, safe, and American, as if she were from a different planet, one consisting entirely of leafy suburbs.

“Mike, what a surprise!” Danielle beamed. “Happy New Year!”

“To you, too.” Mike forced a smile. “How are you?”

“Fine, how nice to hear from you!” Danielle looked down, watching his picture on the screen, but she tried to look up, too, to meet his eyes. “I feel so cool, doing this technology thing! And here comes Bob!”