at the skin at his shoulders and his thigh. He touched a thick bandage around his head. Okay. Got it. That was all the activity he could stand, so he closed his eyes and drifted off.
After that, he slipped in and out of awareness for a while, hearing voices, beeps, clicks, the whisk of curtains, feeling his body being shifted, getting jolts of pain, the stab of injections, hearing groans, seeing lights go bright, then dim.
Eventually, he was alert enough to understand that he was in the medical center at the Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, where military personnel and some civilians were cared for when injured overseas.
The neurologist explained that Noah had suffered a traumatic brain injury. His language center had been damaged, so speech and attention span would be compromised, but they were hopeful he would recover. They were hopeful. Okay. He’d hold on to hopeful. He was so foggy he could barely form a thought, let alone ask many questions.
Not long after that, he awoke to find an officer in a dress uniform at the end of his bed, hands crossed at his crotch, chest loaded with medals.
“I’m Brigadier General Wade Nelson,” the man said, “here to extend the Army’s best wishes for your recovery. What happened over there was regrettable.”
“What about…the men?” Noah croaked out, fighting the gaps in his brain for words. “Daggett was…hurt. Others…?” Every thought was a battle.
“Private Daggett is recovering in this facility,” Nelson said. “Sergeant Fuller, killed in action, yourself and PFC Daggett were the only casualties incurred during the incident in question.”
Noah nodded, relieved no more men had been hurt.
Nelson then rattled off a military description of what had occurred. Noah concentrated as best he could, fighting to understand, though words kept dropping through holes in the sieve his brain had become.
In essence, Nelson told him that Fuller had acted against orders by allowing a civilian to join the patrol, that Noah had forced a detour to an unsecured area, where Fuller’s men initiated unprovoked combat resulting in Fuller’s death and the capture of Noah and Emile by the Iraqi soldiers who believed themselves under attack by U.S. troops.
Noah and Daggett had been “secured” some time later. There would be an investigation…disciplinary actions taken…and serious consequences.
“It was…me…” he managed to say. “I’m at fault.”
“We are well aware of that fact,” the brigadier general said, his mouth a grim line. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at Noah, his eyes dark with anger. “Your irresponsible actions have jeopardized our status with the Iraqi military, its government and its people, Mr. Stone.” The words hit like hammer blows, pounding straight through Noah’s mental fog. He would remember each one, he knew.
“On behalf of the U.S. Army and the American people, I urge you, in any reporting you may do, to respect the men who risked their lives to save yours and be utterly clear about your culpability in what transpired on that ill-advised patrol.”
My duty…is to…the truth. The words slowly lined up in his brain, but refused to become speech. The most he could manage was, “The men…were…brave.” That was one truth he knew.
The remainder of Nelson’s words became a meaningless jumble. After he was gone, Noah tried to recall the attack. All he got were flashing images: Chuy and Emile hassling each other…Bo spitting tobacco…goats in the road…spiderwebs of cracked glass in the HMV’s windshield….
Why couldn’t he remember? He tried not to panic. The neurologist had warned him that he’d likely experience something called retrograde amnesia and be unable to recall anything around the time of the trauma, at least for a while, though it sometimes became a permanent loss.
Abruptly, a scene flashed into his mind—slowed down like a movie dream sequence. Pings…pops…a blast from behind…his body frozen…Daggett yanking him from the vehicle… Stumbling forward… Fuller:
Get Stone under cover… The black spot between Fuller’s eyes…Fuller on the ground.
Then the screen in Noah’s brain went blank.
The horror of what he’d done rolled over him like a semi. Fuller had assigned Emile Daggett as Noah’s bodyguard. Protocol said that reporters got babysat. Noah ignored that, believing it unnecessary in his case. But he’d been given a guard all the same and that fact led directly to Fuller’s death and Daggett’s capture.
Noah had caused this. It was on him. He gripped the sides of the bed, shaking with anger at himself and regret—so much regret.
Those soldiers. What they’d risked and lost.
All because Noah needed a hot story to impress his editor.
Sickness washed through him and he fumbled for the kidney-shaped dish on his tray to puke up bile. The spasm made his injured ribs seem to split wide-open, a punishment he welcomed.
A rattling sound made him notice his cell phone vibrating on his bed tray. Seemed someone had gathered the gear he’d left at FOB River Watch when he went on the fateful patrol. He scooped the phone close enough to see the call was from Hank.
His editor would want the story, of course, though Noah remembered little beyond what Nelson had told him. It didn’t matter. He was a reporter. He had a job to do. Fighting pain, he answered the call.
It did not go well. Words failed him over and over. There were long gaps where he could only breathe and struggle for language. Finally, Hank said, “We’ll get the basics and come back to you for a comment. You just get better.” His tone was gentle, as if Noah were a child or a volatile mental patient.
“Yeah.” He fought the helplessness, the frustration, the shame. He was a writer, but words were lost to him.
He still held the phone when a wave of terror washed over him. His heart pounded so hard he grabbed his chest, causing more pain. Was he having a heart attack? He was shaking and sweating and terrified. Of what? He was safe in a hospital bed. What the hell was going on?
Then he remembered the neurologist describing a panic attack, a common aftereffect of a trauma. They hit out of the blue, scary as hell, mimicking a heart at tack, but are essentially harmless.
The terror and pain had barely released him when his phone buzzed again. He checked the display. A number he didn’t recognize. He saw he had dozens of texts and voicemails, some from before the assault, he was sure.
People would want to know he’d survived. He couldn’t deal with their sympathy or questions. He deleted all the voicemails, then highlighted batch after batch of texts to delete in groups. On the last set, as he clicked Delete, he saw Mel Ramirez.
Mel.
Her name sent warmth pouring through him. She’d been in his mind a lot in the months since they’d met—her face, her smile, her fire. He’d been thinking he would look her up when he got back. But that could never happen now. Not after this. Just as well that her message was gone, unread, like the rest.
He decided to write one general “I’m okay” message. It took forever, the words elusive, his spelling hopeless, but he managed the equivalent of, Minor injuries. Be in touch. He ticked “all contacts.”
At the last second, he unchecked Mel, then hit Send. He owed her a personal note. She was probably doing great, living the life she’d been poised to launch that weekend. He mangled words and skipped letters in his communication, but the gist was: Not sure where I’ll end up. I know you’ll do great. I wish you every happiness.
Corny, but true. Thinking about her was a momentary escape from the hell of his thoughts. There was her number on his screen. He could hit Call and talk to her. Her voice would be like medicine. But he didn’t deserve to feel better. Not for a long, long time. He pressed End until his phone went black.
He would answer the questions he had to for the National Record story,