Tears of Abraham

CHAPTER TEN Smoke and Shadow

COLORADO

There are dreams which become nightmares, and nightmares are often born in places that once seemed heavenly. Colorado was a twisted hell, the sharp scent of pines and mountain air, forever mingled in Henry’s mind with the burning and dying in the way that haunts a man for as long as he dreams. Henry, Carlos, and Martinez trudged across much of the state because of the roadblocks, abandoned vehicles, and seemingly random airstrikes against civilians on the road.

They had climbed into a four-wheel-drive truck on the side of a state highway. On the outskirts of a small, nameless town, a missile tore apart a minivan half a mile in front of them. They had been following the van for about twenty miles, at times closely enough to wave at the children in the backseat.

The missile, fired from a drone or a jet, smashed into the white van, too fast for the eye to follow. Henry had been driving. He floored the accelerator and when they arrived at the van, it was already too late. The vehicle was an inferno, twisted and on its side.

From then on, they traveled on foot, staying close to the trees lining the roads, moving steadily south.

The next afternoon a column at least ten miles long rumbled past. There were Abrams tanks, infantry piled into armored personnel carriers, and support vehicles at the end of the column. Supply trucks, medics, and engineers. An army. At the tip of the column were heavy vehicles with oversized wheels and shovel blades shaped like a cowcatcher on a train. These behemoths cleared the road of burned-out husks of cars and trucks that had been left to the winter.

Helicopters flew overhead, circling like buzzards to provide air cover for the column. Far above the helicopters and the mountains, fighter jets ripped the day.

The Wolves retreated into the woods and watched the army pass. American flags had been replaced by colors Henry had never seen before.

Jets screamed through the sky. Before the rebel column appeared, Henry heard the terrifying sound of an AC-130 Spectre gunship unleashing holy hell. He could not see the aircraft, which was beyond the next low mountain. The heavy minigun made a distinct sound, a vibration deep in the chest even from that distance. Its 105mm cannons whumped and rained fire. He knew the sounds, had once welcomed them, because it meant that some jihadis were getting blown to shit. Terrible in a good way, then. Now, just terrible.

There were thuds from artillery and mortar rounds and bombs dropped from the jets. By the time the first vehicles churned up the frozen road, an oily smoke hung in the sky seven or eight miles away, hugging the mountain and drifting down into the valley.

Henry was burrowed into the snow and covered with spruce branches, and still he felt naked and very small. The force moving past was an entire division, ten to fifteen thousand troops.

“This is bad,” Carlos said.

“This is murder,” Martinez said. Good God.”

“Those are rebels,” Carlos said. “But who are they?”

“It’s a mix,” Martinez said. “I saw some Texas flags. I think units out of Texas linked up with some of the Colorado National Guard. They’re pounding the hell out of whatever is in front of them.”

“I’d like to find the commander and rip his nuts off,” Carlos said. “Treason. Evil, that’s what this is.”

“Too late for that,” Martinez said. “This goes beyond some renegade general. We’re looking at something that’s been in the works for a while. Somebody was planning this. They were ready for it. From the politicians on down to the brass.”

“All these infantry guys, though,” Henry said. “I don’t get it. They aren’t a part of some grand conspiracy.”

“Of course not,” Martinez said. “They are loyal to their squad first, then their platoon. If their squad is going to fight, most of these men are going to stand by their brothers.”

“I wouldn’t,” Henry said.

“But you would. You did.”

“What’s that mean, Sarn’t Major?”

“Look at us. We’re not part of the regular army. So we’re not marching along with the rest. But here we are, holed up in Colorado in the suck together. What’s left of our unit. The last squad. And we’ve got blood on our hands, like it or not. We’ve been part of whatever this is. We didn’t know it, but we were.”

A deep boom rolled over the valley.

“You’d have shot a cop, Wilkins.”

“Well—”

“You would have. We both know it. You’d have done it to protect your brothers. I would, and so would Carlos. That’s how it is.”

Henry knew Martinez was right, although he was not comfortable about it. He was ready to die for his fellow teammates, and willing to kill for them as well. It was the emotional glue which made combat possible, the thing that made men charge into a hail of lead and fall on grenades. The idea that you knew the guy on your left was willing to die for you. This brotherhood was more powerful than fear, more deadly than rage. Dangerous in the way of a weapon which is neither good nor evil but can be used for either.

In the real world, or a normal one, Henry would never think about harming a civilian, let alone a police officer. The lines were blurred now. Combat could happen at any moment, and issues of right and wrong could be subverted by the loyalty to the pack. Morality was not something that mattered when rounds were buzzing around and there were split-second decisions to make.

As Henry thought about what Martinez said, he was simultaneously chilled and sad. That brotherhood was being used against the very men who formed it. Men trained to kill, conditioned to be ferociously loyal at the squad level, had been unleashed on the country. Men like him, who would kill as a reflex.

The politicians and extremists who had been calling for a coup for years had no real idea what it meant. Henry did. He was looking at the reality, listening to the sound of bombs falling on American soil. He had seen a family incinerated in front of him. He’d had an HK aimed at a local sheriff. One second away from committing outright murder.

In this fight, there were no good sides; there was just the hope that he could protect his family and his brothers and make it home. Civilians were dying by the thousands. Men in uniform were killing each other and the country itself was broken. Henry had never voted for a Democrat, but he paid little attention to politics in general. He wished that both sides had found a way to work together. He knew Carlos and Martinez were registered Democrats. First and foremost, they were Americans.

And there was Operation Snowshoe. He hadn’t murdered a sleeping child, hadn’t pulled the trigger. He’d been there, shooting and killing, a weapon perhaps, though not a mindless one. A rifle does not mourn, the knife does not remember, a bullet cannot grieve. Steel has no soul, and the dead do not dream. Henry had nightmares.

The Wolves skirted the battlefield, sticking to the wooded hills. They steered clear of vacation homes and pockets of civilization. From a distance, Henry looked upon the devastation.

An entire town had been obliterated. Houses were not houses anymore, but toothpicks on streets littered with charred husbands, fathers, and mothers and children. Henry could see the difference through his scope, and it shattered him in a way he would not have believed possible. He had seen children bleeding in Afghanistan, along with American medics braving gunfire to save those kids. What he saw now went beyond anything he had prepared himself to see.

There were swing sets and church towers smashed and lying crooked, and houses that were not houses anymore but were tombs. All of it black and consumed by fire and death, and Henry hated it.

Henry Wilkins was not the kind of man to hate. It came unnaturally. He felt it now, as if it were under pressure, bottled up and fierce. He needed to unleash it. He yearned to bleed off the violence in him in the way of a man that punches a brick wall even though he knows he will break his hand. Sometimes he waits and thinks about what he’s going to do, and sometimes he doesn’t.

The wind shifted and brought smoke and the smell of burning meat and diesel fuel. There were destroyed military vehicles littered throughout the town’s streets. It looked like a small loyalist force had attempted to make a stand against overwhelming firepower.

On the south side of the town, at the edge of the devastation, a brick school blazed. Henry looked through binoculars and saw a knot of people milling about in the parking lot. He could see mothers on their knees in the snow. The smoke was black and malevolent and Henry thought he could hear the wailing of bereaved parents, even though he knew it was impossible.

“Sarn’t Major,” Henry said.

“I know,” Martinez replied. “I see it. We’ll head that way. Shit.”

“We’d better hope the drones are gone,” Carlos said. “They’ll smoke us.”

“We gotta try to help,” Martinez said. “Damn.”

Henry followed Carlos through deep snow, moving down hills through second-growth forest. The air was still, and there was no sign of any aircraft circling.

It was a hard mile, and Henry was sweating despite the cold by the time they arrived at the parking lot. A fire truck manned by a few firemen had pulled up while the Wolves crossed through the woods. A few firefighters manned a tanker truck, spraying the blaze from a hundred feet away. People were shouting and crying.

“How can we help?” Martinez asked one of the firemen. The man was leaning against the truck, his face blackened by soot and smoke. He looked exhausted.

“Nothing to be done,” the man said. “There’s people trapped inside but we can’t get to them.”

“Why not?”

“They were in the center of the school, in the gym. The fire’s too intense. We tried. I lost a man.” The fireman gestured with his head. There was a pair of boots sticking out from underneath a blanket. “Smoke,” he said.

“Have you got a ladder truck?”

“Had one. The bastards hit the firehouse with a bomb. We’re just volunteers. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Henry looked up at the school. The building was two stories, and what he assumed was the gymnasium was taller.

“We tried going in from every entrance. There’s no way.”

“Ropes,” Martinez said. “Do you have anything we can use to scale the building? We can go in through a window.”

“Yeah,” the fireman said. “But the roof itself is on fire. Look for yourself. There’s smoke coming up through it. That means it’s not only hot, but also that it could collapse any second.”

“Get the ropes,” Martinez said. “Find ladders.”

Henry gripped the nylon cord in his hands and began to climb up the face of the brick school. His boots found toeholds and he used his upper body strength to hoist himself hand over hand toward the rooftop. Martinez was ahead of him, already almost to the top. Someone had found ropes and a grappling hook, taking precious minutes. Then there were the frustrating attempts to get the hook to bite on the roof. All the while, a keening sound rose over the whoosh and roar of the fire.

He pulled himself onto the roof.

The rooftop was gravel, and it was slanted because there were holes in it. Gouts of flame licked the air and smoke seemed to come from everywhere. Henry could feel the heat on his legs and face and hands. The building itself seemed to shift as something inside gave way, and Henry fell forward, catching himself with his hands. The rooftop was as hot as a burning stove. He pushed himself to his feet and ran to follow Martinez, who was already smashing a window next to the gym. Carlos was right behind.

“Carlos, you’re the anchor,” Martinez said.

“Copy that.”

“I’ll go first, then Wilkins.”

Henry helped Carlos hold the line while Martinez slipped through the window. Smoke drifted out. The crying and screaming was louder now.

Henry followed Martinez into hell. Visibility was poor.

On wooden bleachers, thirty or more men, women, and children cowered, trying to escape the flames spreading into the gym.

Once he made it to the top steps, Henry slipped the rope from beneath his armpits. It was chaos. A man was begging him to take his child, screaming in Henry’s face. The acoustics of the room served to amplify the roar of the fire and the squeals of people afraid to die. There were bodies on the wooden floor.

Henry took the child, a boy of maybe seven or eight, and put the rope under his arms. The boy was not crying. His eyes were scrunched shut like he was trying to wake up from what he knew was a nightmare. Like when he opened them again, the world would go back to normal.

Two hard pulls on the rope, and the boy began to slide up toward the window.

They tried to get people to form a line. The civilians were panicked and out of their heads with fear for themselves and for their kids. Henry had to subdue a father and a mother who were clawing at him while he was trying to help someone else. As a father, he understood.

During the bedlam, Henry was relieved to see several firemen coming down ropes. The crowd of trapped people calmed somewhat and the evacuation proceeded.

They got everyone who was still on their feet out, as the fire grew unbearable and the smoke in the gym too thick to see through. Henry tried not to think about the people on the floor, the ones who weren’t moving anymore. There was not enough time to pull them out. It damn sure wasn’t fair.

Henry was the last man off the roof. Carlos, shaking from exhaustion, went just ahead. Much of the roof was gone, and Henry had to step around gaping holes, burning timbers, and blasts of searing ash.

He staggered to the fire truck and accepted an oxygen mask someone put on his face. His eyes burned and teared and his nose was running. Beside him, Martinez nodded, a mask obscuring much of his face, which was covered in soot.

A pretty redhead in a business suit shoved a handheld camera in Henry’s face and started asking questions.

“They say you’re heroes,” she was saying. “Tell our viewers what made you do it?”

“Get lost,” Henry growled.

“Come on, give me something here,” she said. She was trying to be soothing. It sounded to Henry like she was trying to coax a small child into doing something he didn’t want to do. “With all the tragedy happening, this is a great story.”

“You want something? Here it is. Go get fucked.”

“Well—”

“You’ve got one second to get that thing out of my face before I do it for you.”

It hurt to talk. Henry’s throat felt like someone had dumped a bucket of scalding coffee down his gullet. The woman walked away, looking offended. Henry learned later that more than five hundred people from the town had perished in that fire. They had gone there seeking shelter from the war. But there was no safe place. It was not a good story.

KEY WEST, FLORIDA

Suzanne squinted against the glare of the sun on the water, waiting for her father to arrive. In the marina beyond the bar, sailboats and yachts bobbed on gentle waves. The rigging on the sailboats rang against metal masts, a sound Suzanne had always loved. It was a hopeful sound. She did not feel that way now.

A tight-lipped young sailor had delivered an envelope to her, a message from the old man. “Losers, noon,” it said. The tavern was a hangout for locals, mostly service industry people and charter boat hands. She sat at a wooden table stained with bird guano near the dock. Behind her, the bar counter was lined with crusty locals downing warm, flat beer and shots of liquor. A gas generator droned from somewhere inside.

She saw her father then, wearing a straw hat, dark sunglasses, a polo shirt, and khaki shorts, making his way toward her. He looked ridiculous.

He grinned at her as he stepped up to her table, opening his arms. “Hey, Suzy-Q,” he said.

She hugged him. “Hey, Dad.” “What? Not glad to see me?”

“Of course I am. I’ve been worried. Why are you dressed like that?”

“We’ll get to that,” he said, sitting down. “How are you? How is Taylor? I thought you’d be on base.”

“We’re all right, I guess. We’ve got Bart and Mary with us. Ginnie, too. We’re managing.”

“Good. Good. I’m glad you’ve been safe. I don’t know how to say this, so I’m going to come right out with it.”

“That’s a change.”

“Henry’s been killed in action. I’m sorry, baby.”

“What? No. That’s not true. What are you talking about?”

“It’s true. There’s no way to make it better. If there were—”

“No. I’d know. He’s not dead.”

“I only found out yesterday. His whole unit was wiped out.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Suzanne had battled nightmares about this moment. She’d tried to come to grips, knowing the danger her husband was in on an ongoing basis. She’d ultimately gotten through those moments of terror in the middle of the night by deciding Henry was too durable to die. It would not happen. Now, confronted by the fact, she retreated into denial. He could not be dead because she still felt him. Like an invisible thread connected to her soul.

“He is gone. And we’ve got to leave,” Suzanne’s father said.

“No.”

Her father looked exasperated. “What do you mean no? We’ve got to get out of Key West. Today. Now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t understand the danger you’re in. Think about Taylor. You don’t want to put her in harm’s way.”

“I am. We’re staying here. It’s home. It’s where Henry will try to get to.”

“Look,” her father said. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands, took off the sunglasses, and lowered his voice. “There are a lot of things you don’t know. And there’s not much time.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I’ve been working with some people. I’ve been helping you and Henry in your careers. That’s why I did what I did.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s not enough time to explain properly. Let’s just say, I’ve made some friends in high places. People that have a great deal of influence. They’ve moved things along for you and for Henry.”

“So, what? You helped me land an agent? You helped me somehow get my first book deal? With your cronies in the Pentagon? I don’t think so.”

“Well, actually, it’s something like that. A phone call to some helpful people.”

“Crap.”

“Whatever you say. The thing is, these people are dangerous. They’re tying up loose ends right now. I’m probably one of those loose ends. They might come for you to get to me. They might have gotten to Henry. I don’t know.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“His unit. Please, Suzanne. Trust me.”

“What have you done?”

“I did it all for you. For your mother. For Taylor. Because I love you.”

“What did you do? Are you a traitor?”

“No, no. Of course not. Nothing so drastic. Every so often, I’d have to move some things around. That’s all. Just a little bit of information occasionally. Nothing top secret. I made one bad choice, Suzie, and then, well, I wish you knew how hard it’s been for me. Because since then, I haven’t had options. I had to keep doing what I was doing to protect you.”

“Oh, Dad. How could you?” She felt sick inside. It was like a door had opened, a door she’d kept barred and bolted against something dark and sinister she knew lurked beyond. A thing she’d known existed on a subliminal level. The lavish vacations, the expensive gifts. She’d sensed something amiss for years. The realization and horror flooded into her.

“Say something,” he said.

“There’s no excuse. I wish you weren’t my father.”

“I didn’t make an excuse. I’m telling you why. I did it for you. All for you.”

“Bullshit. You did things to make yourself feel better. That’s not the same.”

“You’re wrong. I wanted to give you everything. A better life for you than the one I had. I sacrificed every—”

“Henry’s life. My childhood. My future. How dare you?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, young lady.” Like he believed it.

Suzanne stood, warming to the anger, welcoming it. A lifetime of broken promises erupting. “I didn’t want money. I wanted you.” She punctuated the statement with fists pounding on the table, the drinks shaking. People were looking at them. She didn’t give a damn.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. It was.”

“You’re not being fair. I—”

“You were gone. That’s what you were. All I wanted was for you to see me. To go to the park or fishing or read a book together and for you to listen to me. You never listened. And I went on believing in you. I clung to this image of you. I thought you were doing something that mattered so I made excuses for you. But you just kept on breaking my heart. God, what was I thinking. You’ve done it for the last time, Daddy. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

“Suzy-Q, don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“Oh, but I do. I had this picture of you in shining dress whites with medals and strength and courage. You were my hero. And you never should have been.”

“Come on—”

“You’re still not listening. You let me down in every way that mattered to me. Because I believed, through the long deployments, the nannies, the when’s Daddy coming home, that you were doing something good. It was a lie. You are a lie.”

“You could die if you stay here. Things are getting worse. Taylor could die. Don’t let your anger at me cloud your judgment. You and your mother—”

“Yeah, Dad, while we’re at it, let’s talk about Mom. She was the bee’s knees for a mother. I was always an inconvenience, a disappointment. Never elegant enough, smart enough, to be seen in front of her friends. Give me a break.”

“Well, you certainly inherited her temper.”

“You think? How about this? Fuck you.”

If Suzanne had hoped to provoke a reaction, she was wrong. Her father nodded and stood, there in the bar with the flies and the tourist outfit. He looked wounded as he extended his hand.

“Okay, then,” he said. “You’re hurt and angry. I understand.”

Suzanne stared at him.

“You’re going to shake my hand, you miserable son of a bitch? I’m telling you good-bye forever, your only child, your daughter, and you offer to shake my hand?”

“You hate me right now. I figured a hug was out of the question.”

“Go hop on a plane. Or a sub or a helicopter or whatever your plan is!”

“Please come with me. Maybe I was a shitty father. I let you down, I’m sure. You don’t need to even like me. But please trust me one last time. After you’re safe, after Taylor is safe, you never have to see me again. At least let me do this for you.”

“No. You’ve done enough. When you had the chance to do it right, you didn’t. God. I should have seen this. You miserable, evil bastard.”

“All right. I’m sorry for all of it. I love you, whether you believe it right now or not. I love Taylor, too. And Henry was a good man.”

He turned heel and wound his way through the crowded bar and Suzanne watched him leave until he was lost in the shadows, which is where he had always been.

Good-bye is the hardest word. Even though you say it, it’s not over with the word. Some good-byes take a lifetime. She’d been telling her father good-bye since she could remember him; her first vivid recollection she was certain was her own was of begging him not to go, as he stood tall in a shining white uniform in their driveway and he pried her from his legs and walked out the door for what seemed like forever. Now it really was forever.

She’d been saying good-bye to Henry, too, for years. The first years, parting was bittersweet, anguish and anticipation wrapped around each other, and each farewell held the promise of a glorious reunion.

For the last couple of years, though, a darkness had tainted these departures, and Suzanne had fantasized about a life without Henry even when he was home, at first in an innocent, rankled kind of way, and then in a more serious and corrosive and calculating fashion. She’d made up her mind to extricate him from her life, to divorce herself of him, and yet had not had the guts to tell him to his face. She’d begun the legal process of saying good-bye, started a thing she wished she hadn’t, and now, it was too late. Henry was gone and she’d said good-bye with a lawyer and a paper and now she realized she hadn’t meant it in the first place. She’d wanted to be seen and understood and heard. She’d needed to be valued and envision a future together in which she wouldn’t feel like she had to fight tooth and nail for these things and then resent him for not meeting her needs. Perhaps, she reasoned, she’d merely wanted to get his attention.

Suzanne felt a kind of self-loathing and grief she’d never known before, the feeling of falling through a maelstrom of pain bereft of hope and she blinked back tears of regret.

“Good-bye,” she whispered, choking on the word.