Trinity: Military War Dog (7 page)

“Yeah, I’ll go.”

            Four              

Soldier & Airmen’s Home
Washington, DC

I
’m going back,” Heath whispered into the semidarkened room. Bent forward, elbows on his knees, he threaded his fingers and stared at the form lying on the bed.

Crisp white sheets tucked in around the once-strong body peeked out from a gray wool blanket. Hall light stretched across the darkened room and snaked over the safety bars and myriad tubes and cables surrounding the hospital-style bed. The silent feed of oxygen pumped the vital air into the lungs of the sixty-two-year-old man.

General Robert Daniels.

His uncle. More like a father. The man who’d raised him, loved him, nurtured him after his parents’ deaths in a car accident when he was two. Uncle Bobby was Heath’s hero. He’d served more than thirty-five years in the Army, a short stint in ‘Nam, Panama, the Gulf War, and the War on Terror—the war that ended his career and trimmed a year or two off his life.

Well, if you could call breathing through a machine and being fed by someone else a life. It wasn’t much by normal standards, but it enabled Heath to hang on to his uncle a little longer. Clinging to the hope that Uncle Bob might come out of this. They told him it wasn’t possible. It’d take a miracle.

And Heath was too aware of how rare those were.

“Not to war—well, yeah, to the combat zone, but not as a soldier.” He snorted. “They wouldn’t even let me be a chaplain.” The wound over those words was still raw. He rubbed his knuckles, aching for the man who’d guided him through many a bad decision to speak up, tell him if this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. “Trin’s goin’, too—I know how much you like her, got a kick out of her.”

A cool, wet nose nudged his arm.

Heath slid his hand around Trinity’s shoulder and patted her chest, massaging his fingers into her dense fur. The staff at the home allowed her as long as he let her “perform” for the veterans and wounded. It was a small highlight in their day, and seeing those faces light up after, no doubt, hours of boredom, made his day, too.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face as he slumped back in the chair. Head against the wall, he looked at his uncle. Two years like this. Moments of amazing clarity suffocated by long stretches of comatose-like absence. More gone than not in recent days.

If Heath went back in this condition, would he end up like Uncle Bobby? What if he
wasn’t
better, improved? Just because Heath wasn’t with the military in an official capacity didn’t stop attacks. Americans were Americans—prime targets. War dogs and specialized search dogs were high-value targets. Terrorists paid big for dead military working dogs. Couldn’t exactly explain to an RPG that you had peaceful intentions.

Then again, hadn’t he wanted to be like Uncle Bobby all his life? Wasn’t that why he joined up in the first place?

“Heath, live your own life. You don’t have to follow in my boots, son.”

That willingness to let Heath pursue any career, that care and advice, was the reason Heath joined at seventeen, with Uncle Bobby’s approval and signature for an early sign-up. Heath walked the stage at his high school graduation with honors, skipped the parties, and flew to Fort Benning Monday morning.

Leaving his uncle now, after vowing to take care of him for the rest of his life—he felt a deep conflict. He owed his uncle. Owed him the respect of seeing him live out his remaining days with dignity after all the hours he’d invested in Heath, in the nation. What if something went wrong—if the Old Dawg finally gave it up after all this time? What if the doctors needed Heath to sign off on something?

Dude, chill
.

He was overreacting. It wasn’t like his missions with Special Forces where he didn’t have contact with his family for months at a time. This was a PAO gig. Two weeks over, then back home.

No big. No worries
.

A shadow broke the stream of light and Heath’s concentration. Straightening, he glanced to the side and smiled at the brunette leaning against the door.

“I thought I could smell wet dog. Oh, and you brought Trinity.”

Her tease pulled a smile from Heath. “Hey, Claire. How’s it going?”

Nails clacking against the vinyl, Trinity sauntered over to Claire Benedict and nosed her hand.

Heath pushed out of the chair.

The fiftysomething woman smiled. “Good.” She tossed her chin toward the bed. “Has he been awake at all?”

Surprise lit through him. “Awake?”

“Yep, the Old Dawg woke up this morning when I was here.” Her voice, always filled with honey, held a fondness that made Heath ache. If his uncle had been … well, not been laid up, would he have remarried after Auntie Margaret died ten years ago? Maybe married Claire? She’d entered his life right before the general headed over for his final tour.

Heath grinned. “He always was partial to you.”

“That’s only because I didn’t let him treat me like one of his recruits, nor did I let his bark scare me off.”

He laughed. “There is that.”

Eyebrow arched, she gave him a look. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to convince me.” Always ready with cheese cubes, Claire tossed one to Trinity. “So, what’s eating you, Heath?”

He leaned back against the wall. “I have a gig for me and Trinity. It’s a morale-boosting thing.”

“For you or them?” Wariness crowded her mature but attractive features. “Where?”

“Northern Afghanistan for a week, then heading south.”

She sighed and tossed another cube to Trinity. Standing, Claire folded her arms. “He’d tell you to go, that you have a warrior’s heart.” Her gaze drifted to his uncle’s bed, and her lips twisted and tightened. “War didn’t scare him. Being weak did.” Her eyebrow arched again. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That because you’re not over there, you’re somehow weak, or less?”

Heath stared at his boots. “Wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.” Though it might seem odd, him talking to a woman not related to him, they’d both spent many hours watching over his uncle. She had leverage in his life not many did. “Besides, I wasn’t looking for it. This gig came to me.”

“How?”

Still … talking to this woman always made him want to close up. Claire had an uncanny ability to read him, to cut open his heart and expose things he hadn’t seen or didn’t want to see. But he told her about A Breed Apart, about Jibril, about his new training regimen that had helped him overcome most of the TBI effects.

“I feel good, focused, for the first time in eighteen months.”

Quiet draped the room, punctuated by the bleeping and hissing machines. When seconds turned into minutes and he felt the bore of her gaze drilling him, he finally closed his eyes. “Go on. Get it out. I know you want to say something.”

“You’re not weak, Heath.”

His attention snapped to hers.

“Going back, doing this—it may be a good thing—but it’s not going to give you back what you think you lost. You’re a strong, amazing young man. Bobby always said that. He was very proud of you.”

But Uncle Bobby didn’t know today from ten years ago. He didn’t know that Heath had lost all he’d worked for, all the general had lauded and clapped him on the back for.

“Yeah, he was.” Heat and pressure built in his chest. He rolled it up and stuffed it away with his humiliation and shattered pride. “I’d better get going.” He called Trinity and started down the quiet hall.

“Heath.” Her voice chased him.

He hesitated at the juncture that led to the elevators as he met her soft gaze.

“The man Robert loved is the man whose character got him where he was. Not the career he chose or the uniform he wore—or doesn’t wear.” That tone again, the one that slipped past his barriers—like a slick coating on a sour pill that made it go down easier—forced him to listen. “No matter what you do or where you go, your character is what will always make your uncle proud.”

“Claire, he’s not even conscious. When he’s awake, the doctors aren’t sure if he’s lucid. He believes I’m a soldier, an elite soldier. That’s what he remembers.” His throat thickened. “I’m not that man anymore.”

Lackland AFB
San Antonio, Texas

“It’s not personal.”

“Bull!” Heath’s temples throbbed as he faced off with Jibril.

When a uniformed presence made itself known shifting into his periphery, Heath lowered his voice so the MP would leave off. “You and I both know this is very personal. Two days ago, this was
my
gig. The PAO asked for me. I agreed. Now, everyone’s going?”

“Heath, please—it’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me, Jibril.” Heath cocked his head. “We’re too good of friends to go there.”

Jibril held his gaze but didn’t look away. Silence hung rank and rancid between them as they stood on the tarmac, the C-130 engines ramping up with a whinnying screech. The jumbo plane would ferry them halfway across the world so Heath could begin the speaking engagements.

Heath glanced down at the crate that held Trinity. Just like his partner, he felt caged by the TBI. Would he ever be free? What was this, some enormous lesson on trust?
Is that what this is, God? Because I think I already wrote the book on this with the surgery
.