Fade to Black - Proof (13 page)

Ethan brought
him his sandwich and fries, interrupting his thoughts about his emotional
memory gap, and asked if he wanted a refill on his beer. Well, of course he
did, so Ethan hurried off to get another lager, and Jack dug into his sandwich
and fries. God he was hungry!

He had very
clear memory of the birth of Claire, however. He remembered every second,
including all the warm emotions associated with it. He could picture Pam’s
face, tired and sweaty, and her smile when they had laid little Claire by her
head, the two of them just staring at each other for the first time. Pam had
cried, he remembered. And then he had cried as well. He kissed both of his
girls and stroked Pam’s hair. They were a growing family.

Jack started
in on the second half of his sandwich and chomped a few more fries, washing
them down greedily with his beer. Across from him by the window, a table of men
and women in suits drank white wine and argued loudly about some new account
with the city hospital, for whatever it was they made or sold. He heard
laughter from the bar.

So Claire was
born and then what? Jack felt his stomach tighten at the realization that he again
had only fragmented, picturelike memories after that. The three of them in the
park. Claire’s first birthday. Swimming together in a pool. Bits and pieces
that didn’t seem linear, like he was reading one out of every ten pages in a
book. Did he have some bizarre form of traumatic amnesia? Was something in the
missing memories the key to his so‐called stress disorder? The only really
clear memories he had after the birth of Claire were of the last week, most
especially the nightmares. What the hell did that mean? Jack felt a growing
panic, and felt himself resist his mind’s pull towards the answer, which he
felt in some way he already knew. It was like looking down a long hallway at a
door he knew he should go through, but being too paralyzed with fear to take
the first step down the hall.

“Anything
else, sir?”

Jack jumped at
the voice, startled out of his thoughts.

“What?” he
asked, looking up at Ethan.

“I’m sorry, sir.
I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sarcasm? “Do you need anything else? Another
beer perhaps?” Jack sensed the waiter was condescending to him. Or was that
just his paranoia again?

“No…no, I’m
good,” he answered, wiping his mouth on the cloth napkin. “Just the check.
Actually…” Jack felt an urgent need to get the hell out of this place, to get
home to his girls. It was sudden and overpowering. He fumbled for his wallet and
pulled out a credit card. “Just go ahead and ring this up. I’m in a bit of a
hurry.”

“No problem, sir,”
Ethan answered politely. “I’ll be right back with this.” The waiter grabbed his
empty plate and glass as he left.

Jack again
rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. No more thinking right now. It was
time to go home. Ethan was back in record time, no doubt as anxious for Jack’s
departure as he was. Jack left a generous tip and thanked him, then slipped his
card and wallet into his pocket. He slid out of his booth and headed for the
door. As he passed by the booth next to his, a voice stopped him.

“How was your
lunch? You must be starving!”

Jack turned,
but he recognized the voice before he looked. Sitting in the booth was
Commander Hoag, regimental chaplain, First Marine Expeditionary Force. He was
dressed smartly in his dress blue uniform this time, his white combination hat
on the otherwise empty table in front of him. He looked at Jack kindly through
his round glasses. Jack felt his right leg begin to shake and he fought the
urge to bolt for the door. Instead he looked around the room to see if anyone
was staring at them, then returned his gaze to the Navy chaplain.

Maybe you
should try and find a way to listen to them and hear what they have to say.

“I thought we
might chat a moment, Casey.”

“No,” Jack
shouted louder than he meant to. “No, I’m not ready…” Then he strode quickly
for the door. “YOU’RE NOT REAL!” he screamed over his shoulder as he reached
the hostess stand. He spun around to look at the Navy officer again.

But the booth
was empty. The room was quiet and the crowd of business people spread out at
several tables stared at him in stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,”
Jack mumbled and pushed through the heavy glass door and out into the cool
November sunshine on the street.

Jack leaned
against the wall and breathed the refreshing air deeply, open mouthed. It felt
good, the way it tightened his chest and chilled him. The cool air made him
feel alive, which was more than a trite saying these days. Jack realized he was
more angry than scared. Perhaps he should have done it. Perhaps he should have
listened to what the “image” had to say.

Jack shook his
head. What the hell was he supposed to do? Sit down in an empty booth in a
crowded restaurant and have a conversation with this image, this voice from his
mind? They would haul him away giggling and wrapped in a wet sheet to a place
that Lewellyn would get a phone call from. No, there had to be a better way.

Jack looked
down the street to the corner, where the recruiting station flags still
fluttered in the breeze. All he really needed was to prove to himself that
Casey Stillman and his friends weren’t real, right? Once he did that, the rest
would be easy. How could he focus on finding a psychological root for his
problem when he still couldn’t shake the belief that THIS was the fantasy?  How
should he deal with the sense that his nightmares of Fallujah felt so much more
real than his real life, except for Pam and Claire? Everything about his dream
was vivid, yet he couldn’t picture in his mind his own fucking wedding day! It
might piss off Lewellyn, but Jack had to prove to himself that he was wrong
about the Marine Corps, about Fallujah, about Bennet, Kindrich, Simmons,
Stillman, and now Commander Hoag. He had to prove to himself that none of it
was real. He didn’t have a plan how to do that, but maybe this could be a
start.

Jack headed
down the block towards the row of flags.

Chapter

15

The United States Marine Corps
Recruiting Station was colocated in the first floor office space with the
recruiting offices for the other three service branches. Jack went through the
glass door emblazoned with Armed Forces Recruiting Station and found himself in
a small lobby with a single desk at which a civilian receptionist sat reading a
magazine in front of a bank of quiet phones. The walls were covered with large
pictures of jets flying over the desert, ships at sea, a SEAL team coming up a
beach, tanks rolling up a road, and other staged scenes of America’s military
might in action. On the wall behind the receptionist were four recruiting
posters, asking visitors to be an Army of One, to be one of the Few and Proud,
to Aim High, and another one that just said Navy. Jack felt a familiar stirring
when he looked at the picture of a Marine, standing in full‐dress uniform in
front of an embassy somewhere in a faraway place. He also felt anxious.

“May I help
you?” the receptionist asked pleasantly.

“Uh, yes,”
Jack said, and then hesitated. What the hell was he afraid of? That the
recruiter would recognize him? That the office would be full of dead Marines,
chatting and telling war stories in their dirty and bloodstained digital
cammies?

“How can I
help you?” the receptionist asked patiently after an uncomfortable pause. She
smiled knowingly. Maybe everyone was a little nervous in this office, Jack
thought.

“I’m sorry,”
Jack said, and shook his head clear of images of his dead buddies. “I’d like to
talk to someone in the Marine Corps office.” Jack realized with some dread that
he had no plan at all for what he wanted to talk to them about.

“Certainly,”
the woman said, and she snapped a piece of paper on a clipboard and handed it
to him over her desk. “Can I just get you to fill out some information for us?”

Jack held up a
hand, unsure why the idea of writing out his demographics was unnerving. It was
hard enough just being here without a paper trail of information on his visit.
Hell, the last thing he needed was a bunch of recruiting brochures to show up
at the house.

 “Uh, actually
I’m not here to join. I just have a few questions.” Then he added, with a
sudden brainstorm, “I’m a teacher at JFK High, and I’m looking for a little
information for a class I’m teaching on current events.” Brilliant! Things just
got a lot more comfortable now. “I can make an appointment and come back if
this is not a good time.”

The
receptionist placed the clipboard with its blank form back on the desk. “Let me
see real quick,” she said holding up an index finger to Jack and dialing the
phone. Jack heard the chirping of a phone down the hall, and when it stopped
she spoke again. “Hi, Staff Sergeant. There’s a teacher from the high school
here who wanted to talk to you for a minute if you have time…okay, sure.” Then
she hung up the phone. “Staff Sergeant Perry will be right out.”

“Thanks a lot.”
Jack stepped away from the desk and started casually scanning the pictures on
the walls. This was perfect! He could ask some background questions without looking
like an asshole. Why had he not thought of this before?

Jack leaned in
and looked closely at a picture of a Coast Guard helicopter with a rescue diver
jumping out into the water below it, but he didn’t really see it. Instead he
sorted things in his head. What did he want to know from this Marine? More
importantly, what did he think he already knew that he could confirm or prove
wrong with the recruiter? He would ask about the 3/1, the Third Battalion, First
Marines. They were a part of First MEF, right? They were out of Camp Pendleton
in California, near San Diego. The CG, or command general, was a Major General
Owen Thomas, his memory (fantasy?) told him. Their light armor element was the First
LAR, which was remotely located at nearby Twentynine Palms. They owned the LAVs
that Stillman and his platoon had been clearing the road for in Fallujah. If
only the LAVs, with their 25 mm guns and crew‐served weapons and mortars had
been closer, maybe Simmons and Bennet would be alive, and Casey would not be
dying in the dark while he sucked blowing sand through a hole in his neck. Jack
shuddered at the images.

Actually, Simmons
had originally been with LAR and had come to them at Kilo Company just before
deployment. He hoped to go back to them on their return. Might Jack be able to
confirm a few names, even? His pulse quickened at the thought. Then he realized
that he was unsure what answers he hoped for. A part of him almost wanted to
find that the names were real, despite the terrifying questions that would
leave.

“Hoorah, sir.
I’m Staff Sergeant Rusty Perry.” A strong and confident voice said behind him.
Jack turned and saw a poster‐perfect Marine in crisp dark green trousers and
khaki shirt and tie. His blond hair was cropped skin tight on the sides and
back, only slightly longer on top—a so-called high and tight haircut. On his
sleeve were three red chevrons, the bottom one joined by an arcing rocker with
a pair of crossed rifles in between, indicating he was a Staff Sergeant, an E-6,
in the United States Marine Corps. His hand was outstretched and Jack took it,
shaking hands with the squared-away Marine.

“Hoorah, Staff
Sar’n,” Jack replied easily. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your day.”

“No problem, sir.”
Perry answered then gestured down the hall. “Why don’t you come on back to the
office?”

Jack followed
the Marine down the hall to the first office on the right. Perry pulled a chair
out from the wall and placed it beside a cubicle‐style desk with neatly
arranged folders, paper work, and a computer on which a screen saver boasted
“The Few, The Proud.” The Marine sat at the desk and motioned for Jack to take
a seat.

“How can I
help you today, sir?” Perry asked and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I’m
teaching a current events class,” Jack lied, crossing his legs and folding his
hands in his lap, “and I was hoping you could help me get a little information
on the Marines and what they are doing now in Iraq.” Jack held the eyes of the
enlisted Marine recruiter and hoped his anxiety was not evident.

“Anything to
help, sir,” Perry responded. “What can I tell you?”

“Well,” Jack
was unsure how to start. “The Marines we see on TV, the ones fighting in
Fallujah—where are they from?” Jack felt his anxiety rise, suddenly aware that
he already knew the answers. He felt certain now of that.

“The Marines fighting
in Fallujah now are mostly West Coast‐based units,” Perry answered. “We set up
rotations where the East and West Coast units swap out deployments, together with
the Marines in the Pacific, and at present it is the California-based units who
are in theater.”

“That’s the
First MEF, right?” Jack asked.

“That’s right,
sir,” Perry answered. “Elements of the First Marine Expeditionary Force from
Camp Pendleton are currently conducting operations in Iraq. There is some
overlap, though, so some forces from Third MEF are also still in theater.”

“Third MEF is
Hawaii and Okinawa?”

“That’s
correct, sir.”

“So they’re
still completing the RIP?” Jack asked.

“That’s
right,” Perry answered. He looked more closely at Jack now, apparently intrigued
by his knowledge and use of Marine jargon. Jack made a note to try and be more
careful. “The RIP is the overlap period where the existing unit turns over
responsibility of the AOR to the incoming units.”

“I see,” Jack
answered, not sure how to feel about knowing that or where to go next. “Were
you ever with First MEF, Staff Sar’n?”

“No, sir. I
was Twenty-fourth MEU with Second Marines out of Camp Lejeune.”

“Long way from
North Carolina, Staff Sar’n,” Jack said smiling.

“Yes, Sir,”
Perry answered. “Recruiting tour is a nice way to round out your package for
promotion. I’m actually from Ohio, so makes no difference to me.” The Marine
seemed more relaxed. He obviously loved talking about the Corps.

“Hoping to
make Gunny this year?” Jack asked, referring to promotion to Gunnery Sergeant.

“Just might
make it, Sir,” Perry answered.

Jack sat a
moment, trying to think of a way to get to the real questions. He couldn’t just
ask outright about individual people could he? Even if he did the OPSEC rules,
operational security, would prevent Perry from telling him anything. So now
what?

“Is General
Thomas still the CG over at One MEF?” he asked casually. The CG was the commanding
general, in charge of all the units that made up the expeditionary force.
Jack’s pulse quickened and he realized he was squeezing his hands together in
his lap so tightly that his left hand had begun to tingle. He tried to relax
under Perry’s scrutiny.

“Who were you
with, sir?” he asked after a moment.

Jack was
confused for a moment. Had he gone too far?

“I teach at
JFK High,” he answered.

Perry reached
for a coffee cup on his desk, a pewter bull dog with a drill sergeant’s cap on
its head decorating the front, the unofficial mascot of the Corps.

“No, I mean
when you were in?” He looked at Jack with a knowing grin, sipping his black
coffee. “I can always spot a fellow jar head.”

Jack felt
himself beginning to panic. The last thing he wanted was to look like a fool in
front of this Marine staff sergeant. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his
mind reeling. Why in the hell would this guy think he was a Marine?

“I was never
in the Corps, Staff Sergeant,” he answered, unaware that his hand was now numb.
“One of my best friends is in, though. I kind of lost touch with him the last two
years,” Jack swallowed hard. No going back now, so what the hell. “Casey
Stillman. Ever meet him?”

Perry looked a
little disappointed that he had missed the call, but didn’t look particularly
suspicious, Jack thought. Why would he? The staff sergeant looked up at the
ceiling, apparently in thought. After a moment he looked back at Jack.

“Doesn’t
really ring a bell, sir. Was he East Coast?”

“Not really
sure,” Jack lied. He knew exactly where Stillman was—bleeding to death in
Fallujah, somewhere in the night. He decided to take one more shot. “What about
Rich Simmons? Young kid, kind of lanky?”

“Don’t think
so, sir,” Perry answered without much thought. Jack sensed that he had become
unsure of him and was being more cautious now. He decided to shift gears.

“Well,
anyway,” he said lightly, as if those names, his real reason for coming, meant
nothing, “let me just get a little quick background, and I’ll let you get back
to work.”

Jack proceeded
to ask a few innocuous questions about training and assignments. He asked about
the relationship to the Navy and how the Marines got around. He even made a
show of borrowing a piece of paper and jotting down a few notes, for his
lecture on current events. After a few minutes he rose and stuck out his hand.
He tried to conceal his deep disappointment. This had been a waste of time,
other than showing him and Staff Sergeant Perry that a biology teacher from the
high school had an unusually detailed understanding of how the Marine Corps was
set up. What the hell did that prove?

“Thanks a lot,
Staff Sar’n,” he said. “This is a real help. I’m sure the kids will find this
stuff interesting, especially with all they see on the news these days.”

Perry rose
from his chair and shook his hand firmly. “No problem, sir. Happy to help. If
any of the kids want more information, especially the seniors, have them give
me a call.” He handed Jack a stack of business cards.

“You bet,
Staff Sar’n,” Jack replied, slipping the business cards into his pocket. Then
he turned to leave, but turned back as Perry spoke again.

“By the way, sir,”
he said from his chair. “You were right. General Thomas is still the CG at One
MEF.”

Jack stopped.
He felt the blood drain from his face. How in the fuck could he possibly know
that? How could he know any of this shit? The walls seemed to be closing in on
him and he felt his throat tighten. For a moment he thought he smelled the all
too familiar stench of the dusty Iraqi desert.

“Thanks again,”
he said over his shoulder as he headed out of the office.

As Jack walked
to the front door, with a courteous wave and thank you to the smiling
receptionist, he stopped, his eye caught by the little newspaper stand by the
old couch where nervous applicants waited to talk to their recruiters. On one
stack was a newspaper called
Marine Corps Times
. On a whim Jack grabbed
the top copy and folded it under his arm as he left the office.

A few minutes
later, Jack sat in the growing warmth of his Volvo and listened to Julie
Roberts singing softly on the radio, apparently hoping she wouldn’t run out of
gas.

I sure would
hate to break down here.

Jack wiped the
frustrated tears from his cheeks and shifted the car into gear. He maneuvered
the Volvo out of his spot by the curb and carefully into traffic. Then he
headed home to his girls, his
Marine Corps Times
unopened on the seat
beside him and his head full of more questions than answers.