Lines of Duty Read online

  ONE

  January 1, 2006

  Ghor Province

  A Blackhawk helicopter swung low over a walnut grove, stripping lingering dry leaves from sleeping branches. The stiff following wind flung them in the chopper’s wake, tumbling across a fallow field onto the dusty tarmac of Hamran Forward Base, where they disappeared under flecks of snow.

  Loaded beyond capacity and in the middle of a winter storm, the helicopter landed with a jolt. An icy gust blasted through the open doors, pushing Lieutenant Corus out.

  Blood-spattered boots hit the ground.

  Corus kept pressure on the bandaged abdomen of an Afghan soldier he’d plucked from an ambush twenty minutes’ flight to the east.

  “Medic!”

  Hamran Forward Base didn’t have a field hospital, but it was crawling with Green Berets, Delta Force and other highly trained operators. Some of them had apparently heard Corus’ call over the radio to expect wounded. A Special Forces medic named Avery was already running behind a gurney in nothing but his PT gear, despite the freezing temperatures.

  “Took one in the abdomen,” Corus said. “Other took shrapnel from an RPG. Both have vitals.”

  Avery and Corus pulled the gun-shot soldier onto the gurney, while the able-bodied Afghan soldiers they’d rescued loaded the shrapnel victim onto another. More medics arrived and took charge, hustling the wounded off toward the hangar with its warmth and promise of care.

  Corus took off his helmet and let the blessedly frigid wind dry his sweat and temper his nerves. Every soldier had a different way of coming down from the adrenaline after a fight. Some ate, some grabbed their pornos and hid in a bathroom, some cried just to get the emotion out quickly. Corus stood under the slowing rotor blades and breathed slowly, taking in every detail: the bloody pools on the floor of the helicopter, the used bandages and their discarded packaging piled up like wrapping paper after a macabre Christmas morning.

  His focus was drawn to more than the unsettling images, taking mental pictures of the mundane as well. The left rear landing gear on the chopper that slouched like it needed to be replaced. The pilot touching the picture of the Virgin Mary he had wedged in the cockpit window the way he always did before takeoff and after landing. A shell casing that fell out of the chopper and rolled in a circle before coming to a stop.

  Heightened awareness brought him down, down, until he felt no different than if he’d just completed a hard run.

  He walked around the chopper to where the crew chief was starting to clean up along with the three Rangers Corus had led on the rescue. He’d never worked closely with them before, and they weren’t under his command. They’d been on QRF duty, a bit like firemen hanging out at the firehouse in a relaxed atmosphere, but ready to hit the ground running in case of emergency. Corus had been in the staging area near the tarmac, waiting for his ride out of Hamran. The four of them were playing foosball together when the urgent call came.

  He clapped them each on the back and told them to hit the showers. There’d be time for an after-action review later. Right then, he wanted to let them decompress knowing they had acquitted themselves well. He sent them off with praise, then helped the crew chief clean up until a sharp Appalachian twang cut through the storm.

  “Corus, you get in here!” Colonel Garber screeched from inside the hangar, arms folded against the cold.

  Corus gave the crew chief a look.

  “I got this. Thanks, though.”

  Corus trotted off the tarmac and under the cover of the hangar. Garber turned his back and stalked over to a desk hidden between a row of file cabinets. Corus’ bags that he’d packed that morning were on a nearby table.

  “Your ride was scheduled to leave ten minutes ago. Waiting for you,” Garber said.

  “Sir, we’re going back to the ambush site to pick up—”

  “No, you’re not. Your war is over, son.” Garber swatted a slump-shouldered sergeant. “You got all Lieutenant Corus’ gear?”

  “It’s all right here, sir. Everything.” Sergeant Gertz waved a soft hand at Corus’ stuff.

  “Tour’s over,” Garber said. “You’re getting on that jet plane.”

  “Prop plane, sir.” Gertz adjusted his glasses.

  Garber stepped closer. “Time to go home, son. You did your duty. Go build a life in Minneapolis.”

  “Seattle, sir,” Gertz said.

  “We will survive without you,” Garber grumbled. “Believe it or not, the world turns without your dexterous touch.”

  Corus looked around at the tables where he’d prepped every mission for the last four months. The last time he left Afghanistan, he had known he’d be back. This time he was leaving for good. Leaving the army. Going to… he didn’t know what.

  “Sir, just let me circle back to the ambush site. We might find survivors or take out straggling enemy. I can fly out tomorrow.”

  “Gertz. Let’s take care of that last piece of business.”

  Gertz did a one-eighty to his desk then pivoted back holding a flat black case. He lifted back the lid and inside sat a shining medal. Corus froze.

  Garber picked up the medal and held it in both hands, as Gertz read from the official citation.

  “For meritorious service and actions performed in the Kalengal Valley in July of this year, we the undersigned, Army Chief of Staff, Roland Jimenez, Secretary of the Army, Garret King and General of the Asian Theater in Operation Enduring Freedom General Nicholas Hillman, hereby award Lieutenant Corus of the Charlie Detachment, Headquarters of the 74th Regiment, the Silver Star for Valor.”

  Colonel Garber pinned the medal onto Corus’ blood-stained combat blouse then saluted him. It was the first time a superior officer had ever done that.

  Corus saluted back.

  “And these?” Gertz turned back with three more flat boxes.

  “You were a little behind on your purple hearts, son. But we ain’t got time for more ceremony.” He handed them to Corus along with the box for his Silver Star.

  “You’re a hard man to lose.” Colonel Garber frowned, looking hurt. “Now un-ass my AO.”

  He promptly stepped aside. Corus shuffled in a daze toward the opposite hangar door, then looked back for his bags. Turner and McGree were suddenly by his side holding them. Corus had no idea where the bearded special operators in fleece jackets had come from.

  “We got you,” McGree said.

  Gertz unbuckled Corus’ combat harness and took his rifle.

  Corus stepped around the file cabinets of Gertz’s work station and noted the stony silence in the hangar. The only sound was the whine of the cargo plane’s props idling.

  He trudged forward unable to think or feel anything. When he looked up from his boots to face the rushing cold, he saw them.

  Two rows of fifteen men formed a corridor out of the hangar. Some wore BDUs; some wore the casual dress special operators favored. All stood at attention.

  “Officer departing base,” Lukens called out. And every man in the lines saluted.

  Corus had only become an officer by field commission, a commission necessitated by a mission technicality and the needs of the brass. He never expected to keep the rank, but when he looked back at Garber’s steely gaze, he understood. He was leaving the army a fully commissioned lieutenant.

  He didn’t dare look into the faces of the men he had served with, because he was sure he would lose it. He marched through the ranks, got on the plane, hugged McGree and Turner and said through gritted teeth, “Thank them all for me. Thank them.”

  McGree and Turner promised they’d see him again one day, then left.

  Corus strapped into a jump seat with blood crusted fingers and leaned his head back on the freezing fuselage, filled equally with gladness and despair. The rear ramp clos
ed, pinching the white light smaller and smaller until darkness engulfed him.

  Tears streamed down past his ears as they rose into the air bound for Kandahar.

  TWO

  Karen danced about the kitchen of the two-bedroom rental, one side of a duplex in a quiet neighborhood hidden under evergreen trees. As they drove up, she’d remarked that they seemed to her like something out of a fantasy novel. Corus had never seen her as happy, or as radiant, before his departure from the military. He grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets, a gesture as jarringly civilian as the whirlwind road trip across America had been.

  Karen didn’t notice his subtle celebration. She was too enthralled with the new countertops, the dishwasher and the garbage disposal, which their on-base housing back at Fort Campbell in Kentucky had lacked.

  “I know it’s a little over budget, but I don’t have any friends here yet. Can I have this?”

  “The academy is eight weeks. Even if I get hired on somewhere right away, it might be weeks more before I get my first paycheck.”

  Karen skipped up to him on slender legs and threw her arms over his shoulders. “What do you mean if you get hired somewhere? That’s preposterous. They’re gonna turn down a war hero?”

  Corus rolled his eyes.

  “Then what the hell do you call it when you get a freaking medal for doing heroic stuff in a war?”

  “It’s not exactly going on my resumé. Can you imagine? Job skills: Proficient in the Microsoft Office suite, conversational Pashto and alpine combat.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me.” She lowered her voice. “Come on. I saved all your combat and hazard pay, COLA. Every nickel the Army gave us. I was smart with it, like a good little coal miner’s daughter.”

  “Your dad owns a Nissan dealership.”

  “We have more cash than I even know what to do with,” Karen said. “We could frankly be thinking about buying a house.”

  “Without a job? I don’t think so.”

  Karen groaned and pushed away from him. “The point is you’re going to kick everyone’s ass in that academy. You are going to get snapped up by King County or Seattle Metro. Any of those stations will be reasonable driving distance from this lovely home.” She got close and stroked his close-cropped hair. “Corus, you’ve got nothing but death in your eyes. It’s time to live. It’s time to have the sort of life you try to protect for everyone else.”

  “You know I don’t think in those terms. Being a soldier is being a soldier. The rest is just marketing.”

  “Stop being so cynical for five minutes. You deserve this. We all do.” Karen pulled one of his hands down to her belly button. “I stopped taking the pills the second you called me from Germany, the second you were out of Afghanistan.”

  “Karen… Are you serious?”

  “Well, not doctor serious, but that welcome home wasn’t just an expression of my patriotism.” She blinked up at him. “I just know, Corus. I know we’re gonna have a baby.”

  “Holy shit.” The blood ran out of his head, and he felt clammy. But just as soon, his instincts kicked in, instincts galvanized to react properly in any given scenario. He panted to get his breath back, then nodded. “Welcome to your new home, I guess.”

  Karen squealed and jumped, hanging on him and kicking her feet in the air.

  Corus found the landlord tapping a thermostat in the living room. He was a slim, older gentleman in a fishing hat and puffer vest.

  “So. What did you folks think?”

  “I think we’d like to take it.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll get the rental application. If you can prove three times rent as income and can pass a background check, we’re all set.”

  Corus felt like a balloon that’d just sprung a pin-sized leak. “Sir, my wife and I just got into town. We are both very employable, but don’t have jobs yet. Is that going to be a problem?”

  The man’s mustache twitched to one side. “First rule of renting is make sure your renter has a job.” He gave an uncomfortable laugh.

  “I see.”

  “What sort of work are you looking for?”

  “I’m gonna be a cop, I guess.”

  “A cop?”

  “Yeah. A police officer. I start at the SeaMAP academy on Monday. It’s rather new. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  The landlord tilted his chin up curiously, hand brushing across his chest. “Oh, I see. Yes, I read something about it in the paper. Brand new facility paid for by one of these computer billionaires.”

  “So…” Karen slid up beside Corus. “Can we move in right away?”

  “Well… uhh.”

  “He’s concerned that we don’t have paying jobs yet, but I think he’s more uncomfortable about me becoming a cop,” Corus said.

  “Why on earth would he be uncomfortable about that?” Karen asked. “He doesn’t want a public servant helping pay his mortgage every month? What kind of person wouldn’t want… Ohhhhh…”

  Corus suppressed a grin, noticing the voice Karen took on when she was being manipulative, which, to be fair, was a good portion of the time.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Only some sort of criminal wouldn’t want a cop living next door.”

  “Now, now…” The landlord held up a hand. “Maybe I just don’t care for the strong arm of the government being so close to home.”

  Corus gauged the man’s age at fifty-five to sixty. Though he tucked in his shirt and had short hair, he was probably an old hippie at heart.

  “What’s your name?” Corus asked.

  “Paul.”

  “Paul, I was in Afghanistan.”

  “Oh. Well…”

  “No, I mean I was in Afghanistan four days ago. I processed out in Kentucky, loaded up our stuff and drove all night to start our new life here. Can you imagine the things I saw overseas?”

  “I have seen pictures. Horrible stuff going on.”

  “Do you think I care about an American citizen growing a couple potted plants in his basement?” Corus asked in an even tone. “After the things I’ve seen?”

  Paul blinked.

  “There’s no downside to having me as a renter. I’ll pay you three months in advance, if it quiets your anxieties. And there’s no downside to having me as a neighbor. When I’m home, the last thing I want to do is stick my nose in anyone else’s business.”

  “Huh.” Paul straightened, then cleared his throat. “There’s an extra deposit if you have pets.”

  “We have a tiny stupid dog,” Corus said. “The deposit’s fine.”

  The next day, Corus unloaded their belongings off the moving truck, while Karen made a list of purchases needed to complete their household, a running total he feared had reached close to nine hundred items.

  “Oh, batteries!” Karen announced. “Better get double and triple-As. And nine-volts while we’re at it.” She jotted the addition down in her notepad on the counter. Sitting next to the list was the first thing Karen had brought inside, a framed display of Corus’ Silver Star.

  Corus had only let her help with the mattress — just to keep it off the damp grass — and other piecemeal items that weren’t that heavy. When it came time to extract their couch, Karen assured Corus she could help.

  “I can still kick your ass, army boy,” she said.

  “This pregnancy thing is freaking me out.”

  “Oh, I might not even be pregnant in a technical sense. It’s just a dumb couch.”

  “It’s not worth it. I’ll find someone to help. We have the moving truck for a couple more days.”

  Karen leaned back against her Honda SUV, which she’d driven behind the U-haul. “If you insist. Do you even know anyone around here anymore?”

  Corus had moved to the area at fourteen and had gone to a local high school, but the ten years since graduating felt like an eternity. He’d feel more comfortable showing up at Fort Lewis and hiring the first stranger he met with a healthy-looking back.

  “I’m sure I can figure it out.”


  “So, I can’t carry it because I’m pregnant. And I can’t sit down in my own damn house because I’m pregnant?” she whined.

  “Maybe pregnant,” Corus said with a tiny smirk.

  Karen kicked a pinecone at him.

  The last big item was the trunk that held the military stuff Corus hadn’t parted with. It barely fit sideways through the front door. His collection of army memories had grown heavy, and his considerably fit muscles burned with exhaustion by the time he reached the bedroom and sat it down.

  He’d thought often about his trunk and its contents on the drive west. It held one of his first pairs of boots from basic training, a brass casing from when he aced the marksmanship test the first time, high-value gear he’d acquired, photos, his sidearms, knives, first-aid kit, and souvenirs from his two tours in Afghanistan, including a bootleg DVD he’d bought off an enterprising twelve-year-old. He’d lost, broken or discarded a hundred thousand items in his eight years of service. All that remained, for whatever reasons he’d kept them, were in that trunk, sitting on the floor of this new home.

  When you fit a whole life in a box, it was called a casket, and those didn’t belong above ground.

  Somewhere in South Dakota, he’d resolved to give it one more look then put it away for good. The only good reason to unearth it would be if he had a dire need of its contents or he had a child old enough to show it to. He didn’t want to bury the past eight years any more than he’d want to bury a loved one, but clinging to the past seemed unwise and likely to cast a stinking pall over his new life. He’d met many people who didn’t grow past their school sport or their war or their band, whatever they’d achieved in youth. Stunted adult children clinging to what was old, preventing themselves from maturing into a fuller identity. Perhaps too afraid.

  He knelt and picked through the trunk, feeling heartsick at some nostalgic pieces, feeling surprisingly little for others, but grieving it all. He couldn’t be soldier Corus anymore. He was going to be Deputy or maybe Officer Corus. He was going to be a father.

  He shut the trunk and hooked the padlock through the latch, then stopped, feeling her presence.