bodies onto the stretcher and into the ambulance.
Still lying in his hospital bed, reality intervened briefly. He realized where he was now and how he got there. He looked up at the intravenous drip bag hanging over his head.
The nightmare shifted again.
What!
A face hovered.
The Animal! How? How? How? My men, all butchered. My mission betrayed. Who? Where does it begin? Where does it end? How far up does it go?
The face from the Cabinda ambush faded as quickly as it appeared as he went in and out of consciousness, only to be haunted by the worst trauma in his life.
Dennis!
Hate burned in his guts, blending with heartache, wracking his soul. First the ultimate loss of the one he loved over all else, then the unfathomable betrayal by his own. His skin was sloughing away, staining the sheets with sticky jigsaw pieces. He stank. Raw flesh, exposed by jagged wounds, bubbled with pus under the saturated dressings. His bones were sludge; he was melting into the mattress.
The nightmare evolved into another hospital scene.
“No! No! Not Dennis! Don’t—Don’t! Not—gone!” Maran cried out, flailed the air, screamed against all reason, driven near insane with the nightmare, the reality.
He remembered getting the news.
“A yeast infection in his joints.”
“From what?
“Acute myelocytic leukemia—advanced.”
Pain wracked back and forth over his body feeling as though he was lying in a cornfield and a thresher was rolling over him back and forth. Every organ in his body screamed for relief. His own cries awakened him as he strained against the safety restraints.
He had to clear his name; he owed that to Dennis.
The nurse hurried to his bed. She carried a syringe. The agony of Cabinda, the pain of Dennis’ death, had faded. He had to get up—out.
The nurse shot him the morphine, so quick, so gentle he was out instantly. The turmoil of the nightmare melted into a soft dread. It seeped through his dreams, gradually syncopating into Bach’s “Concerto in C Minor” coming from the little portable CD player next to his bed, a gift from the nurses.
By the time Maran got out of the hospital, the truth had sunk in. They wanted to get rid of him.
Why? Who?
It was hard to believe.
Railroaded!
Someone in the command wanted him out of the way.
After twenty years of dedicated service to his country?
The Army prosecutor had rushed through the Article Thirty-two investigation and set the secret court-martial for one week after Maran’s release from the hospital. They levied multiple charges against him: insubordination, dereliction of duty, and disobedience under fire in combat leading to the loss of his men. His assigned JAG defense attorney told him to expect damning testimony. To offset the odds against him, the attorney had fought hard to get a select panel of combat veterans, fellow warfighters and operators, to sit on the panel.
Maran was ready to agree to anything. He just wanted it over.
The questions haunted him. Beneath the fragments of control he retained, they ripped his faith like stitches torn from a raw wound.
The day he limped out of the military hospital on crutches, his head bandaged and his neck in a stiff brace, fury shivered through his body. The agony of losing those men under his area of responsibility paired with the heartbreak of his shredded military career.
Betrayed!
He knew he wasn’t the first. The history of Washington’s political duplicity tore through his mind like a sick documentary. He recalled the foreign aid program that gave billions to North Korea’s nuclear reactor program in 1994, a move the U.S. came to regret as an impending threat and one that nullified the heroism of Americans killed or maimed in the Korean War. It might have been official White House policy, but it was treachery all the same. The memories seared through his head like a hot poker, centered on the treason done to him.
God! What is it? What is it?
He clasped his hands
Still lying in his hospital bed, reality intervened briefly. He realized where he was now and how he got there. He looked up at the intravenous drip bag hanging over his head.
The nightmare shifted again.
What!
A face hovered.
The Animal! How? How? How? My men, all butchered. My mission betrayed. Who? Where does it begin? Where does it end? How far up does it go?
The face from the Cabinda ambush faded as quickly as it appeared as he went in and out of consciousness, only to be haunted by the worst trauma in his life.
Dennis!
Hate burned in his guts, blending with heartache, wracking his soul. First the ultimate loss of the one he loved over all else, then the unfathomable betrayal by his own. His skin was sloughing away, staining the sheets with sticky jigsaw pieces. He stank. Raw flesh, exposed by jagged wounds, bubbled with pus under the saturated dressings. His bones were sludge; he was melting into the mattress.
The nightmare evolved into another hospital scene.
“No! No! Not Dennis! Don’t—Don’t! Not—gone!” Maran cried out, flailed the air, screamed against all reason, driven near insane with the nightmare, the reality.
He remembered getting the news.
“A yeast infection in his joints.”
“From what?
“Acute myelocytic leukemia—advanced.”
Pain wracked back and forth over his body feeling as though he was lying in a cornfield and a thresher was rolling over him back and forth. Every organ in his body screamed for relief. His own cries awakened him as he strained against the safety restraints.
He had to clear his name; he owed that to Dennis.
The nurse hurried to his bed. She carried a syringe. The agony of Cabinda, the pain of Dennis’ death, had faded. He had to get up—out.
The nurse shot him the morphine, so quick, so gentle he was out instantly. The turmoil of the nightmare melted into a soft dread. It seeped through his dreams, gradually syncopating into Bach’s “Concerto in C Minor” coming from the little portable CD player next to his bed, a gift from the nurses.
By the time Maran got out of the hospital, the truth had sunk in. They wanted to get rid of him.
Why? Who?
It was hard to believe.
Railroaded!
Someone in the command wanted him out of the way.
After twenty years of dedicated service to his country?
The Army prosecutor had rushed through the Article Thirty-two investigation and set the secret court-martial for one week after Maran’s release from the hospital. They levied multiple charges against him: insubordination, dereliction of duty, and disobedience under fire in combat leading to the loss of his men. His assigned JAG defense attorney told him to expect damning testimony. To offset the odds against him, the attorney had fought hard to get a select panel of combat veterans, fellow warfighters and operators, to sit on the panel.
Maran was ready to agree to anything. He just wanted it over.
The questions haunted him. Beneath the fragments of control he retained, they ripped his faith like stitches torn from a raw wound.
The day he limped out of the military hospital on crutches, his head bandaged and his neck in a stiff brace, fury shivered through his body. The agony of losing those men under his area of responsibility paired with the heartbreak of his shredded military career.
Betrayed!
He knew he wasn’t the first. The history of Washington’s political duplicity tore through his mind like a sick documentary. He recalled the foreign aid program that gave billions to North Korea’s nuclear reactor program in 1994, a move the U.S. came to regret as an impending threat and one that nullified the heroism of Americans killed or maimed in the Korean War. It might have been official White House policy, but it was treachery all the same. The memories seared through his head like a hot poker, centered on the treason done to him.
God! What is it? What is it?
He clasped his hands
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