How do you over come the loss of your best friend? How can you feel whole without a heart beating in your chest? How can you withstand the arctic winds of life when the flame the brought you such warmth and light and joy is gone, ruthlessly ripped from your life in front of your very eyes? Those fine, golden tendrils of light that bound two souls together, how can they be removed without devastating injury? And who can know the anguish that attends having to experience it twice?
I thought about her for days. I remembered how she smiled when she woke in the morning, looking into my eyes from her pillow. It was a secret, sweet smile that was meant for only me. I remembered the feel of her soft, small hand on my chest as she lay with her head on my shoulder, my arm around her. She was so small compared to me. So small. She never needed my protection - she was always strong and capable and independent - but at those moments I would feel that latent male urge to protect and defend. And it was a good feeling. I knew she felt secure as well.
And all was right with the world.
It wasn't always easy. Being married to someone who is your equal in every way never is. We were very much equal, but also very much not the same. We had epic fights, fights that left me feeling drained and bruised - but never broken. Somehow she would make me feel amazing, even when being stubborn or foolish. And the make up sessions were glorious.
When I stood back up that day, now several days ago (I've lost track), the weight of everything I'd been through fell on me like that proverbial ton of bricks. Seeing Janice die like that, so senselessly and random and unexpected... I just... My mind couldn't take it. I shut down. Apparently, it happens.
I spent the next few days in a strange semi-conscious state. I was most often aware of things going on. But I was simply unable to respond to anyone or anything. I don't think anyone could be prepared for what I had experienced. And, again, how does one recover from the loss of one's best friend?
The answer to that was quick in coming.
I had been feeling lucid for a couple of days, although still in the hospital - for observation, is what I'd been told - when a man with a familiar face came in the door followed by another, older man I had never seen.
"Michael, we have never formally been introduced. My name is Alex Wilkerson. Captain Wilkerson. We spoke briefly in the compound."
He looked the part. Trim, with military bearing even out of uniform. He moved with that cat-like stealth, strength, and arrogance that is correctly associated with special forces types. Fluid and graceful, but powerful and deadly.
He did not move to shake my hand. I was kind of glad he didn't. Shaking his hand would have made things seem final. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.
He turned slightly and said, "Please allow me to introduce General Bob Stone."
The man took a step forward and did offer his hand. He looked like a mountain, broad shouldered, thick necked, and while older than Captain Wilkerson, his body moved in a similar fashion. Less cat-like perhaps, but more like a controlled avalanche. This was also clearly not a man to be trifled with.
Yet, his eyes were kind and full of the deepest sorrow I have ever seen. Even before he spoke, I knew he had lost someone, someone close.
His hand was warm but solid, as was his voice.
"Hell of an ordeal, son," he said.
With all my time in the south, I had never come to like being called "son." it always felt patronizing and sarcastic. But when this man spoke, it was different. Perhaps it was that look in his eyes that spoke of shared understanding of grief and pain, but I could feel his genuine concern for me, and it was reassuring, comforting.
I asked them to have a seat. They did, and then sat there in silence for a few moments.
"Have you been able to find out any more about..."
Captain Wilkerson shook his head. "Our teams have just finished clearing the compound, which was surprisingly not terribly booby-trapped as we'd initially feared. Apparently with that many folks around the place, they were relying more on secrecy than defensibility. This was a hidey-hole, nota command center. As such, much of what little we were able to recover was limited in scope to mundane day to day operations stuff. Some of it may prove fruitful, but I'm afraid we need more insight."
General Stone spoke next. "Michael, we know you were in there for several weeks at least. We know that you could provide us with invaluable information that could really help us out."
"General, I am sorry, but..."
He broke in, "I am not going to sugar coat this for you. I know you feel like your soul is in the deepest circle of hell right now. Believe me, I know."
He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
"If I thought it would make things easier to delay this conversation, I would. But the fact is we need you. The trail is getting cold quickly, and information you may have - no matter how seemingly insignificant - could be a game changer.
"Besides," he said, quietly, and looking down. "They still have your daughter."
It was like that electric shock they use to galvanize steel. I felt an incredible hardness creep over my soul, stiffening and steeling me for what was to come. One tear, unbidden and unneeded slid down my cheek.
It was the last I would shed for Janice.
They sat there looking at me. "General, I will tell you what I know. But on one condition."
Now it was my turn to pause for effect.
"I want in. I want you to train me to be part of the team that goes after these guys. I want my daughter back."
The General looked up. The kindness had gone from his eyes, replaced with something more deadly than I'd ever seen in a man's eyes.
"That can be arranged."
He stood and shook my hand without another word. This time, Captain Wilkerson did, too, a slight smile on his face.
It matched the one on my own.
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