Matt Archer: Blade's Edge (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

W
e landed at Andrews AFB
four days later. My arm, bent to a ninety-degree angle by a cast that went from above my elbow to a loop around my thumb, ached as I got up to collect my gear. I wasn’t the only one hurt, either; most of us were banged up in one way or another. I followed the team down the plane’s stairway, not seeing anything. I’d saved Ramirez but I’d lost a friend and that was something I’d carry with me forever.

It was a beautiful day in Maryland—sunny with a warm wind blowing the flags so hard that their chains banged the flag pole as we made our way to the back ramp of the plane. Everyone lined up next to the honor guard present to unload the coffins. We’d brought home the few remains we’d recovered. It wasn’t much.

The honor guard, in full dress uniform and white gloves, handed Schmitz out of the back of the plane with the care a new dad would take with his baby. Lieutenant Gotley’s casket followed. Both coffins were draped with American flags, just like in the movies, and we snapped to attention as the pallbearers made their way down the ramp and through our ranks. I couldn’t salute because of my arm, but I stood tall like everyone else.

As the guard passed, tears welled up in my eyes. At that moment, I made myself a promise. I had to be made of steel to see this thing through to the bitter end. I’d take a day once I got home to grieve the mistake I made. Then I wouldn’t cry again.

Ever.

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the Catholic chaplain said. “We return this man to the earth from whence he came, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The entire team except for Ramirez, who was still in the hospital, had gathered together to lay Schmitz to rest at Arlington National Cemetery. We watched as the chaplain threw a handful of dirt into the grave. It landed with a dull thunk on the top of the polished oak coffin. While everyone else wore dress uniforms, I stood stiff in the new suit Aunt Julie had bought for me, sweating under the brilliant blue sky. Schmitz had warranted full military honors, dying in service during an enemy attack, which meant his funeral was attended by a colorguard and an escort platoon who all stood at attention for the entire funeral. It added an air of somberness that I could hardly stand and, as the bugler played
Taps
, I clenched my fists against the tears. It wasn’t my day yet, and I wasn’t going to embarrass myself further by crying like a kid in front of the team.

Johnson moved behind me and put his massive hands on my shoulders, whispering, “This is the worst it gets.”

I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat couldn’t get past my tie. When I didn’t respond, Johnson patted my back, then shifted over to Patterson, who was teary-eyed and sniffling and not looking the least bit embarrassed about it.

I envied him.

The funeral ended with a three-volley salute. Seven soldiers, also in full dress uniform, lined up and aimed rifles into the distance. The lieutenant of the honor guard gave the order.

“Ready. Aim. Fire.”

“Ready. Aim. Fire.”

“Ready. Aim. Fire.”

Twenty-one shots, and then it was over. My shoulders sagged. The flight to Billings would depart D.C. in a few hours; I was so ready to go home. Maybe it was childish, but I wanted my mom. I wanted to sleep in my own bed, too…if I
could
sleep. I hadn’t been able to the last few days and I hoped being home would help.

As I followed the crowd making its way back to the cars parked at the curb, Uncle Mike caught my eye and limped my direction, but an older gentleman got to me first.

“Excuse me, son. Are you Matt? Matt Archer?” he asked. The man was balding, and short—as short as Schmitz had been. He held a folded U.S. flag tight against his chest. “I’m Benjamin Schmitz, Toby’s father.”

Toby.

I closed my eyes, sucking down air. “Yes, sir. I’m Matt.”

“He told us a lot about you. I know Toby wasn’t supposed to talk about the mission, but he was so impressed with you, how brave you are, how fast you learned. He was very proud to serve with you, young man,” Mr. Schmitz said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

A woman with curly gray hair joined him and leaned against Mr. Schmitz’s arm. She clutched a set of dog tags; I could just make out the T on one of them. “Thank you, dear, for being here today. It means a lot to us. Tobias would think so, too.”

Mr. Schmitz patted her arm, then started to stick out his right hand. Seeing my cast, he stuck out his left instead and I shook it, wishing I could be anywhere else.

“Julie, will you go start the car? I need to talk to Matt a minute,” Mike said as we prepared to leave their townhouse for the airport.

Aunt Julie nodded. She gave me an understanding look before leaving. Her gait was slower than normal; the little bump that would eventually become my cousin caused Julie to waddle some. Idly, I wondered how Mike and Julie would balance having a kid with being in the military. What if one of them went on a mission and didn’t come home? The thought made my stomach clench tight. What if I was the reason my cousin was orphaned? What if I screwed up and got my uncle killed next time, leaving the baby fatherless…like I’d been? I clenched my shaking hands into fists. I couldn’t let that happen, no matter what it cost me.

Uncle Mike motioned for me to take a seat on the leather sofa, then sat next to me. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And none of this is your fault. No one on this team is under any illusions about what can happen out there.”

I stared at my hands. There wasn’t anything to say. Even if we all knew the risks, it didn’t make this easier to take. A tiny kernel of anger seethed deep inside my chest. If I could hang on to that rage, pair it up with my guilt, maybe I could become so good at my job that no one else would have to die. It was a foolish thought...I knew that. But I’d keep thinking it, just the same.

Mike sighed. “Matt, I’m sorry for what happened. I wish Murphy and I had been able to give you some time to get over the shock before we pushed you back into the hunt. But sealing up the pain now isn’t going to help—trust me. It’ll be a bit before I can come visit because Julie will be restricted from travel soon, but call me anytime, okay? You need to talk about this with someone.”

He sounded so concerned that I nodded. He had his own family to watch over, though; he needed to stop worrying about me. I let him chuck me on the shoulder then headed to the car, pretending I was okay. If he thought he’d gotten through to me, then maybe he’d feel better and focus on the baby instead.

The ride to Reagan was quiet and I said my goodbyes quickly. Once I made it through security, I went straight to my gate and sat. Even though the airport was crowded, I felt alone, isolated. The things I’d seen the last several weeks had left me changed. I could feel it—the old Matt was in the process of being swept away for good.

It is a necessary thing,
the spirit said quietly.
You are becoming a soldier, a protector of your kind—it leaves a mark. You are not a child any longer.

I grunted. Maybe that was true, but it still sucked.

I spent the flight staring out the window. I didn’t see the countryside, though. I saw a bloody stinger, screaming faces, jade-colored eyes, a little girl with a bullet hole in her head. Wanting to smash the windows, I dug my fingers into my leg, trying not to go psycho. The knife-spirit murmured in my head, telling me to remain calm, but I ignored her. I had to get a grip on this myself.

The flight was turbulent and the landing jostled us hard, which matched my mood. Since it had been several hours since my last pain pill, my arm ached something awful as I crawled to my feet to collect my bags from the overhead bin. The physical bruises took as much a toll as the emotional ones. Secretly, I was glad to be out of commission for a while—I needed to recover. Maybe the ten to twelve weeks I had to wear this cast would be enough time.

And maybe it wouldn’t.

Mom and Mamie stood waiting for me in baggage claim when I left the terminal and Mom’s face was drawn. She took in my broken arm, then met my eyes. “Oh, honey.”

I stood rooted to the spot. How could I come home to my family, knowing Schmitz never would? I didn’t deserve comforting. I deserved an ass-kicking so severe it knocked me unconscious. No one here would be willing to beat me into oblivion, though, so I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

Finally, Mom came, crossing the space between us to pull me into her arms. At her touch something in my soul cracked and shattered into a billion pieces. I sucked in a quivering breath and rasped, “Get me out of here.”

Mom sent Mamie running for the car, then she walked me out to the passenger pickup lane at a brisk pace. When Mamie arrived with the minivan, Mom gently pushed me into the backseat and settled in next to me, whispering, “You’re home now, Matt. You’re home.”

I buried my face in her lap like I had as a little kid whenever I got hurt, and she cradled my head in her hands while I cried my heart out.

Mom put me to bed the second we got home, promising grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner—stock fare when one of us was sick. If I knew my mom, the sandwich would be made with whole grain bread, three kinds of cheese and real butter, because that would be the most comforting thing she could think of.

After I took a pain pill, I turned my lamp off and rolled over to face the wall. Enough sunshine filtered through the navy curtains to give my room a twilight vibe. Even though I’d royally freaked at the airport, I felt more together now that I was safely home and that little kernel of anger from earlier flared nice and hot. I’d be more careful next time. I’d be faster, better, more alert, and I’d
never
fall prey to a pretty face like that again.

I’d become the soldier the knife-spirit told me I could be.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
woke up too early on
Sunday morning to call anyone or even turn on the TV, so I took a shower, threw on sweats and went down to the kitchen to eat and hang out. Mom had left the blinds open, and I watched as the day dawned bright and sunny in our kitchen window, almost like the weather was telling me it was time to get on with my life. I’d remember how I felt, though. Anytime I got cocky or ahead of myself, I’d think of this mission and screw my head on straight.

Finally hungry for the first time in days, I ended up eating two packets of Pop-Tarts for breakfast while I browsed Facebook to see what my friends had been up to for the last few weeks. In short—mostly nothing. That was kind of comforting in a way; they were all blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in the darker places of the world. My soul might be stained by it, but they were safe...for now.

Shuffling footsteps announced my sister’s arrival before she made it to the kitchen doorway. She pointed at the clutter of foil wrappers on the table in front of me. “Did you eat anything with any nutritional value?”

“They’re strawberry Pop-Tarts. That’s fruit, right?” I nodded at her fuzzy pink robe. “Think that’ll be in fashion in the dorms next fall, or do you need to trade up?”