Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (18 page)

She looked at him a long time. “Who
is
your real dad?” she asked.

Sam looked away guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What I meant was my biological father. I saw him at the game tonight. He used to play football, too. I’m too much like him.” He stared at his tight hands.

Sara’s eyes softened. “You were given a bad deal, Sammy, there’s no way around that. But I really think that it’s not so much the hand we’ve been dealt that matters as much as what we do with our cards. We have to play the best game; play the best way we know how, and that’s what you’ve done, Sammy. Your dad and I are proud. We’re as proud of you as any person we’ve ever known.”

* * *

During his senior year in high school, Sam and Jody seemed to patch things up a bit and he started hanging out at the old home on the weekends every once in a while. His mom came back from las Vegas and took a few steps to clean up her life. She and Jody got back together and they settled down in the old house on the bay and took to the slow life. They expanded their business, taking it seriously for the first time. She drove the boat. Jody ran tackle and cleaned the client’s fish. Both of them attended Sam’s high-school graduation. They even gave him a present—a hundred dollars cash and a pair of black leather Italian shoes. Sam held them up, the soft leather shining in the afternoon sun, then looked at his dad.

“One day, you’re going to be someone,” his old man explained. “You’re gonna need to look good. And a good look starts with the right shoes.”

It was one of the happiest moments of Sam’s life.

* * *

Sam stayed with the Brightons for six weeks after graduating from high school, a period of discontent and frustration. But Neil and Sara didn’t push him, knowing Sam just needed a little time to sort things out. He spent much of his time wandering around the house, reading in his bedroom or puttering in the garden. And though Sam had always loved working with the earth, even this seemed to cause him frustration. He frequently commented on how he was planting seeds that he wouldn’t be around to see grow.

One afternoon Sara walked into her bedroom to see him standing in front of the mirror wearing one of Neil’s suits. The leather shoes Jody had given him shined under the loose cuff of the pants. He turned from side to side, looking at himself in the mirror, Sara watching him with pride. “Wow, you look great,” she said as he adjusted the tie. “There is something about a suit. You really look good.”

He looked a second longer, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mom. It feels too tight.”

Sara walked to him and tugged on the shoulders. “It fits you just right.”

He looked at her and smiled. “That’s not what I meant,” he answered. “But thanks anyway.” He disappeared into his bedroom to change out of the suit.

Sara understood what he was saying, so she waited until he was dressed. “What are you going to do then, Sam?” she asked when he reappeared from his room.

He hesitated, and for an instant she saw a young child there; a thirteen-year old boy, small, beaten by circumstances. She saw all the misery and anguish of the past years. But she couldn’t change that. It was now up to Sam to decide what he was going to do.

“I’m sorry,” Sam muttered, “I know you and Dad want me to go to college. Get a degree in business or go to law school or something. But I can’t do it, Mom. Maybe I’m just a bad seed. Maybe I don’t have it in me. Look at my old man, and I think we’d agree there’s not a lot to be optimistic about. I want to be like you and Dad, but I’m just like my old man instead.”

Sara felt her chest crunch. She remained speechless, her throat tight. “You are who you choose to be,” she told him.

The way that Sam looked at her indicated he didn’t know if that was true.

“What are you going to do then?” she asked again.

Sam clenched his jaw. He had made his decision the night before. “My old man taught me to fight,” he answered. “That’s something I’m pretty good at. I guess that’s what I’ll do.”

“Neil will be disappointed that you don’t go to college so you can be an officer.”

“Yeah. I understand that. But that’s the way it is, I guess.”

* * *

Six weeks later Sam left for army basic training. Twelve weeks after that, he graduated number one in his class. He was indeed a fighter. Very good at his job. Upon graduation, he was accepted to Rangers school and once again finished in the top of his class. He was then assigned to the 101st Airborne and eventually sent to Afghanistan to fight the remnants of the Taliban and al Qaeda.

Two years after joining the Army, Sam received a hand-delivered invitation from his unit commander. He opened it eagerly. He had been waiting for months.

The invitation was short and direct. The Delta Force, the U.S. Army’s elite counterterrorism experts, were looking for a very few men. Did he want to apply? Sam stared at the invitation. A shot of adrenaline ran through him and he almost jumped in the air.

Delta Force are the
crème de le crème,
the most disciplined and highly trained soldiers in the world. They are part of the U.S. Army Special Operations Forces, and they conduct covert missions that were so highly controversial and dangerous that many of the team members had long hair and wore civilian clothes as they roamed around with CIA agents in the hellish spots of the world.

Fifty of the army’s very best men, those who had already proven themselves on the battlefield, would be invited to Delta training. Three, maybe five, would make it through.

Sam was one of the proud ones. Neil attended the low-key graduation, smiling proudly from his VIP seat. Sara wasn’t allowed to attend, but it didn’t matter, she would have only cried anyway.

Sam then spent a hellish twenty months crawling through the spider web of caves that lined the eastern Afghanistan border, hunting down and killing various enemies of the United States. During this time he finished college, getting a degree in International Relations, with a minor in Arabic and Urdu. Again, he graduated with honors. Then came a commission as an officer, a thing which made the general
very
proud.

Five minutes after placing his order, Neil’s adopted son walked through the door.

Samuel had put on weight, twenty pounds, all of it muscle in his shoulders and arms. His hair had grown long and sun-bleached and it hung in bangs in his eyes and over his ears. And he was tan, almost dark, from the vicious Afghani sun. Brighton noted his goatee, which was so tightly trimmed it was barely a shadow of stubble. Dressed in dark jeans, a tan T-shirt and leather hiking boots, he looked more like a European than an American. He certainly didn’t look army and though Brighton knew the Delta’s often worked undercover, as a traditional soldier it was a little unsettling. He expected a GI Joe in a tight haircut and USA T-shirt. What he saw was a Hell’s Angel who has just slipped off his Hog.

But these were the new warriors. And he thought that it was cool. He stared a proud moment then stood and waved to his son.

Sam picked him out and moved through the crowd toward his table. Brighton stood to embrace him and they slapped each other on the back before they sat down. “Sam, it’s good to see you!” Brighton said in delight.

“No kidding! This is great. How are you, Dad?”

“A little nervous, actually.”

“Why’s that?” Sam cocked his head.

“I was only scheduled for a 40 minute refueling stop at Ramstein,” Brighton answered. “I didn’t think I’d have time to get together with you, but your mother was so determined that I see you, I’m thinking she snuck onto base and sabotaged my aircraft before I took off. Now I’m wondering what else she might have done. Is my airplane safe anymore?”

Both of them laughed then stared at each other, a proud father and proud son. “You look good,” Brighton offered, “but I’ve got to tell you, that isn’t what I have come to expect from a soldier.”

Sam pushed his hair back. “Welcome to the Deltas. This is how it is now.”

Brighton pointed to the long hair and rough clothes. “They wouldn’t let our Air Force guys get away with that,” he answered.

“Your boys jet around like Space Rangers. They don’t play down in the mud with the men.”

“I guess not.”

“And remember, Dad, we have to work with the locals. It helps us to blend in, which is a good thing.”

Brighton nodded. He knew that. “Things in Afghanistan OK?” he asked.

“Doing good, doing good.”

His father leaned toward him intently. “Really?” he asked.

“Well, Dad, I’m not really sure what you want me to say. For one thing, you’re a senior member of the president’s national security staff. Anything I say could be used against me. I’m not going go there, know what I mean. If you want information on operations in Afghanistan, I refer you to my commander, General Brighton, sir.”

Brighton cracked a thin smile. “OK, Captain Brighton. Duly noted. Now, just between you and me, how are things going in Afghanistan?”

“It’s a hole. Hot. Dusty. Too many idiots who hate the United States. Too many donkeys and not enough rain. The whole country smells like an outhouse in the summer. Chiggers and sand fleas. What more do you want to know.”

Brighton shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry! Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have it any other way! I can’t wait to get back there. It’s a miserable and lousy mission, but we’re killing more of the enemy than any other unit in the world. We’re shooting out the brains of those guys bent on destroying their own country and killing their own people. So no, I’m not complaining, I’m just doing my job.”

“You should have listened to me. You could have gone to the Academy and learned to fly jets.”

“And miss getting shot at while taking a piss over the side of an eighteen thousand foot cliff? Why would I ever do that?”

Brighton shrugged. “What was I thinking?” he answered sarcastically.

“And remember, Dad,” Sam continued, his emotion on the rise, “these guys don’t just want to destroy us in some vague or ambiguous way. They want to kill us. To hurt us. To cause us any kind of pain. Give any one of them a dull knife and they’d happily cut your head off, all the time laughing while they hacked away. Give them a nuke and they’d take out D.C. in a heartbeat, smiling and laughing while counting a million people dead. And if anyone doesn’t believe that then I think them a fool. If they’d seen what I’ve seen, then they wouldn’t have any doubt.”

“Hey Sammy, you’re preaching to the choir here.”

Sam quit talking, but even in the dim light his blue eyes burned bright. Brighton lifted his water and tilted it toward him. “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

Sam lifted his Perrier. “Thank you, general,” he said.

* * *

The five Germans watched the two American soldiers intently while sipping their ale. They were all in their thirties and had missed most of the U.S. glory days. More, they considered Miss Lelas a local joint, off limits to the American riffraff, and they thought that had been made abundantly clear from the old BUSH IS HITLER poster hanging near the front door. And if that didn’t do it, the upside down British flag over the bar should have made their feelings clear.

Besides being angry at the world, the five men had been unemployed for going on three years and were nearly drunk despite the early hour. So they watched the U.S. officer and the local kid (probably selling secrets about the anti-war movement), whispering and cursing all the time. They quickly decided they detested the Yankees more than the sight of spilled beer.

“Look at him!” the largest German sneered. “Big shot American cowboy, just like Bush used to be. On his way to kill Afghans. That’s all they do is kill!”

His buddies shook their heads in agreement. Stinking Americans. All cocky and proud.

“You remember Wolf?” one of them asked. The other men stared. “You know, Wolfgang Struttger, runs the printing service downtown. He married an American, some woman who got a divorce from her soldier when she got over here. Then she dumped old Wolf and took off with most of his cash. Cleaned him out completely, then made off with his son. He’s seen the kid but one time since she left. She’s back in the United States now, but he doesn’t know where.”

The other buddies swore. “Filthy, arrogant bitch!”

They stared at each other and sipped miserably at their beer.

“He shouldn’t be here,” the largest man finally sneered to his friends. “This is
our
place. Our country. None of
them
should be here. They bring only death and destruction. They only care about war! They only fight when there’s oil they want to get their hands on! They only fight when it suits them. And have you ever noticed, they always fight
against us.
Look at all the wars of the past hundred years. Did the United States ever help us? No! Never once. They claim they’re our ally, but isn’t it funny how we always find ourselves looking down the barrel of their guns!”

His buddies all mumbled, boiling even hotter with rage.

“Jew-loving
Amris!
” the leader hissed. “Arab-hating scum. Closed minded bigots and self-righteous crusaders is all that they are. How many nations have they exploited and crushed through the years!”

The other men mumbled, content to hate from afar. But the fat one had had too many beers. “I’m going to get him!” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I hate these stinking Americans and it’s time I let them know.”

* * *

General Brighton and Sam were working hungrily through a heaping plate of sausage and sauerkraut when Brighton saw the men approach out of the corner of his eye. Four of them followed their leader, who was a large man, tall as he, but at least 50 pounds heavier. He had a dark beard and short hair and he wore common work clothes. They all looked to be in their 30s and for a second Brighton thought they were coming to talk to him about flying. Back in the old days, it wasn’t uncommon for the locals to want to talk about the air force or what it was like to live in the United States. Then he saw the angry looks on their faces and realized these men were not in a talking mood. These men wanted trouble. And they were coming for him.