Page 12 of A Hero Comes Home

Do not voice an opinion about Nazim, in his present role or any past contact you may have had with him.

Do not claim to have inside info on Balakistan, its history, culture, or tribes, such as the Qadir, battles, or political climate.

Do be thankful to the president and secretary of defense for their actions in bringing you home. If you are so inclined, you can thank God, as well, though that might offend some sectors.

Do express your continuing loyalty to the United States and its military.

Do take advantage of medical opportunities to bring yourself back to pre-2016 physical condition, or as much as possible, including any eye and leg operations deemed necessary.

Do meet ASAP with the psychiatrist hired to work with you at the VA hospital in Richmond, Lieutenant Colonel Martin Elliott, a specialist in military PTSD.

Do maintain regular contact with your Army liaison during your medical leave.

Do consider the Pentagon’s generous offer of a promotion to major and a posting in the Department of Defense’s Office of Communications.

Do not hesitate to ask for help. Your country appreciates your service.

Jake blinked several times after finishing his quick scan of the document. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t say anything about the three years I was a POW.”

“Without getting prior approval from your contact at the DOD, that’s correct. Army Code of Conduct, Section 108, part B. From this point on, the term we will be using is MIA, not POW.”

“Actually, I don’t mind keeping my mouth shut. Confidential intel has always remained private. But I draw the line at becoming your propaganda machine, being interviewed by the news media, parroting some political buzz words. And what’s with your assumption that I would want to talk about Nazim. Hell, I even object to the assumption that I want to go home to the Outer Banks.”

In the end, Jake and the major arrived at a compromise.

Neither of them was happy.

Honey, I’m home . . .

The phone rang at nine o’clock on the dot. Sally was sitting on her bed, the cordless phone in her hand, but she didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t.

She’d had more than five hours to prepare herself, but her body was still frozen with shock. A small part of her clung to the idea that someone was playing a morbid joke. Or that she was lost in a dream and couldn’t wake up.

Her father-in-law, Jake’s father, had done nothing but freeze up and go off on his boat to brood, ever since they’d gotten the news. Not unlike Sally, who’d probably scandalized both the general and the senator by not shedding a single tear. Why would she? She still didn’t believe it. Finally, the bossy general had returned to DC. If the man, with his long list of “advice,” had stayed longer, Sally might very well have knocked him over the head with one of her baking trays.

The boys were asleep due to overexcitement, starting with the fishing expedition this morning and then the news that they actually had a father—which they could hardly understand, but recognized as something huge in their lives. To them, it was like Christmas and birthdays combined, with surely the promise of presents on their greedy horizons.

The townsfolk didn’t know yet that their lost hero was a live hero, thanks to orders from General Advise-a-Lot, but they suspected something was up. If the pretentious vehicle parked outside wasn’t a clue, the presence of a general and a senator certainly were, not to mention two military security guards patrolling the perimeter of her property.

Which didn’t stop some of the Bell Cove-ites. In fact, Laura Atler, editor of the local newspaper, The Bell, scooted around one of the soldiers and made a mad dash for the cottage, only to be picked up bodily by a grinning marine, then frog-marched back to her car.

Not to be deterred, the phone, which had been set on voice mail, hadn’t stopped ringing. But the voice mail had been turned off now so that she could accept this all-important call.

On the fifth ring, Sally picked up. “Hello.”

“Hey, babe!”

It’s Jake. It really is! Oh, my God! And what’s with this casual “Hey, babe!” as if he just returned from a normal three- or four-week deployment? But then she realized that he might be as nervous as she was. And so she replied in the way she would have in the old days . . . the days prior to his “death.”

“Hey, dude!” she said, barely above a whisper, the usual response she made to his “Hey, babe.”

They’d started that playful exchange back when she’d first met him at a Central Park concert eons ago. She had been a student at the Manhattan School of Music, waiting for her big break as a singer in a Broadway production, he a handsome soldier on leave in the big city. Her heart had literally skipped a beat on seeing the young man with blue, blue eyes in a spiffy dress uniform. More than nine years later, her heart still beat so fast she could scarcely breathe, but for different reasons now, of course.

Over the lump in her throat, she managed to get out, “Long time no hear, sweetie.”

“The dead don’t speak, sweetie.” He laughed.

And, yes, she sensed nervousness from his end. “I’m sorry,” she said right off.