Page 19 of A Hero Comes Home

“Whoop-ee! Daddy’s gonna get me a dog for my birfday,” he’d heard his son yell to whoever was in the room with him.

He hadn’t exactly said that, had he?

And so it went, as the days went by way too fast before Jake got the go-ahead to leave Germany.

Chapter 5

Turns out, you can go home again . . . even if you don’t want to . . .

A week later, Jake was in the passenger seat of a small two-seater Viking Twin Otter, a float plane, being piloted by his old friend Ethan Rutledge. Both of them were wearing those heavy earphones that allowed them to speak to each other over the loud noise of the engine, while Ethan’s connected to air control somewhere on the island, as well.

Both Sally and Jake’s father had offered to pick him up . . . Sally at the airport in Richmond, or his dad on his fishing boat across the bay. But Jake knew from his nightly phone calls that reporters were bird-dogging them. Since the government would give the press no more information, especially not a timetable for his return to the USA, they figured his family would be their best bet for making contact with him. In fact, Landstuhl was glad to be rid of him after weeks of newshounds by the dozens trying to “storm the gates” of the hospital looking for him.

In any case, it was a short aerial trip over Bell Sound from the mainland to the Outer Banks, unlike the long but scenic drive along the beach road and several ferries to the barrier island, with the Atlantic Ocean on one side, and various bays and sounds on the other. Such a leisurely trip could take six hours or more from end to end in high season, which he would have, nonetheless, much preferred . . . in fact, which he’d dreamed about on numerous nights of his imprisonment, especially following days of torture.

Cruising along in his old pickup truck, windows down, a salty breeze coming in off the ocean. Fishing boats and sailboats in the distance. The occasional lighthouse. Surfers and beachcombers.

However, his leg could never have stood the pain of being in a driving position for that long. Besides, too many people would recognize him along the way . . . either from growing up on the Outer Banks, or from his picture being flashed on national TV, repeatedly, following the news conference last week in DC where his rescue had been announced by the president, along with the secretary of defense, a congressman, and other high mucky-mucks.

Jake had declined to attend, even when he’d gotten a personal invitation from the president himself via Skype. Declined was too soft a word for his “Hell, no!” refusal, delivered in as polite a manner as he could manage for the POTUS while still conveying his point. He never could have regurgitated all that “fake news” crap they’d concocted about his MIA (not POW) experience without . . . well, vomiting.

Back to the present. The aerial scene was beautiful, too, especially on this morning with the early-August sun sparkling off the whitecaps of the pristine blue waters. A squadron of brown pelicans with their distinctive oversized bills and throat pouches glided on a wind current that mimicked the waves. They were just waiting for the opportune moment to plunge-dive for a tasty breakfast of finger mullets or cigar minnows.

Home, Jake mused. Beautiful, beautiful home.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Ethan said. “Every time I cross Bell Sound I get the same ache in my chest. The view never gets old.”

Jake hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud and cringed. Even so, he admitted, “I never thought I’d see the place again.” And I certainly fought tooth and nail against returning . . . at this time, anyhow. But they forced my hand, as only Uncle Sam and his military brass can do.

Ethan gave him a quick questioning glance, but when Jake didn’t elaborate, he reached over to squeeze his forearm. “Things will get better, pal. You’re home now. Your family and friends will help you forget.”

No one can do that, and I shudder to think how they might try. Time to change the subject before he asks about my three years “hiding” in a cave. “This plane is new, isn’t it? Last time I was here, you had that old Piper model. The Christmas-tree business must be doing well for you.”

“Yeah, business is booming, even those stupid Rutledge trees,” Ethan replied, then grinned. “Remember how embarrassed I used to be over those Charlie Brown–lookalike trees that my dad grew here on the island? Now they’ve become a holiday must-have, a conversation piece for the yuppie crowd all along the Outer Banks. I swear, I can sell thousands of traditional Douglas firs from my mainland tree farms, but the ones that get the most hype are those damn scrawny evergreen mutants, the only kind of Christmas trees that can withstand Outer Banks weather.”

Jake recalled that Ethan had resisted ever going into the family business, just as he himself had baldly refused his father’s offer of a partnership in Lazy Days, the Dawson commercial fishing boat, which followed the various fish through their seasons on the Outer Banks . . . sea trout, bass, flounder, red drum, bluefish, king mackerel, crabs, shrimp, and the prized tuna. Having been forced to help out from a young age, Jake used to hate fishing. Now, he wondered if, like Ethan, he might have grown into the career, if he hadn’t opted for the military after college.

Well, that was the past. No sense dwelling on what-ifs.

He glanced sideways at Ethan, who was fiddling with one of the dials. “Your trees were even highlighted on a holiday segment of Good Morning America, according to Izzie.”

“Izzie has a big mouth,” Ethan commented.

Jake had to smile, having made the same observation more than once. “Yep, your trees and Izzie’s uncle Abe with his Reuben sandwich being featured on the Food Network are Bell Cove’s very own celebrities,” he teased.

“Pfff! That was last week’s news. These days, the big BMOC . . . Big Man on the Cove . . . is Merrill Good, the former Navy SEAL who started a salvaging/treasure-hunting company and hit pay dirt the first time out.”

Jake winced inwardly, needing no reminders of ex-SEALs in Bell Cove.

“Then, there’s Good’s new wife, Delilah, who just reopened Clyde Jones’s old diner and motel.”

“You mean the Heartbreak Motel? Oh, man! Remember the time after senior prom when we . . . never mind.”

The two of them grinned at each other.

“Of course, you won’t be laughing long about me or anyone else being in Bell Cove’s celebrity crosshairs. You have to accept that you are going to be the celeb du jour, my man.”

Not if I can help it! “Holy shit! That is the last thing I want or need.”