Page 38 of Trusting a Warrior

“You guys are good,” he called to the nearest one, a tall, lanky Latino dude who’d sat back on his heels and was wiping the back of his gloved hand over his forehead.

“Fuckin’ lost him, though,” the PJ said, indicating the mannequin’s flat-line computer readout. “Femoral artery. Never stood a chance.”

Geo winced. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“What was the scenario?”

“Stepped on an IED. What else?” The PJ gestured toward Bosch. “Too bad their imaginary ‘patrol’ didn’t have a K9.” After holding his knuckles out for a bump, he turned back to his teammates.

Sucking in a deep breath, Geo let the familiar smell of dust and exhaust settle in his lungs, his body swaying with the motion of the helo. Bosch sat placidly next to him, his dog-sized goggles and muzzle on. Yeah, the two of them had definitely saved a lot of lives these past couple of years.

Geo closed his eyes. It was a good feeling, knowing they’d made a difference. Because of them, hundreds of families had gotten their loved ones home intact. All the IEDs they’d found, the ambush nests they’d broken up, the structures they’d identified that were rigged to blow with just a touch of the door, meant a few more men and women safe for another day.

Behind him, the PJs sprawled disconsolately about, their dead “patient” between them. With a nicked femoral artery, the odds had been against him from the start, no matter the top-notch trauma care he’d received.

Geo had seen guys bleed out on dusty roads thousands of miles from home, their shattered bodies struggling to hang on. He’d held their hands, and in some cases comforted their dogs. One long, terrible night, he’d sat with a dying K9 while her handler was rushed into surgery with wounds so extensive no one expected him to survive. He had, and when he’d finally woken up, the first words he managed to mumble were, “Where’s my dog?”

When would his luck run out? Maybe it never would. Maybe it’d continue, as Geo grew older and slower, as young guys with shiny new Tridents flooded the ranks, eager to get in the fight. Geo flinched. That’d be a lingering death all its own, for fuck’s sake, being the guy who stuck around past his prime in an environment where thirty-five was considered old.

He stared unseeing at the ground flashing below his boots.

Passing the torch to the next generation of SEALs would be something he’d have to do eventually. Maybe he should think about doing it on his own terms. What that would look like, he had no fucking idea, but for the first time, he let the reality seep in—that someday, this all would end.

Then what?

By the time the helicopter landed at the naval air station, Geo was bone-tired. Wearily, he got Bosch settled in his kennel for the night, then trudged out to the parking lot, where one of the PJs was being picked up by his family.

“Daddy!” A little girl wearing a cowboy outfit hurled herself into her burly father’s arms, and he picked her up and tossed her high over his head before catching her and swinging her around. Propping her on his hip, he bent to kiss his wife, then the baby she was holding.

Geo watched them. What would it be like, to have a tiny human dependent on you for everything? To know that you were responsible for their most basic of needs, for just keeping them alive, during those first few months? Then as they grew, to have the responsibility for raising them to be people of integrity, well-rounded individuals with a healthy outlook who treated everyone around them with respect?

He shook his head. Dang. Commando shit had nothing on parenting. No wonder Lani was scared. He would be, too. Still, as the PJ buckled his little family safely into their SUV, Geo couldn’t help but think, “Lucky guy. You don’t have to go home alone tonight.”

As he was about to turn away, he caught a glimpse of Matt ambling across the parking lot toward a beat-up old truck. “Hey!” he called impulsively, waving his arm to get Matt’s attention. “Dude!”

Changing course, Matt jogged over. “What’s up?” he asked as they bumped knuckles in greeting.

“Eh, just wondered if you wanted to grab a drink? If you don’t have anywhere else to be, that is.”

Glancing at his watch, Matt said, “Well, I’m picking Shane up at the airfield in a few hours, but sure, we could grab something.”

“Danny’s?”

“Meet you there.”

Twenty minutes later they were both seated at the bar at Danny’s, a SEAL hangout and Coronado staple. Business was slow on this Tuesday night, although there were several older men, lean and leathery, grouped together near the end of the counter.

Retired team guys.

Geo ordered a beer, raising an eyebrow when Matt stuck with club soda with lime.

“I actually don’t drink,” he explained with a wry grin. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, if you feel like sharing, I’m all ears.”

Geo listened as Matt told him about being a bored kid in a small North Dakota town, and how his recreational drinking had gotten out of control, coming within a hair’s breadth of derailing his dreams of becoming a SEAL. He credited his uncle, a former SEAL himself, with helping him get his head out of his ass and into BUD/S.