Morgan's Son (27 page)

Sabra gently touched his set jaw, feeling the tension in it. "You did what you could."

His hands closed slowly into fists. "It wasn't enough," he rasped harshly. "I should have kept working that hatch. It was starting to give way…. I should have—"

"The lock mechanism had melted from the blast," Sabra interrupted quietly. "Or it jammed, Craig. If you couldn't get it open, no one could have."

He shrugged wearily, the silence deepening. "I remember a woman doctor leaning over me, telling me I'd broken my left ankle in two places and cracked four ribs on my left side. My right arm was fractured. When I told her how I'd gotten Summers out and then tried to open that door, she said it was a miracle I was alive. I shouldn't have been able to do any of it with so many broken bones. Adrenaline, I guess…"

"It was," Sabra whispered, fighting back her tears. "How you could walk on a broken ankle, much less try to force open that door covered with fire is beyond me."

"I'm no hero," he said flatly. "So don't look at me like that. I should have rescued them. I should have gotten to them—"

"No!" Sabra gripped his hands—now knotted, white-knuckled fists in his lap. His skin felt damp and clammy. "No," she rattled, "you did as much as you could do, Craig. What you accomplished was beyond ordinary human strength and courage. I know
Cal
was your friend. I can't even begin to imagine how you felt, hearing him scream…."

Blindly, Craig reached out, sliding his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. Tears squeezed from beneath his tightly shut eyes. Her arms went around him, strong and steadying. He buried his face in her hair, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

"Let it go," Sabra whispered, holding him as tightly as she could. "Cry, Craig. Cry for
Cal.
Cry for Brent. And for Linda and the children…." She slid her trembling hand across his hair and her voice cracked. "I'll hold you, darling. Just let it go, please…."

The huge fist of pressure, followed by the burning sensation that was always there in the nightmare, came swiftly. Sabra's husky voice and firm touch broke down the last barriers within him. She was holding him, and the whole poisonous nightmare spilled up through him. His throat constricted, a huge lump jamming there, and he gasped for breath, pressing his face against her hair, trying to avoid it. Trying to stop it. But it was impossible. Sabra's soothing voice shattered the hold the nightmare had on him. The past warred with the present, the choking odor of oily smoke and burning metal warring with her sweetly feminine scent. A sound like that of an animal being wounded tore from his contorted lips, and he clung to her, as the first strangled sob ripped out of him.

Sabra caressed Craig's damp cheek, feeling the slow, hot tears begin trickling down his face. She pressed her jaw against his brow, allowing him to bury his face against her. A second sob shook him, making his whole body tremble in the wake of the violent release. Tears scalded Sabra's eyes, her heart breaking with the sounds that began to tear from deep within him. Craig had gone through so much. He needed to cry—to release the horror that had lived in him for the past two years. She kept rubbing his shoulders and down his back. With each stroke of her hand another sob broke loose. Why was it so hard for men to cry? Sabra had long ago lost count of the times she'd cried. It was a wonderful, healing release. Didn't men realize that? What in their stoic natures prevented them from being human?

She knew all too well that the military frowned on men crying on the battlefield, believing it showed weakness. Craig's arms were so tight around her that her rib cage hurt, but she didn't care. He was holding on to her as if she were the last person on earth, afraid to let go for fear that she, too, would reject him.

Gradually, over the next fifteen minutes, his harsh sobs diminished. Sabra was able to settle next to him, her body a fortress for him after the fury of his emotional storm. She guessed that with his military background, Craig would be ashamed that he'd cried in her arms. Frustrated, she realized she could do little to prevent those feelings. Now that he'd told her the whole story, she knew what she'd already believed. Craig's only real fault was the depth of his guilt at not being able to rescue the men he'd loved as brothers. Sabra could only guess how awful he must feel to have lived through such a horrifying experience, but her heart broke for him.

"Here," she offered tremulously, handing him the edge of the sheet, "you can use this as a handkerchief."

Craig slowly eased away from Sabra, taking the proffered fabric and wiping his face dry of the perspiration and tears. It hurt to look up and meet Sabra's eyes. What would she think of him now? He'd admitted his cowardice. He'd told her of his inability to help his dearest friends in their worst moment. Would he see the accusation in her lovely gray eyes as he had in Linda's? Anguish cut through him in a new way, because he was vulnerable now as he'd never been before. Allowing the sheet to drop aside, he risked everything, and looked up—into Sabra's luminous eyes.

Instead of accusation, Craig saw her pain for him. Her lips were parted, glistening with spent tears. Her tears. As she reached out and touched his cheek, trying to smile, he released a tightly held breath. "How can you look at me like that?"

"How can I not?" She framed his face with her hands and looked deeply into his reddened eyes. "No one in their right mind would accuse, Craig. You did nothing wrong. My God, you almost died trying to help your friends." She picked up his scarred hands. "Look at this. You burned your hands so badly that you'll carry the scars for the rest of your life. You walked on a leg that shouldn't have supported you. You should never have been able to pull at that release handle with your broken ribs and arms." Her voice cracked. "You're a very brave man in my eyes. I don't know that I'd have had the courage you did. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you must have known that your helicopter could blow up, but you disregarded it and went after your friends." Tears ran down her cheeks, and Sabra ignored them, holding his wounded gaze. "You rescued Summers. That has to be enough. With all your wounds and broken bones, you tried. It's enough, Craig."

Her quiet tear-filled words acted as a balm to Craig's raw emotions. He saw not the least accusation in her eyes. Amazed, he took her hands and held them in his own. Sabra was crying—for him. No one had cried for him, only for those who hadn't made it back. He bowed his head and shut his eyes. "When I got flown to
Germany
, the old uniform they'd cut off me came with me. I—I asked a nurse to look in the pockets. She found the small plastic bag with the locks of hair. I kept asking her to find the white envelope, but she couldn't. I remember being frantic, knowing how important that letter was. I didn't know what was in it, but I knew I had to find it. I was nearly out of my mind with pain, but the pain of losing that envelope was worse. They had me on drugs, and I remember floating in and out for days.

"Every time I regained consciousness, I asked that nurse for the envelope. I don't know why she didn't tell me to go to hell, because I bugged her incessantly. About the fourth day I was in
Germany
, I woke up and saw a dirty white envelope, the edges burned away, lying on my chest. When I realized it was
Cal
's letter, I started yelling until finally a nurse came running into my room—a different nurse. I begged her to open it and read it to me, because my hands and arms were a mess."

Craig took a deep breath and looked at Sabra. "I think
Cal
knew he wasn't going t make it. I'll never forget what he'd written. He'd asked me to take the letter to Linda, to give it to her."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, after I got out of the series of hospitals I was in. I didn't make it to
Cal
's funeral. I couldn't be there for Linda and her daughters the way I wanted. I was going through so many operations, it wasn't funny, and without the use of my arms, I couldn't even call. I had a nurse dial her, and she held the phone to my ear so I could tell her how sorry I was." His mouth flattened. "All Linda could do was cry. I don't remember a whole lot about the call, anyway, because I was on painkillers at the time."

"You tried, Craig."

"Yes," he admitted softly, "I tried. But I knew Linda was blaming me. I could hear it in her voice."

"How long was that after
Cal
died?"

"Two weeks."

"Listen," Sabra said hoarsely, "she was in a state of shock, Craig. For that matter, so were you. You were on drugs, and I'm sure it skewed your perception."

With a shrug, he said, "Four months later, I finally slipped out of the hospital and went to see her. I was expecting the worst. Linda had moved away from
Camp
Reed
, back home to
Seattle
. She and the girls were living with her parents. I—it was a mess. Her parents looked at me as if I was some kind of monster. The oldest girl, Sammy, started crying when I came into the house. Claire, their youngest, who
Cal
had named after my mother, just lay in Linda's arms, staring up at me as if I was a stranger. Before—before we left, Claire had known me. I would go over to their apartment for dinner, and that little girl treated me like an uncle or something. She'd hold her arms out to me the moment she heard my voice." He looked away. "Maybe it was my burns. I had a pretty ugly face at the time. I guess I didn't look much like my old self. The kid was probably just frightened."

Sabra laid her hand on his arm, hurting deeply for him. "Did you give Linda the letter?"

"Yeah, I did. Her parents were there behind her, silently accusing me for not saving
Cal
's life. Sammy was crying and clinging to her mother's skirt, and Claire was just staring up at me with those huge green eyes. I felt like a coward. I felt like apologizing for having lived. I gave Linda the plastic bag back, too. I tried to explain, but her father started cursing at me, and I couldn't handle it. I left. I left without saying goodbye. I did apologize to Linda, though."

Swallowing hard, Sabra held his watery gaze. "You shouldn't have apologized for anything, Craig."

"Maybe…At least I got her the letter. At least
Cal
got to tell his family that he loved them."

"Did Linda read the letter right away?"

He shook his head. "No. She just pressed it to her heart and looked up at me with tears in her eyes." He released a breath. "Hell, Sabra, it was a messy situation all the way around. I found out later that the State Department hadn't told them how
Cal
died. They said it was top secret and they couldn't divulge the details. About a year after that, Linda contacted me. Over the phone, I told her exactly what had happened. She cried a little and thanked me and hung up."

"Did she thank you for trying to save
Cal
?"

"No. She was hurting, Sabra."

Nodding, she smiled slightly and touched his scarred cheek. "You've been through so much alone, Craig."

Ignoring her compassion, he added, "After I got out of the military hospital, they wanted me to resume flying. I went back to get some flight time." His mouth flattened. "I couldn't do it, Sabra. I went back to
Camp
Reed
and stood on the tarmac, looking at the same type of helicopter I'd flown in
Iraq
. I got shaky and vomited. I couldn't get in the bird." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I knew they thought I was a coward—"

"No!" Sabra bit back the rest of her cry. "No," she told him in a low, off-key voice, "you weren't
ever
a coward, Craig. Not ever."

"The instructor was understanding. Each day, we'd meet at a specific time, and each day I'd get a step closer to that bird. Finally, after a week, I forced myself to sit in the pilot's seat. I started sweating like a dog and wanting to cry. I remember vomiting out the window. I'd never felt so ashamed. So—so cowardly. He'd been over there. He'd flown missions just like mine."

"Only," Sabra rasped, "he hadn't suffered through a crash like you had."

"That's true," Craig said tiredly. He forced a bitter smile. "Well, the upshot of it was I couldn't fly. I froze at the controls. The instructor would get the bird going, ready to fly, but I couldn't lift it off. The muscles in my arms and legs would freeze. I couldn't do it."