Next to Die by Marliss Melton Page A

salute, which the admiral half-heartedly returned.
    “At ease, there, Commander,” the old man growled. “We’re all in civilian clothes, here.”
    “Would you like to sit, sir?” Joe asked, offering his chair, though there were several empty seats in the waiting area.
    “Oh, no. Sitting makes me feel confined. Brings back memories of ’Nam.”
    “You were a POW, sir?”
    “Yes, I was. Spent a hundred and three days in a South Vietnamese jungle camp with two shattered kneecaps. Enemy shot down my parachute,” he added.
    “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” said Joe, who remained standing. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is it that you know me?”
    For several seconds, Admiral Jacobs just looked at him with pale blue eyes. “I’ve done my research, son,” he finally answered. “When any of my boys get lost, I take it personal.”
    Joe swallowed against a dry throat. It unsettled him a bit that this man knew him, but he’d never heard of Admiral Jacobs.
    The man narrowed his eyes, “You ever ask yourself if someone’s to blame for the hell you’ve been through?”
    Joe wavered on his feet. “Yes, sir,” he admitted, realizing with sudden clarity that he blamed himself. If he’d let Harley go in or waited another few days, there might have been no casualties.
    “Where was that AC-130 when you needed it?” continued the admiral in a hushed voice. “And who in his right mind would send a Chinook into compromised airspace?” A vein appeared on the man’s wrinkled forehead. “That’s like standing in an open field flailing your arms and yelling, ‘Here I am! Shoot me down!’” A fleck of spittle appeared on one corner of the admiral’s mouth.
    The possibility that someone else was to blame left Joe light-headed with mixed shock and relief.
    “My only son was a marine with the Third MEF,” the admiral volunteered unexpectedly.
    It took Joe a second to remember that the Third Marine Expeditionary Force had been wiped out by friendly fire at the start of the war. “The incident outside of Nasiriyah,” he remembered. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
    With a nod and wetness in his eyes, the old man looked away.
    An aide leaned out of the door to call the next patient “Admiral Jacobs? Your turn, sir.” Without a glance back at Joe, the admiral hobbled toward her.
    Joe waited for him to disappear before sinking back into his seat. Could someone other than himself be blamed for the clusterfuck that had killed so many?
    Closing his eyes, he dared to think back. He was belted into the belly of the UH-60, awaiting that fateful jump that would place him and his men on the LZ. The thrumming of the rotors, the thinness of the air, grains of sand stuck in his teeth. He remembered as if it were yesterday.
    As operations officer, he’d pored over maps with the original four SEALs and talked with intel operators. They’d assured him that there were no rebels on the mountaintop, and even if there were, the AC-130 would be right there on call to take them out. Nothing should have gone wrong.
    Joe’s eyes sprang open. For a second there, he’d teetered toward the trap of cynicism that Admiral Jacobs tried to set in his mind. God, it was tempting to blame someone else for a night gone wrong.
    Only Joe couldn’t do that. His colleagues at JSOTF were thorough. His superiors had served in the Gulf War and knew the cost of self-inflicted casualties.
    It was bad luck, pure and simple, that those insurgents had been hiding in caves. Bad luck that the AC-130 had been summoned elsewhere, that they couldn’t get a Blackhawk in the air instead of a Chinook.
    The only person who could have altered the events of that night was himself. A different day, a different OIC, and the tragedy might have been avoided.
     
    Admiral Jacobs’s cell phone gave a shrill ring. Penny, who was about to remind him that cell phones weren’t permitted in the hospital, kept her mouth shut. Who was she to tell an admiral what to