Chapter IV- Terms


A/N: This story starts out using a lot of text from "The Boys With Iron Hearts", and since this story diverges from that one at Chapter IV, there is no Chapter I, II, or III. Just before he is to confront Ralph over what to do over what happened on the island, Jack receives some bad news from home…


Just two weeks later, the heat was on for real. Each of the boys had taken a thorough grilling, but either out of loyalty to or fear of Jack, they all kept silent. Many, too young to fully understand all that had happened on the island or why, were all too willing to fall in line. The bad time had passed now, banished to their occasional nightmares. The young ones wanted no more to do with it than that.

It was when the police stopped by that Jack really started to get worried, though of course he never let his fear show. If the police were here, even if just to visit with a few staff, that meant someone was thinking- at least thinking- murder. And that just wasn't good; not at all.

Jack was sitting in the Cadet Officer's Club, halfway through writing "RED-47" on a scrap of notebook paper, when he noticed a shadow fall over him. Looking up, he found himself staring at Ralph. For a few moments, the two simply stared. Neither seemed too sure of what to say. Finally, Jack spoke. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, "Was there something specific you wanted?"

Ralph looked grim, but also determined. "I wanna talk. Make a deal."

Jack returned to writing on the paper. "Too late."

"It's a deal you'll want to hear."

The blonde rebel looked up and stared at Ralph, surprised and amused. Finally, he pocketed the scrap of paper. Ten seconds' time would be enough to finish it and get it to Roger if the need came. "All right," Jack said, motioning to the armchair across from him. "Talk."

Ralph just stood where he was. He seemed slightly dazed, as if he couldn't believe he was doing this. "I know where that club of yours meets."

Jack suddenly became intensely interested in polishing his capshield. "Never heard of it," Jack said dismissively. "Must be new on campus. Think they'll let me join?"

"Come on, Jack, cut the fuckin' crap!"

Jack stared.

"Point is, I know, okay? Let's not waste time here."

Jack returned to buffing his capshield, picking up the dress hat again. "So don't."

"I want a meeting out there; next Friday night. 2300. I wanna discuss terms."

"Of what, Colonel?" Jack asked, putting sarcastic emphasis on the title.

"What's going on. You know and I know something's gonna get found out, sooner or later. Longer this goes on the funnier it's gonna look. I meet you out there and we talk about it."

Jack shrugged. "I don't know, Ralph," he said enigmatically, "I don't know if you realise how many boys here have their precious little careers in danger because of you. It's got them very scared."

"You get them there too, if you want."

Suddenly, Jack got an idea. "How about we duel? Hand-to-hand, swords- guns if we had 'em. Something like that. I win, you shut up and transfer to another school. You win," Jack shrugged, "I'll leave. Confess, whatever you want. But you know what? If you wanna talk, whatever we do, we'll talk first. Talk all you like."

Ralph stood silent for a few moments. Jack took something out of his pocket and placed it in Ralph's hand; a white piece of chalk. "Tell you, what, Colonel, since I've got a real busy day and all. If you wanna take my deal, put an X on my door before chow next Thursday. I'll make all the arrangements."

As Jack stood and started to walk out of the lounge, Ralph said, "I thought you said you didn't belong to any club."

Jack shrugged. "I don't."

Then Jack turned and walked out, leaving Ralph alone in the COC, with the single white piece of chalk still in his hand.

The weekend passed, uneventful as it was. Jack kept busy, but was remarkably unconcerned by the ongoing investigation of the events on the island. He was in a tight spot here, sure, but he'd been in tighter jams than this. He'd get out of it, one way or another. On Thursday, though, things changed. A phone call came from home with news Jack hadn't bargained on. The OG called him down to the main TAC office, and right away Jack had a funny feeling about this phone call. Normally whoever was OG didn't need to act nonchalant about a call from home.

When he got down to the office, Jack walked inside, sat down at the desk in front of Master Chief Wayne, and picked up the black desk phone. "Hello?" he said, doing his best not to sound nervous, and wondering again why that was even necessary. He did his best to stay calm as his father's voice came on the line.

"Jack, there's no easy way to say what I need to say to you now. Just promise me you… you'll stay calm, okay? As best you can at least."

What did that mean?

Feeling a deep, unmanning feeling of terror come into his heart, weakening his knees until Jack didn't think he'd be able to stand up again if he had to, Jack tried desperately to tell himself it wasn't what he thought it was. His mind always went to one place when something told him his deepest, darkest, most closely-guarded fear might have the remotest chance of being realised.

Jack realised after a moment his father was waiting for a reply. His throat seemed to have closed up, permitting no air to speak. Finally, Jack nodded and said, "Yeah, Dad. Yeah."

Charles Merridew's voice was grim; real grim. He'd never liked being the bearer of bad news; the sobbing he'd had to hear, the heartbreak he'd had to see, after Jack's beloved guinea pig Felix had died when he was six had been bad enough. Despite knowing he was probably in for more than one round of delivering news that a pet has died of old age, Charles Merridew had secretly hoped ever since that even if he had to deliver bad news a thousand times to one of his sons through his remaining years, never, ever would it be worse than losing a guinea pig. Please, he'd hoped year after year, please let it be no worse than that.

Fortune had not smiled on the Merridew household this year. Clearly not.

On the other end of the line, Jack was starting to panic. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his face; he was nervously fidgeting with his collar to keep still. It was that or squeeze the phone until shrapnel shot out all over the TAC office. What was going on? What was his father about to tell him? He'd never heard his dad talk like this since…

Since…

My guinea pig died, Jack thought with a new rush of rising panic. And I don't have a guinea pig right now.

Then his dad finally forced himself to speak. It was now or never, goddamnit, and with a silent casting upward of his eyes, Charles Merridew asked whatever God was up there why in Hell it had to be now.

"There was an accident, Jack. Michael was playing on the balcony in our bedroom, the one overlooking the back yard. Your mother and I were watching, but we weren't close enough. He tripped against the railing…" Charles Merridew's voice gave out again. He could say no more. Reliving that day even one time more was plenty bad enough. The thing that pained him most was knowing the whole affair was far from being over.

Jack gripped the phone tight, shutting his eyes. Suddenly he forced himself to talk, to ask one question. He had to know this.

"Did he hurt, Dad? How'd it happen?"

"He landed on his neck, Jack. He was scared a few moments, I think, but that's all. He didn't feel a thing."

"He felt no pain, Jack. I don't know if that helps, but your brother suffered no pain."

Jack's chest hitched once, twice. He was cracking up fast, and he knew it. But he was at military school, for God's sake- whatever might be going on at home, he was in uniform here. He had a rep to protect.

Suddenly Jack realised he needed to be alone. He needed to go someplace where no one could see him, where he'd be left alone. Readying himself to talk one more time, Jack barely heard his father explain carefully that his parents would be coming to pick him up on Sunday, in time for the funeral the next day. They wanted to spare Jack the pain of being home while preparations were made, and somewhere in his mind Jack appreciated that. But the pain dulled everything; Jack was feeling a sense of loss so deep, a kind of internal agony so intense, he wouldn't have believe it possible. Nothing mattered. No amount of kindness now could make up for what Jack had lost.

Finally Jack said, "Thanks, Dad. I'll see you Sunday" and hung up the phone. He didn't bother looking at Master Chief Wayne, nor did he say anything; for once, the Chief was unsure of what to say, too.

But he did make sure the OG saw Jack up to his room; Jack was known for being tough and resilient, not normally one to be concerned about being a possible danger to himself or others. Wayne had delivered news of the death of a family member many times to sailors he served with in the fleet; in his experience, the ones who showed their grief right away, however much they tried to tough it out and hide it, were nearly always okay in the end. It was the ones who showed no reaction at all, who just shut down and functioned like robots after the news hit them, that you usually needed to watch. Jack had started looking like he was going to bawl right about the instant he was told.

As Wayne watched him go, he was thankful Jack's roommate wouldn't be coming back from the string-instrument section of the band's trip to Bunker Hill Military Academy for at least another hour. Jack was probably gonna need some alone time.

Jack did not remember later how he got up to his room that night. He barely even remembered the conversation with his father over the phone. But he did remember, with excruciating clarity, the news that he'd received. Jack held his composure long enough to make it up to his room and close the door; he didn't bother to turn on the lights. Instead, he sat down at his desk in the dark, put his head in his arms, and cried until the surface of the desk moistened with his falling tears. Before long Jack realised crying wasn't going to help, would never make a difference however long he did it. He went on anyway. It was the only thing left to do.

Memories flashed through Jack's mind every time he closed his eyes; they just worsened the pain and intensified the sobs. Playing in the back yard- the back yard!- with Michael the day he'd been told he was going to military school. He'd thought that to be the worst news in the world, then… Another memory; another image. Then another. Sights, sounds, all forced their way into Jack's mind, not caring the pain they caused him. Michael's smile, his hearty, chuckling laugh; his shiny, silvery-blonde hair, so close to Jack's it was identical. Michael's undying love for the people around him, and his unquestioning loyalty to his big brother, Jack. Michael had never feared any danger when Jack was around; he would simply point, alert Jack, and big brother would always take care of it.

Once some bad people had sped through their neighborhood while Michael was playing in the front yard; Michael had looked up at the loud, popping bangs that sounded like fireworks, and the warbling scream that he was coming to know were police sirens. But suddenly, his vision of the speeding, dented gray Buick and the five state and county Fords behind it was blotted out by a shape; red cloth and blue jeans, a lean, blonde-haired shape that in the space of two seconds flew across the front lawn and covered Michael until it was over.

Their parents hadn't been home; they'd gone 15 minutes up the road for a quick grocery run. When they saw the wrecked Buick a few yards down the block, the police grouped around the overturned car and the wrecker being moved in, the Merridews had all but panicked. They'd left their sons in the front yard! But as they got to their house, the boys weren't in the front yard. There was no sign of them. Hoping against hope, the two parents rushed in the house. Michael was playing with his toys on the rug in the living room, and Jack was sitting on the couch close by, watching TV. When asked if he'd seen what had happened, Jack said, "Nope. Guess the cops caught somebody, huh?"

Michael's unconditional trust in Jack had been forever cemented by that day. He didn't understand much of what happened, and afterwards Jack refused to talk about it. But Michael, on his own, concluded that the police had been chasing some bad people that day, and the bad people had wanted to hurt him. But Jack had hidden him from the bad people until the cops had caught them. His brother was a hero. His hero.

That memory, that recollection of the day big brother was there to save little Michael from danger, hurt Jack the most. Suddenly, he sat up, his eyes red and bleary, and screamed, "FUCK!" If he'd just been there! Maybe he could've done something! Maybe Michael would still be alive!

Maybe.

Jack lay down on his bunk sometime after that, and his last memory was the same thing he ended up doing- crying himself to sleep. That time at home, he'd cried for joy and relief, knowing how close they'd come. Had that Buick rolled into the Merridew's front yard instead of the house down the street, Jack covering his brother wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference. But Jack hadn't cared. He was alive, and so was Michael. He'd been there when his brother had needed him. What else mattered?

What else, indeed. As Jack finally just shut down and went into an exhausted sleep, some part of his memory did come back, reminding him he'd seen a white X on his door that night.

Good.