CHAPTER 10 – Balance

The Marines sat quietly in the shadows of an abandoned Laundromat whose windows have been blown away. The battered platoon picked away at their MRE's mainly to kill time since few had any appetite after the bloody attack they'd endured less then two hours earlier. The rest of the company had moved through their position with them bringing up the rear. A halt had been called at the front so the soldiers took the opportunity to rest. Unfortunately a lack of action also meant an opportunity to rehash what had happened. Few talked about it, most brooded alone, a weight of burden that survivors often bear increasing by the minute.

Their leader could see this and knew what had to be done. Moving away from his troops he put in a call to headquarters. Several minutes later he called the men together.

"We're coming off the line," Lt. Gordon announced to the battered platoon a look of relief on his tired face. "Forty-eight hours of R-and-R in the rear area. Choppers'll be here in an hour for us."

The men let out a cheer at the unexpected revelation, happy for the brief respite from the intensity of combat.

All cheered except Jason Lockett. He scowled at the news while fidgeting with his weapon.

Gordon saw this so casually made his way over to the brooding corporal. "You okay Lockett?" the observant officer asked.

"I don't need to step down, I want to stay in the fight," Lockett shot back testily.

"You going out and getting yourself killed isn't going to bring them back corporal," Gordon surmised correctly.

Lockett slumped in defeat at the correct observation. "But I got men killed sir. I owe them…"

"What? Payback?" Gordon retorted. "Leave that for the gang bangers and the movies son. That's not professional and it not what Marines do. Listen to me very carefully. You didn't kill them, the Squids did. You did everything you could."

"They're still dead," Lockett murmured, tears filling his eyes.

"That's war," the compassionate officer responded, sitting down beside the crumbling Marine. "You can't control that, any more then you can control the circumstances. Do you know what the measure of a man is Lockett?" he asked to distract him.

"I don't know sir. What we do? What we accomplish?"

"No, that's what the world would say. That's what advertisers would say when they try to sell you something. The true measure of a man is what they do with the things that happen to them. You can't control what happens to you but you can control what you do with it. Does that make sense?"

Lockett reflected on that for a minute then he nodded his head, a spark coming back to his eyes. "Yea…yea, it does. Thanks sir."

"All right," Gordon clapped him on the shoulder, "let's get the troops ready to move."

Mike lay in his bed idly flipping through an issue of Sports Illustrated that was making predictions for the upcoming college football season. Guess that's not going to happen anymore he thought to himself. Just one more change, one more thing lost.

A television set in the step-down unit of the hospital he'd been moved to blared on incessantly with updates on the war and armchair analysts giving their predictions about what the future held. Mike had been placed there to recuperate and prepare for a return to active duty. Though continuing to suffer bouts of terrible pain from his wounds, he didn't let anyone know since he knew if they realized how shaky he was they'd never let him out.

He spotted the now familiar tousle of dark hair come bobbing into the ward signaling Michele had arrived for a visit. Her working in the field hospital had meant she'd been able to see him every day, often several times. Despite reservations about his feelings, and discomfort about how she seemed to feel about him, the visits were a welcome respite from the grind of physiotherapy and the drone of the TV and war updates. He began to long even for Jersey Shore, or Dancing with the Stars, anything that would signal a return to their prior, insulated, mundane way of living. No more, everything had become practical, utilitarian.

Despite the fact only costal areas of the US had been attacked the impact had been catastrophic for the whole nation. The stock market had plunged to its lowest levels in 100 years forcing a shut-down until the situation could be stabilized. Panic caused a run on banks and food supplies had started to become scarce. A large-scale mobilization of domestic National Guard and Reserves units further interrupted an already fragile economy. Attempts to bring troops and equipment home from overseas deployment had been temporarily halted when the returning 7th fleet had been decimated by underwater alien craft. So currently the only troops able to come back were those being airlifted but fuel was being used sparingly due to attacks in the Gulf region so the major response needed to be domestic. The nation stood, but teetered precariously.

"Hi Mike," she greeted him warmly. "I brought someone to see you."

"Staff Sergeant Nantz!"

"Hector!" Mike sat bolt upright in surprise at the appearance of the boy, causing a wave of pain.

The Latino youth rushed over to Mike's bed and crushed him in a spontaneous bear hug, oblivious to everything around him. Mike returned the embrace, basking in the feeling of unhindered affection. They broke but the boy sat at the end of the bed, within reach of Mike, his large brown eyes moist with tears.

"Hey champ, how've you been?" Mike asked.

"Okay. I've wanted to see you for days. I didn't forget, they just wouldn't let me see you," Hector explained, starting to get emotional at the recollection.

"It's alright, I understand," Mike tried to encourage him. "The doc's have been keeping me on a pretty tight leash. So what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Nothing really. Just hanging out with Kirsten and Amy, trying to help out around the camp where I can."

"You're a good man Hector; you'll make a great Marine someday."

"I want to fight," the boy declared passionately.

"I bet you do," Mike agreed carefully.

It would be so easy to patronize the boy, to brush off his fervor but as Mike looked at what was really a young man, he could see the desire to avenge his father, to prove he was a 'good Marine', to do something to help the cause. Mike was reminded anew of why he fought, and why they had to win.

"Some day you might but I pray you never have too because it would mean there is no other way. It's not your time." Seeing Hector slump in dejection Mike added, "But you can fight back in other ways. You can help us and honor your dad by helping in the camp, by helping Michele with her nieces and by continuing to believe we're going to win. Can you do that?"

"I can Staff Sergeant." The boy buried himself in Mike's chest causing the Marine to enfold him in his strong arms. Mike looked past the boy and saw Michele smiling at him, her eyes glistening with tears yet looking at him with an affection that made her more beautiful then he'd even seen her.

"All right Hector. We need to let the Staff Sergeant rest," Michele announced to the disappointment of both. "But you can see him tomorrow again."

"Bye," Hector waved and walked away.

Michele led the boy from the ward but suddenly stopped and ran back to Mike. She whispered to him, "He needed that," then, without thinking, kissed him lightly on the cheek. Turning red with embarrassment she strode off without looking back.

"So did I," Mike whispered back, feeling a tingling sensation on his cheek. He watched the pair leave passing an officer in camouflage utilities with a clerical collar who'd been standing a few beds away. The clergyman watched intently with a raised eyebrow and amused look on his lean, tanned face.

"Father Alexander!" Mike cried out in surprise at seeing the priest.

"Hello Michael," the priest responded walking over to his bed and giving a firm handshake with one hand and patting the convalescing Marine on the shoulder with the other.

"You're alive," the square jawed man exclaimed, still unable to believe what he saw.

"So it would seem. The Lord hasn't seen fit to call me home yet."

"How?"

"Did I get out?" Father Alexander asked. "I left Pendleton in a support convoy just as Mainside came under attack. We were moving to assist the troops being deployed to protect San Diego….it wasn't a pretty sight." The priest shook slightly and made the sign of the cross as he seemed to recall what had happened. "Anyway, once that fell apart those of us who remained made our way here kind of like Moses and Israel going to the Promised Land." A twinkle returned to his eyes and he added, "I'm glad it didn't take forty years!"

"I'm glad too," Mike agreed, emotion rising in his voice.

Father Alexander smiled at the tough Marine with genuine affection. "So I can see you're recovering and the doctor has told me you're wanting back into combat as quick as you can."

Mike nodded in agreement at the recap but avoided the piercing eyes of the priest.

"That certainly fits with how I know you Michael so rest assured I wouldn't try to talk you out of it," the priest confirmed. "In fact I think it's a noble thing you want to do. You're a good man."

A tear rolled down the stoic Marine's cheek at the compliment.

"Anyway," Father Alexander continued, "we're in a war now, certainly not one we expected which is ironic considering we're only a few weeks away from the 9/11 anniversary but I'm becoming overly reflective, " the priest admitted, "there'll be time for this when its all done."

"Do you think we'll even be around if that ever happens?" Mike asked with a sense of hope. "Do you think we can actually win?"

"Of course, with God all things are possible," Father Alexander replied right away. "And besides, we have men like you fighting for us. How could we lose? We may be battered but we're not broken." Seeing again the humble man's discomfort he smiled broadly and chuckled at the reality of his statement. "I've been hearing some wonderful things about you Michael, how your efforts have helped the war effort, even turned the tide in our favor. I hear talk of a medal for you."

Mike caught himself halfway through a swear word in reply before checking himself before the priest. Instead he responded through gritted teeth, "Yea, big hero. I got a whole bunch more kids and civilians killed."

Father Alexander sat down on the anguished man's bed then put a hand gently on his arm. "My dear Michael, this is not a burden for you to bear. You did the best you could with what you had. You saved many lives at a time all of you should have died by rights. You did not kill them, our attackers did. You did not look for this fight but you're fighting it." He paused to let the words sink in. "This is not Afghanistan and this is not your fault. You need to dismiss the ghosts from your past. Step out of the darkness which consumes you son and live in the light. Can I pray for you?"

"Sure," Mike replied, struck by the statement the honest priest had made added, "I think I'd like that."

For several minutes Father Alexander prayed passionately for peace and a return to joy for the troubled soldier. He asked for healing for his mind and spirit along with protection in the days to come. Wrapping up the heartfelt prayer he gazed with a warm smile at Mike's tear-stained face and declared with a grin, "Now that that's done, let's talk about Michele."

The powerful blades of the twin-rotor Boeing Sea Knight helicopter continued to kick up irritating clouds of gritty sand as they slowed to a stop. The Marines exiting the helicopter looked away trying to shield their eyes from the flying debris. The remnants of Lt. Gordon's platoon moved towards the base, eager for a shower, hot food and a bed to sleep on. Most though were more excited by the chance to rest for a couple of days from the relenting pressure and pace of combat.

Cpl. Harris rhymed off the things his troops needed to do while thinking how good a shower would feel, making sure the soldiers were taken care of but they didn't get sloppy in the rear area. The key that had been drilled into him was to stay sharp and stay focused even when resting.

"Kevin…Kevin Harris…." A female voice called above the din of activity causing him to stop dead in his tracks. Harris turned to where the voice had come from, something registered within the recesses of his spirit, then began to well up within him, hoping, praying at the same time yet terrified to be incorrect.

It was Cherise.

Forgetting his discipline, his job, forgetting the world around him, Harris ran to his precious fiancée openly weeping before he met her. She had tears filling her eyes as they met in a fierce embrace. Then Harris began to strip off his kit and tactical vest to hold her closer, not wanting any barrier between himself and his beloved. The pair hugged and kissed while Harris howled in delight at the unexpected reunion.

Lockett observed the tender scene, happy for his friend, yet he had a strange feeling in his stomach.

"It's what you do with it corporal," Lt. Gordon said to him as he passed by, not waiting for a response.

The man torn by guilt and grief paused to think about the statement and the conversation he'd had earlier with his platoon commander. He made the choice to move on, to fight the enemy of humanity rather then fight against himself. Lockett felt peace within but also knew there was something else he had to do to make things right. Shifting his gaze to the temporary buildings set up at the base he spotted Imlay and Doc motioning him to join them. A smile, bright as the sun, lit up his handsome face and he jogged over to join his friends.

"How? How did you get out?" Harris asked his fiancée, still not daring to believe this to be true. "I mean LA was leveled. What happened?"

"Me, Kathy and Laura were at the mall when the evacuation order came out," Cherise began, stepping back to gaze at her beloved. "Kathy knew a back way when the freeway was jammed up so we were able to get out before things got bad. When I heard later on what had happened to Pendleton and Santa Monica Airport I thought…I thought…," her voice began to break with emotion and she couldn't finish.

"You thought I was dead," Harris answered, removing his tear-stained glasses to clean them.

"Yes," Cherise agreed with a whisper. "We ended up at the refugee camp next door to this base. But then we heard about what you and your team did," she perked up. "You guys were amazing. They say you saved the whole West Coast with what you did."

"Well I don't know about that," he replied modestly, "we just got lucky."

"Where's Stavrou? Is he okay?" Cherise asked.

Harris' face dropped at the question. "No, he's dead," he choked out, collapsing into his fiancée's arms finally able to grieve the loss of his best friend.

Lockett, Imlay and Doc enjoyed some hot food, joking with each other as they recapped all that had been going on of late. To an outside observer the trio, as with most of the soldiers in the mess hall, were sharing in some macabre humor but for the combat veterans it was a way to release the tension and keep from going crazy because of what they'd been facing.

A television played in the background as the group spoke. None paid attention to the special report from CNN taking place on the outskirts of LA as a handsome, tanned man in a blue sport coat confidently spoke into the camera with the destroyed city in the background. "…want to commend the military for their efforts to retake our beloved city. With the gains they've made its time to re-establish civilian government over the area and not military rule. So with the authority of the President and the sanction of the governor I will oversee the reforming of proper governance and the renewing of infrastructure to the beleaguered people of Los Angeles."