Don't Make Plans Read online

  Don’t Make Plans

  by

  Ava Armstrong

  All rights reserved including the right

  to reproduce this book or portions thereof

  in any form, whatsoever.

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  Disclaimer:

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are products

  of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales

  or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to a real United States Marine,

  Timothy William Reynolds,

  who served USMC from 1962 through 1994.

  After his service, he worked for several government contractors

  from 1995 through 2016.

  These missions consisted of hostage extraction and special reconnaissance assignments,

  the details of which will be excluded for proprietary reasons.

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 1

  You never know which day might be your last. And, that’s probably a good thing – because if you did, you might curl up in a ball and die. Looking back on it, Kent realized it was good to be ignorant.

  Ten hours into the mission, Kent McCabe was crunched up into an awkward position, extra equipment hung on him and made the ride that much more uncomfortable. He shifted his body in the Humvee to alleviate a leg cramp. There was no air conditioning in the vehicle. He thought he’d become accustomed to the climate, but he found the Iraqi heat unbearable at this moment. He closed his eyes and grimaced through the leg pain, it always happened when he was dehydrated. Wearing what felt like tons of gear didn’t help. The stench of human body odor hung in the enclosed space as the sound of the engine droned forward. It was a day like many others before it. These forward recon missions were filled with long stretches of boredom, punctuated with bursts of incoming fire and occasional explosions. Pig Pen, one of the marines next to him passed gas and there was nervous laughter. There’d be days like this. He remembered the words coming from his drill instructor’s distorted face on Parris Island. He recalled the feeling of the instructor’s boot on his neck when he failed to complete his physical training pyramid – that same claustrophobic sweat-storm raging inside today.

  “You think this is bad, you little pussy? Wait ‘til you get to Iraq!”

  Well, his drill instructor was right. So, what. That was like anticipating a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Hell, yeah. It’s gonna hurt. Then, you experience it and – yeah, it’s friggin’ painful. That’s sort of how marine training had been all through boot camp. Everything hurt like hell. Of course, it didn’t help to be a war hero’s son. Kent discovered through a backchannel that his father requested special treatment for him, and not in a good way. That treatment turned out to be brutal. It was why he had to do everything over and over. But, he made it, despite his old man’s sadistic ego. Kent believed he was stronger in spite of it. That was the story of his life, it seemed. Slam your head into a spike to get the point. That was his old man’s theory. Be tough, be strong, be fast – or you’re dead, numb nuts.

  Kent felt a sharp elbow in his side.

  “Hey, K-man, drink some water. You look beat. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  Stan was always jabbing him in the ribs. A poke from Stan was usually a love tap, a heads-up, and he always responded. The two had bonded in the heat of Parris Island and were tighter than ticks -- at least that’s what Stan would say and it always made him laugh. Kent took a long swig from his canteen, being careful not to spill any. Water was a precious commodity in this god-forsaken place. The Humvee bounced and a rivulet of liquid dribbled down his chin, then traced its way beneath his shirt to his chest. That was the last thing he remembered; the feeling of the water touching his chest.

  He felt the concussive blast before he heard it. Seemed odd now when he thought back on just how it all played out. The detonation came from a triple stack IED, and blew a hole clear through the vehicle. Kent remembered losing all sense of hearing as he felt his body lifted. He later learned he traveled airborne sixty feet through the air. He had become human shrapnel. Adrenaline coursed through him when he landed somewhere hard in the dirt. Pain. There was pain everywhere. His head throbbed, his back hurt, he had trouble breathing. He knew immediately that his left arm was broken. He closed his eyes. It was over already. This was only his second deployment in the infantry. His vision blurred as he lost consciousness for what seemed like an eternity, but later he was told it was only for a matter of seconds.

  When he opened his eyes, several guys from his battalion had surrounded him. He heard voices but couldn’t tell who was saying what. Some were on phones; others were just yelling.

  “Move your ass! We need to stop the bleeding.”

  “Get that chopper here now!”

  “Blood – he’s type O positive.”

  “I don’t care about fucking policies …get that bird in here.”

  Kent’s eyes roamed over the face of a young medic, and he detected fear in his deep-set brown eyes, although his voice was steady and calm.

  “Hold on, man – you’re gonna make it – gotta get some blood into you. There’s a bird coming to evac -- hold on, Kent! You hear me?”

  “Morphine, give me some! Now!” It was all Kent could say. He screamed it, actually. It seemed bizarre as if the medic couldn’t hear him.

  “Sorry, you’ve had the max right now, buddy…hold on.”

  Hold on to what? Right now, there was searing pain in his left leg and he instinctively knew a tourniquet was there. Oh damn. He couldn’t take a deep breath. He didn’t realize it at the time, but nearly every rib was broken. All he knew was, it hurt like hell to breathe.

  The sound of the chopper was deafening. Strong hands were lifting him onto a stretcher, he felt dizzy and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was set up in the chopper for the blood transfusion. He’d never seen people react so quickly. A nurse, two other medics, a doctor. They were checking his vitals; one was speaking words of encouragement to him. The look in their eyes told him, this was bad. His head pounded and he thanked god he hadn’t lost his hearing, although there was a ringing in his ears. He could tell he still had his arms; one was broken but he could move them both. He instinctively knew if he felt pain, he was still alive -- small comfort in that.

  Within an hour, he’d been evacuated from the scene and Kent recognized the 10th Support Combat Hospital in Bagdad. He felt himself being wheeled quickly into a surgical room. His clothing had been cut away, a blanket covered him. Everything else was a blur; the drug barely blunted the pain. Fluorescent lighting and the smell of rubbing
alcohol made him think back to the time he had his wisdom teeth extracted. A shot of fear ran through him as the doctor approached. The room felt chilly compared to the heat he’d just left in the desert.

  “Am I gonna lose my leg?” Kent asked the question to the older man bent over him, with a stethoscope. It was at that moment, Kent remembered someone tossing his wobbly leg and combat boot onto the gurney when it all happened. But he remembered the boot wasn’t attached. It was empty. Shit.

  “I don’t know, marine, but I won’t lie to you. It looks rough. We will do everything we can to save it. I’m not getting a pulse on that left foot. But, I’ve got to get you to sleep now so we can do our work.” The surgeon’s blue eyes were filled with urgency, concern. But, for some reason, Kent felt he could trust this man. The anesthesia started making him drift away. He thought about his mother just before going under. She died giving birth to him. Maybe this was his penance.

  That had been his life in 2011. In Iraq, roughly 17,500 U.S. troops had been wounded, and nearly 2,500 killed. Thanks to quick reaction teams, top-notch surgeons, and miracles in medical technology, the survival rate was significantly higher than in previous wars. Kent knew his life was saved that day in the 10th Combat Support Hospital, but, now he had to find out why.

  While in the hospital, he’d learned that his best friend, Stan Carlson, had lost his life in the explosion. He couldn’t stop thinking about why he was spared and Stan wasn’t. Kent was transferred stateside to San Diego, and spent the next 45 weeks in a sprawling hospital on the edge of Balboa Park. This was a brand-new combat casualty center designed for seriously wounded marines who had lost an arm or leg – or several limbs. Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington and Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, were overflowing. Sixteen surgeries and twelve blood transfusions later, he was transferred to a rehab center closer to home, in Boston.

  Even more disturbing than his physical struggles with addiction to pain killers and sleeping medications, were the violent flashbacks to the incident. He tried everything to conceal it, but Doctor Madison brought up the words “post-traumatic stress” one morning.

  “Don’t put that on my medical record just yet, doc.”

  “Exercise will help. I’ll recommend a boot camp for amputees. For some reason, I have a feeling you will thrive there.” Doctor Madison smiled.

  Thank goodness, he gave Kent some time. And, with complete dedication to his physical therapy boot camp, the nightmares and memories seemed to subside for a while. Only occasionally, he’d have a spell where he was right there again. It could be triggered by something as innocuous as a smell or a sound. But Kent had become a master at disguising this problem. So much so, the doctor didn’t officially diagnose him with PTSD.

  These were the dark months, as Kent referred to them later. Reality was crashing down upon him. His life would never be the same. He dealt with the aftermath of a head injury, which limited his short-term memory. He learned coping mechanisms to help him through what used to be simple daily routines.

  It was at this time he met other wounded vets in the same situation. He didn’t tell anyone, but knew he was deeply depressed. One guy in particular, D-man – short for David – had an uncanny way of buoying Kent’s spirits when he needed it most.

  “Sometimes, I just don’t want to go on. I’m tired, man.”

  “Listen, Kent, we all feel that way sometimes. You need distraction. Let’s catch a movie tonight in the rec room. Come on, dude – I need someone to laugh with – it’s a comedy.”

  D-man slapped him on the back. Something about him reminded him of Stan.

  “Okay, but can we get ice cream, too? I miss pistachio ice cream.”

  “Sure, if you stop bitching – I’ll buy you ice cream – deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Little did D-man know that Kent had been dancing with the devil some nights, entertaining thoughts of suicide during those dark months. That night they watched a comedy titled, “Stripes.” Kent had ice cream – and the rec room was filled with vets fighting the same demons he was. Laughter and coarse language filled the room – they became a clan. The amputees. Trouble was, they eventually got split into groups and moved to different facilities. He stayed in touch with D-man and a few others. They’d spent nearly a year together. Most of the buddies he met in rehab were West Coast boys, he was an Eastie.

  The place of his birth Newport, Rhode Island, was a town straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was nestled on a spit of land, an island, at the very Southern tip of the state, complete with a million-dollar view. It was where he was born and now would probably be the place of his death.

  “Discharge day!” His nurse, Betsy, had a sunny disposition. He’d miss her inspiration. Betsy was the type who didn’t need a lot of coffee in the morning, she was filled with positive energy and optimism. Many days, he wondered how she maintained her beautiful smile. It had to be grueling to work with people like him. There was a technical word for him now and he resisted using the term. But, he knew the word amputee would be in his vocabulary for the rest of his life, whether he liked it or not. He didn’t want pity or medals. Even accolades at this moment were painful for him to accept. The last few months he felt like he was lost, drifting, riding a night train and not knowing where he’d stop next.

  “Thanks for everything.” Kent smiled back.

  “You must be so excited to be going home!”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  Kent pretended to be upbeat, but he was terrified.

  Home. That wasn’t a place that filled his heart with tender memories. Quite the opposite. He felt tears forming in his eyes and wiped them away quickly with the back of his hand. He didn’t want Betsy to see him like that. He would manage a big grin and a hug for her. She had been his angel during many moments of unbearable darkness. He would never forget her. She agreed to Facebook him once he was settled.

  “Don’t forget to friend me!” She waved and made a big deal of his leaving, as if he was her only patient. She had managed to make him feel like he was, and that’s all that mattered.

  As the van pulled to the curb, he rode the lift upward and into the vehicle. His wheelchair was secured by an older gentleman wearing a Vietnam ball cap. His eyes creased and Kent sensed the gratitude in them.

  “Thank you for your service.”

  Kent shook his hand and nodded, but the words rang hollow. He imagined, for a moment, how many times Betsy smiled and said those same words; how many times did that driver thank mangled soldiers for their service? He was suddenly filled with a sense of appreciation for all they’d done for him. The Veterans Administration was responsive, but he’d heard stories about what might happen down the road. And, right now he was worried about the pain killers and what would happen if he couldn’t get them from a doctor. If he didn’t find work, he could become homeless, and, he had a few buddies who’d gone that route. Addiction to pain killers, no chance for employment, not enough housing, physical therapy cut off, secret waiting queues. The list was long and depressing as he heard from guys he knew, one by one…dangling by a thread.

  All through surgery, rehab, the whole thing, Kent only saw his sisters twice, but his father visited three times. Once the whole family flew out to San Diego and spent the weekend. Then, they visited him individually at the rehab facility in Boston.

  “You’ll be fine.” That was always his father’s attitude. He prattled on about his real estate business and talked about Sheila endlessly. No questions were asked of Kent, and that was good. He felt relieved. Kent was glad his father didn’t visit often, because he was struggling to get used to his new prosthetic. This was something he wanted to do on his own. He didn’t want or need an audience. He counted the hours until the next pain pills would be delivered to his room.

  He wished he could figure his father out, but knew he’d have an easier time decoding the mystery of the Sphinx. His dad married Sheila, a woman twenty years younger than him, shortly after his mot
her’s death. Although Sheila raised him, Kent sensed she never wanted him. What woman would want a newborn baby the moment she married a man? Sheila was the polar-opposite of his mother in every way, from what Kent knew about his mom. Every bit of the information he had gleaned was derived from photo albums and stories shared by friends and relatives, especially Gramps. Kent had learned that his mother was a caring and sweet woman. She was a stunning beauty with dark hair and pale blue eyes, but she never wanted the spotlight. Beth McCabe had given of herself to his father, who was a marine at the time. She literally gave her life for him, bearing his third child – the highly-anticipated son.

  There were many whispered rumors that his father wasted no time remarrying. Kent wondered if dad had Sheila waiting in the wings, but quickly dismissed the thought, hoping it wasn’t true. Since marrying Sheila, his father had moved into the category of war hero. He’d fought in ‘91 in Desert Storm and moved through the ranks to Lieutenant Colonel. The fruit salad on his uniform impressed Kent enough to join the Marines. He wanted to be respected in the same way his father was, but now he feared he’d be looked down upon. He was defective. No woman would want him. No longer would it be like the old days in high school when he was the star running back. The girls fought over him and Kent had his pick. Margo, Emma, Suzanne – it was difficult to keep them all straight. But, now, things would be different.

  When the van stopped in Newport, the driver carried Kent’s belongings to the porch of his father’s palatial estate with the enviable address of Beach Road in Newport. Inside his rucksack was a letter from April, written one day before the explosion in the Humvee. In April’s perfect calligraphy, she explained that she had been dating another guy. She clearly stated she wasn’t going to marry Kent. Period. Just like that. The diamond ring would be delivered to his parents’ house. When he got that letter, he fell to his knees. Stan told him he was lucky to even get a letter. Most guys didn’t.

  Even though time had passed, he wanted to know every detail about April. The dagger in his heart was still fresh. While in rehab, from what he could cobble together on Facebook, April had been cheating on him for a while. One of her girlfriends had accepted his friend request and he chatted one night with her. She told him April was married now and living in Kingstown, not far from Newport. He planned to do a bit of research once he got settled. There were questions he wanted answers to…and he wanted them straight from April’s lips.