How had the bad guys known? It was a question he asked himself every day. Every day when he'd been a drunken mess and every day after when he'd pulled himself halfway together. The anguish he'd felt over Paul's death was compounded by the constant thought there shouldn't have been an ambush. There was no way the bad guys could have known his Team was coming, but they had. What should have been a sure thing had turned into a goat screw.
The Tal Bez Valley had been as peaceful a place as Mike Mason had ever seen when his Team's gun trucks entered the Valley three abreast and traveled up into the center of the Valley.
The HVT's tents were right where they were supposed to be. Weeks of planning and rehearsals culminated into perfect execution from the start. The Team's schedule to raid the enemy camp was only a little off. Except. No people, no equipment, just empty tents. That's the moment it turned into a shit show.
Obligated to attend the debrief after the battle, he detailed everything before, after, and all that took place in the Tal Bez Valley. They held Paul's body back until the accusations and counter-accusations were over so he could accompany the casket back to the States.
No one stayed up sleepless nights agonizing for Paul's return back home. Divorced with no kids, Paul’s only family was the brother who got him killed.
After the service at Arlington National Cemetery, Mike gave up on himself. One more white tombstone among the thousands, but that one meant everything. He alienated his wife, kids, and friends. Alcohol became his refuge. Finally, wallowing in self-pity, he chose to move out into the country like a fucking hermit. All because he couldn't stop thinking of that question. How had they known his A-Team was coming?
The reality of it was he might never know. It didn't stop him from agonizing over how the High Value Targets and their soldiers knew and laid in wait for his Team. Paul's death ruined him. After he redeployed from Afghanistan, the divorce was inevitable. He wasn't the same man. Humor, kindness, patience, all of it replaced with anger. His wife and kids didn't deserve what they got, no one did, but Mike's explosive anger was all he had to offer. He knew he shouldn't have treated them the way he had. They only wanted to help. In his messed up head, no one who hadn't met the kind of loss he suffered should be given to opportunity to help. And certainly, no one who had got his own flesh and blood killed should get help.
That was the past. Seated at a bar at Regan International, he held a slight glimmer of hope. He was going back to Afghanistan. It didn't matter that the Taliban were back in charge. The time had finally come to find the people who killed Paul and ambushed his Team. In his heart, he knew if it didn't happen this trip, it never would. The old feeling pressed tight into his chest. The thought of never avenging Paul made him gasp for breath. Whenever it happened, it got to the point he had to sit down and force calmness. He would close his eyes and follow his breath, follow the air in and out. Some called this meditation. It was far from constructive for him unless hate and pain were good for the psyche. That's where the alcohol came in. It took the sting away.
Finally, after years of asking people he knew in the intel world, they passed him some information. They now knew the names of Afghani's who planned and initiated the ambush. The report also indicated these men were in northeast Afghanistan. And, finally, they were somehow involved in the drug trade. It wasn't much to go on, but it was all he needed to spur him to ask for a job overseas. He had made a name for himself by that point, not a good one. There were no takers.
After the ambush, his Team had searched for a week, but nothing had come of it. The men who'd run into the bamboo all disappeared. His brother was dead, and there would be no retribution.
Inseparable after their parent's death, Mike took the lead as was his right as big brother. Paul took their deaths hard, so had he, and they grew far closer than what their relationship had been before. When it happened, Mike was nine, and Paul had just the week before turned eight. Mike didn't remember who started it or how it happened, but from then on, they were always together, refusing to be apart. They finished each other's sentences, even into adulthood. To some, it might have seemed odd. It only made the two brothers laugh harder at the confusion of others. School had been difficult, but they always found a way to be together, if not during, then before, and after. They double-dated. They dated each other's ex's more times them Mike could remember. Trouble found them, they found trouble, but they always did it together. There were ups and downs, but they always found a way to remain best friends. When Paul found out his brother was joining the Army, he immediately decided to join up. Only, as he told Mike, he wanted to join the Marines to be with the best of the best. A little dig on his older brother, but that's what brothers are for, to one-up each other if they can so they can lord it over the other. Seated in the metal stands at Paris Island, Mike had never been prouder as his brother marched past, no longer a recruit but a Marine.
Reminiscing was useless and stupid, and he did it anyway, every damn day. He hated it, and under the right circumstances, alcohol, he hated himself. His brother had been his biggest fan. Paul always attended whenever Mike graduated from a military school like Airborne or the Special Forces Qualification Course or was promoted in rank. Once Paul joined the Marines, Mike did the same for him. The distance from Fort Bragg to Camp Lejeune was only a few hours’ drive. On weekends Mike would drive down to Lejeuene, or Paul would make the trip up to Bragg. They would always be up in each other's business. When they settled down with houses, wives, and children, in Mike's case, they still found the time.
And now Mike sat alone in a bar at Regan International, staring at his beer, loathing himself for his lack of self-control. He would have just one, he'd told himself. Condensation ran down the tall glass, soaking the coaster and the bar around it. The foam that had edged over the rim was long gone from the warm beer. He knew himself. He lacked the discipline to drink one to enjoy the moment of delight in a bitter IPA. He'd taken too many falls from the proverbial wagon with the reasoning of, I'll have one for Paul's memory, and only one. He didn't have the restraint to drink only one, another reason he hated himself. He built his whole career on self-discipline and took pride in his ability to endure any hardship. He passed so many mental and physical tests in the Army, but he couldn't beat this alcohol. It won every time. Whenever he was in the mood, usually in a dark place, he would order a drink and stare at it. He would will it to try and break him, will himself not to break. Almost always, inevitably, the booze won.
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This time was different. There was too much at stake. This would be the final test. Mike willed himself to leave the beer untouched until he left to meet his connecting flight. If it did, Mike would have won again his streak of over thirty days free and counting. The truth was it was knife-edge close between walking out and someone carrying him out.
He lost all hope soon after returning to Fort Bragg. It didn't take long to figure out the powers that be wanted him to retire. After the way he acted, he wasn't surprised. Tact wasn't one of his strong suits. It didn't matter. There was no reason to stay in. And, if he had, no officer would send him back to settle a personal vendetta. He could have gone back as a contractor, but then how would he track down Paul's killers? Or he could have gone back as a private civilian, and then what? No matter how he got there, that was the easy part. Searching for and finding Paul's killer on his own would be a next to an impossible goal. Then the Taliban took over, and it nearly ended him.
He'd retired, tried to ruin his life, and bought a house in the country with the insurance he received after Paul's death. Paul told him that his ex-wife wouldn’t get a dime if he ate it. Since he had no kids, the insurance money went to him. When the check arrived, it felt like another slap in the face. His brother died because of him, and he reaped a reward for it.
Rage, bitterness, and fury boiled within him every day. At times anger overwhelmed him, violent anger at the loss of his brother. For the first year or so, Mike could and would snap at anyone, strangers, and family. It didn't matter. The overwhelming sense of loss and his anger destroyed his personal life. For a while, he figured it was a short trip to prison or worse if he didn't get it under control. Either outcome seemed a certainty until he realized something, maybe not profound, but meaningful. His anger meant he was alive. It gave him purpose. Unlike despair and depression, they sucked the life out of him. He could barely get himself out of bed the day’s depression hit him full on. But, with anger, he felt it, life. Not the healthy attitude another person might feel, but it was all he had. With his anger, he could channelize his rage to set a goal. If life meant an anger-fueled focus, Mike accepted. He kept up his skills, guns, blades, hands, feet, everything he would need if the day ever came. There might only be a 1% chance of enacting revenge. 1% wasn't nothing. If the day came, he would be ready. Worrying about the festering questions in the back of his head didn’t do any good. Would he really be ready? Would the day come? Training became an obsession and one of the only things that got him out of his house and interacting with people. He had money and time to focus on what was important to him. He didn't need anything else except the opportunity to fulfill his purpose.
The time after the day’s work was the worst. The exhilaration of each day was like a new drug. He would struggle to cram as much physical training into each day. The daily goal became conquer at least one skill. Don't think too far ahead. But, the sense of purpose slowly diminished as each hour passed. With night came dread. Despair always replaced anger. The two-beer limit became three until he no longer counted. Finally, beer wasn't enough to make him forget. The time between dinner and sleep was the worse. Anything could and would provoke the memory of the Tal Bez Valley, the ambush, and the death of his brother. It played in his mind over and over until he passed out. Come dawn, he forced anger, his life force, back into his cloudy mind. Anger and the hope he would find Paul's killer. The cycle repeated itself until it was all he had. It was a constant battle to eat right and stay in the best physical condition he could muster. It was all he had while his demons led him down the path of doubt and self-pity.
Then, a month ago, out of the blue, an old friend threw him a lifeline in the form of an email. It's cliche, he knew, to see his salvation come from out of nowhere. But that stuff happened, or it wouldn't be cliche. And here he was in a bar at Reagan.
Hope was the thing that got him to Reagan. It would get him on a plane where pain waited for him and maybe atonement.
The realness of it was hard to fathom. Too many times, he'd dreamed about going back, knowing it was more fantasy than possible. An email and a quick phone call was all it took to get him to leave his garrison house in the woods. A simple message from an old friend, if you want vengeance for Paul, this is your chance. Al didn't give many details. Mike didn't ask. Revenge for Paul was all he needed to hear. And, on an unsecure line, Al wouldn’t say much anyway. Meet him at Reagen, and all would be explained, like how they would get in country and hopefully out again. Maybe it was all a pipe dream, but he couldn't afford not to make the attempt. This would be his only chance. He was sure of that. Whatever Al had in mind, he had contacted Mike. No one else had. In a small corner of Mike's mind, he knew something didn't smell right. He was nothing special, a burned-out old SF guy with little to offer anyone, especially someone who worked for the CIA and could hire any number of people.
Why they wanted him, Mike didn't care. All Al had to do was mention Afghanistan and Paul in the same sentence, and Mike was in. He didn't care what he would have to do or who he would have to kill, but it would probably get messy, maybe deadly, since Al called him of all people. Again, he didn't care as long as he got closer to what he wanted. All this took about two seconds to consider while on the phone. He was going. After that call, he knew what he had to do.
He had gone cold turkey. Why he had to wait a month before they left, he didn't know, and Al wasn't willing to tell him on the phone. It had been hard, the drink called him every night, but the waiting had been worse. Both hands shook for weeks when it got late at night, and the urge to have one drink and one drink only came on him. He resisted. He wouldn't allow any form of weakness to stop him now. Nothing and no one would get in the way of finding Paul's killer. If the mission Al wanted him for was bullshit, Mike would bail and find another way. This was it. There was no going back unless he found Paul's killers. He would lie, steal, cheat, whatever it took to get him to his target.
He never gave much thought to the inherent danger of twenty plus years in the military, specifically in Special Forces. There were plenty of close calls in training and in war, but he had always survived, and truth be told, he became more resilient, tougher for it. But, the Tal Bez shook him to his core, not only the pain and anguish of his brother’s death but how he handled it. He always considered himself a survivor, someone who could not just function but thrive under any setback, opposition, or hardship. Paul’s death proved otherwise. Sitting in the airport, he had to consider, did he care if he came back? He wasn't sure. And if he did return home, did he want to start a new life? What was a new life? Would a new life mean anything if the man responsible for his brother's death wasn’t dead at the end of it? It wouldn’t be a suicide mission if he could help it, Mike didn't think he wanted to die, but he wasn't afraid of it.