Chapter 5

Chapter Five

T he reality of being back at his unit's base in Florida made Corey long for the seemingly endless days of waiting for transport in Djibouti.

That thought brought about a fresh wave of guilt. Make that a tsunami of guilt.

Survivor's guilt .

The shrink at his mandatory mental health appointment had suggested it was normal, just before Corey denied having it. That wasn't even totally a lie. The main source of his guilt wasn't that he'd survived when others hadn't. At least it wasn't mainly that.

The main reason for his guilt was that he'd simply had enough. With all of it.

Enough with the briefings and repeated recounting of his version of the events.

Enough with the questions from everyone.

It seemed as if every single person he came in contact with wanted to discuss the attack, ad nauseam. Military. Civilian. Peers. Command.

Like Monday morning quarterbacks, those who weren't anywhere near the region discussed and analyzed and second-guessed the events and decisions of those who had been there. While all Corey wanted to do was tell every one of them to shut the hell up.

He'd had it. He was done with the never-ending postmortem of the attack. He wanted to move on but how could he here where so many had been affected?

Worse, and the most guilt-inducing of all, was that he'd had enough of dealing with all the death.

He'd donned his dress uniform again that morning. It was the fifth time in as many days. He'd attend today's funeral knowing there were five more left. One later that afternoon as families were forced to double up on some days to get the services all in.

He fought the thought running through his head.

The thought that he'd rather be anywhere doing anything else than attend one more funeral. Rather than stand, stoic and stone faced, as the deceased's family fell apart in front of yet another identical coffin.

Some were crewmen he knew from the Eisenhower, at least by name or sight. Some he didn't know, but it didn't matter. He attended anyway as they all blurred into a rote routine of sameness.

All of them except for Rabbit's funeral.

He had been one of the many flown to Germany. And Rabbit was one of his shipmate's who hadn't made it. Corey had learned that when he'd landed in Florida.

Rabbit's funeral was scheduled to be the last of all the services, happening just hours before Corey's flight home, but it was going to be the hardest.

Always cheerful, always upbeat, Rabbit had been the best of them. Always there with a smile, no matter what, but now he was gone. And no amount of rehashing the attack was going to change that.

He dreaded the day of that final funeral as much as he anticipated it for being the end of this torturously long line-up of final goodbyes.

A knock on his barrack's room door brought Corey back to the present.

He reached for the knob and yanked open the door to find Jones standing there wearing, like Corey, his dress uniform for the funeral.

"Ready?" Jones asked.

Corey reached for his cover on the table. "As I'll ever be, I guess."

"Halfway," Jones said.

"Halfway," Corey echoed somberly knowing it didn't matter they were half done with the ten funerals because the worst one was still ahead.

As Corey pulled the door closed behind him, Jones asked, "Looking forward to getting home?"

Corey scoffed. "Yes and no."

Jones shot him a questioning glance.

"I'm not looking forward to a whole new batch of people to rehash what happened with, starting the moment they hear I was on the Eisenhower," he explained.

The attack on the aircraft carrier had turned out to be the deadliest assault on a US military vessel since the USS Cole two and a half decades before, hence why it was all anyone wanted to talk about.

"I hear you about that." Jones snorted. "Maybe we should all just start lying about it."

Corey let out a short bitter laugh. "Maybe."

"No, I'm serious. Picture it. You're at a bar or wherever. Someone—doesn't matter who—asks where you were before this. And we just… lie. Say Bahrain or Djibouti or something. Anything. Who would know?"

"Anyone who knows us," Corey supplied with a raised brow.

Jones shot him a sideways glare. "Well, yeah. But it'll work for anyone who doesn't. And for those who do know us, we can just start to tell them to shut up. We're tired of talking about it."

For once, Corey was in one-hundred percent agreement with Jones. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but he knew one thing—he might have to give that lying thing a try.

Jacksonville, Florida to Albany, New York by way of a stupidly long layover at Atlanta Airport was the best Corey could do if he wanted to get out of town right after Rabbit's funeral. So that's what he booked.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, escaping as soon as possible.

Now, as he made his way out through security to get to the USO at ATL to face a three-and-a-half-hour layover, he regretted not booking the flight tomorrow morning with the one hour stop in Charlotte even though it did cost two hundred dollars more.

Too late now. At least he could chill in the relative quiet of the USO where no one would bother him.

"Hello and welcome! My name's Blessing. Come on in, please. I'll get you checked in and then find you a nice comfy seat. I can see you need to sit."

Maybe not so quiet or unbothered after all.

The female volunteer was too bubbly and talkative for Corey who was still recovering from Rabbit's funeral. And damned if her sunshiny demeanor didn't remind him of Rabbit, which was the last thing he wanted right now.

"Excuse me?" He frowned over her comment about him needing to sit.

"I can see you've been recently injured."

"How—" How the hell did she know anything about him?

"You're moving a bit gingerly. Not to mention just a tad bit of bruising is still visible." She touched the side of her own face to indicate the spot on his cheek where he knew he'd been badly bruised from his fall after he'd been knocked unconscious. "I am sorry. I know it's been hard. And I know you're probably tired of talking about it so?—"

She touched the tips of her thumb and forefinger together and ran them across her lips, as if to zip them closed before she pushed a sign-in sheet forward.

"Just your John Hancock on that please then we'll find you a seat to rest until your flight home." She smiled and though he wondered about why she'd assumed he was flying home—perhaps she'd thought that because of his injury—it seemed easier to just do as she asked than to question it.

He signed in and followed her to an area where the seating did indeed look comfortable, but most spots were already filled. He glanced around for somewhere else. Somewhere with less people and less potential for chatter.

Before he could express his desire to not sit here, Blessing had begun the introductions, making it impossible to escape without seeming rude.

She whipped through the names of the one female and the two males already seated. Names he had no hope of remembering, especially now with his recently scrambled brain. She told him they were all heading home just like he was—even though he had never confirmed that fact with her.

Then the bubbly, overly helpful volunteer moved on, leaving him there to be bombarded with unwanted conversation from the group of strangers.

The discussion covered the usual. Where home was for everyone. What kind of refreshments the USO offered for them to enjoy while they waited. The woman—Kathy? Kate?—even offered candy to them all from a bag she had brought with her.

They were one big happy group of travelers, trapped together, forced to socialize until boarding time.

He was just thinking he'd make it through the wait fairly easily when the conversation turned to the inevitable question—the one he'd been dreading—how he'd gotten injured.

In a Hail, Mary attempt to avoid the conversation he did not want to have about a topic he couldn't avoid no matter how hard he tried to dodge it, Corey finally channeled good old Jonesy.

With a move that would have made his fellow aircraft carrier drone pilot proud, Corey drew in a breath and delivered a lie that spilled out of his mouth as smooth as silk, "My FOB blew up."

He left it at that. Nothing more. And damned if it didn't work. No one questioned a thing.

He'd have to text Jonesy and tell him his idea was freaking brilliant. Then again, Jonesy didn't need any more reason to be cocky and think better of himself.

All that mattered was that Corey was feeling better already. For the first time in weeks things were finally looking up.