Chapter 8
I AWOKE WITH a start, as if violently jerked out of a bad dream, the remains of a sharp sound in my head—but it was gone. A bright yellow light danced around me and licked at the darkness. Something was burning.
Was the CH-46 about to blow? Was I there?
Justine grabbed my arm.
“Jack. What’s happening?”
“Get dressed, Justine. We may have to leave.”
I turned on the light, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, called 911. I gave my name and address as I walked to the east-facing window of the bedroom.
I saw the pale light of the morning sun—and smoke curling through the bars of the gate. The fire was real, and it was burning outside between my front yard and the highway.
I said to the 911 operator, “There’s a fire, big one. I don’t know what’s on fire.”
“Fire department is on the way.”
I pulled on my jeans, grabbed my gun, jammed it into my waistband, stepped into a pair of moccasins.
“Jack!”
“I’ll be right back.”
I smelled smoke in the house, but the front door was cool. I opened it and walked outside into the stench of burning rubber and plastic that set off little explosions like land mines along the neural pathways of my brain.
I had no doubt that I was in Malibu standing in front of my house, and at the same time, I was back there, carrying Marine Corporal Danny Young over my shoulder and away from the burning aircraft.
Danny was a spectacular young man, funny and brave and filled with hope. I had talked to Danny as I carried him, told him that he was going to make it.
I thought I was telling him the truth.
But the truth was that we both died that night. I was the lucky one. Del Rio brought me back.
Now Justine shouted to me from the doorway.
“Jack! Be careful.”
“I will,” I said. “Just, please, go inside.”
I walked through the gate toward the fire that was being fanned by the sea breeze, gaining strength and momentum, starting to roam and consume new ground. It was alive, leaping up the trunks of palm trees, catching the husks and fronds as it burned.
I was so transfixed by the blaze, I stopped and stared. The concussive wave of the explosion blew me off my feet and dropped me down hard.
I was back there again.