Moving to his dresser, he pushed aside his wallet with the paltry sum of forty-two dollars—all that was left of his military paycheck after drinking most of it away. He touched his lieutenant’s bars and tried not to think.
He’d been reduced to the rank of lieutenant junior grade right after he’d punched Captain Greene. That incident had landed him in the brig the first time. The hard drinking that followed had taken its toll, too, costing him his flight qualifications until he got his act together. Hence rehab. His one and only chance to do that.
A formal inquiry into the incident over Iraq had absolved him of any responsibility. The Navy had gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb. From cockpit banter to maintenance logs. And found nothing. In the end, top brass had determined enemy fire responsible.
He and Steve could have told them as much from their eyewitness accounts.
But he couldn’t let himself off the hook that easily.
He picked up the gold wings he was no longer allowed to pin to his uniform. Closing his hand over them, he stared at the stranger in the mirror.
Miller was wrong.
Zach couldn’t even muster pity for the poor bastard with the empty eyes. He shifted his gaze to the snapshot tucked into the corner of the frame, the same photo he’d once carried in the cockpit of his fighter. Now water-stained and tattered, the picture hadn’t fared any better than he had.
Zach stared at it, at Michelle’s achingly familiar smile. When was the last time he’d even seen her smile?
That day in the shower? In the briefing room?
Across the flight deck the corner of her mouth had turned up in a sort of sad smile. He’d wondered what she was thinking.
Now he’d never know.
As much as he blamed Greene for not letting him take that shot, he blamed himself even more. If only…
If only he’d taken it, anyway.
In one angry swoop he cleared the dresser and laid his head down. Every night Michelle called to him to come fly with her. And every morning he awoke from the nightmare of losing her all over again.
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