The Last Good Man

War Crime

A war crime—and Lincoln knew.

True ponders this unsettling revelation while Alex splashes Irish whiskey over ice.

Alex tried for years to steer Diego away from military service, but Diego refused to be persuaded. He grew up wanting to be a warrior, a boots-on-the-ground protector, a defender of the tribe—and he wasn’t willing to wait. “Give college a try,” Alex urged him. “You can always enlist next year.”

He wouldn’t consider it. “Dad, if I don’t go now, I might not get a chance. The army’s cutting back. Robotics are going to take over combat jobs and pretty soon frontline soldiers will be obsolete.”

He’d been wrong about the timeline but not about the process.

Alex hands her a glass. She takes a cautious sip, focusing on the sweet burn and her own culpability. Where would they be now if she’d made different choices? If she’d left the army early, put the military behind them. Kept Diego home those summers he’d spent with her old man?

Pointless questions.

She chose the life she wanted and Diego did the same. He worked hard and he took his chances—and she was proud of him. She’s still proud of him. She will always be proud of him.

Alex is proud of him too. He looks across the great room at the cabinet with the eternally lighted shelf holding Diego’s formal army portrait. A triangular flag case, set at an angle beside it, holds the neatly folded American flag that draped his coffin. On the other side of his portrait, a black-framed case displays his medals along with an embroidered patch. The patch bears the Rogue Lightning emblem. It’s too far away to see the details, but True sees them in her mind’s eye: a half-circle, with two star-filled fields flanking a bright orange sun, lightning bolts dividing them, the unit’s name and the motto underneath: Anywhere, Anytime.

Alex says, “I think he’d be okay with this if he was here now.”

It’s hard for True to speak against the pressure in her chest. She breathes in the vapors of the alcohol, letting it distract her. Alex is making this hard for her. He’s doing it on purpose.

“Just tell me,” she whispers.

Alex furrows his brow and complies. “They were in Kunar Province. The assignment was to kill or capture a Saudi radical rumored to be in the area. They were working with a contingent of highly trained Afghan National Army soldiers, supposed to be the best of the best. Except one of them tried to lead the team into an ambush. It didn’t work. The team detected the presence of enemy soldiers in time to stage a counterattack. But the ANA soldier turned his weapon on our men. Lincoln was hit bad. Two of the Afghanis were killed. This, from a man they believed to be a friend.

“The enemy retreated but they had their wounded too, so they didn’t go far. They took refuge in a house. It wasn’t clear if the family was present as hostages or if they were collaborating. The surviving ANA soldiers insisted they were relatives of the traitor. But everyone knew there were children in the home.”

Alex shrugs. “They were under a lot of pressure. Two dead, enemy soldiers in the area, evacuation delayed, and Lincoln bleeding out, slow but sure. Shaw let his temper off leash, turned into an avenging angel. On the terrain map, he marked the house as a known enemy position, no civilians present. Seconds later a drone strike took it out.”

He scowls at his glass, takes a long sip, waits for the burn to pass. “Diego didn’t understand at first what had happened, but Lincoln did. Despite his wounds, his wooziness, he was furious. Swore he’d report what Shaw had done. But he never did. None of them did. Tribal loyalty won out. Five months later, Shaw and Diego were in Burma.”

Lincoln didn’t go on the Burma mission; he was still recovering from his wounds.

Alex fixes her with a measuring gaze. “I’m certain Shaw did his damnedest to save Diego’s life. But don’t kid yourself. He was dangerous and unpredictable even then. If he really is this Jon Helm, he’s not someone you want to get close to.”

“Maybe not.” She doesn’t like the resentment that edges her voice. It’s real though. She doesn’t try to hide it. “But here we are, years later. Shaw’s name comes up, and suddenly I’m finding out critical things I never knew about my son.”

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t like sitting on this. I would have told you before, but I promised him.”

Her hand tightens around the cold glass. “What else don’t I know? Shaw had that tattoo. ‘The Last Good Man.’ What was that about? Don’t you want to find out?”

“No. No, I don’t. And you need to let it go. We have two living children. Just because they aren’t kids anymore, that doesn’t mean they don’t need you. Someday they’re going to have children of their own. You need to be around for that. You owe us.”

She sips the whiskey, holds it in her mouth as she focuses on keeping her temper in check. She hates it when Alex plays the guilt card. He knows she hates it. He does it anyway because sometimes it works.

Not this time. “I’m going to be blunt, love. There’s a creed. No man left behind. In a day, maybe a week—it won’t be long—Lincoln will remember that. And then we’re going after Shaw. He was Rogue Lightning. Still is. He’s still flying the colors. It’s just a matter of time.”

Alex scowls, but his tone is surprisingly conciliatory as he says, “Lincoln might have things to make up for, but that doesn’t mean you need to be part of it.”

“I’m already part of it,” she warns him. “So are you. We’ve been part of it since the day Diego died. Like you said, what happened is a black hole, and we can’t ever escape it.”