Silent Survivor

SILENT SURVIVOR

BY

DEBORAH SHLIAN

Copyright © 2018 by Deborah Shlian

SILENT SURVIVOR

Published by Akeso Press

Digital ISBN: 978-1-7322301-0-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-7322301-1-8

Cover Design by Torsten Muller http://neptunian.org

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal use only. No part of this work may be used, reproduced, stored in an information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written consent by the author. Any usage of the text, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without the author’s permission is a violation of copyright.

This book is dedicated to all the survivors who understand that only by exposing the truth can secrets lose their power

The United States shall renounce the use of lethal biological agents and weapons, and all other methods of biological warfare. The United States will confine its biological research to defensive measures such as immunization and safety measures.

President Richard M. Nixon in a November 25, 1969 speech titled Statement on Chemical and Biological Defense Policies and Programs from Fort Detrick

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHORS NOTE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ENDNOTES

Prologue

Daintree Australia

Research lab, Mossie Pharmaceuticals

1989

Winter

Jesus! Shaking his head in disbelief, the sandy-haired post-doc held up the research file. You're sure about this?

His younger colleague, also a PhD, ran a hand through thick, disheveled locks. No doubt, mate. It's there in almost every chimp I've autopsied.

"Have you told anyone?

Just you, he said, tugging awkwardly at his rumpled jeans.

What are you gonna do?

I've got to let the muckety-mucks at corporate know.

Whistle blowing can be risky.

Yeah. Haven't slept for the past few nights wondering how this will affect my career. He gathered all the notes and stuffed them into his backpack. But then I realized I have no choice. It's not just the company’s national reputation at stake. It's the implications for patients.

Of course, you're right. Are you leaving tonight?

I've booked the eight o'clock to Sydney on Virgin Blue.

It's almost six. Better get a move on. How ‘bout I get my car and drive you to the airport?

You sure? Wouldn't want to put you out.

No worries. Meet me outside in fifteen minutes. His smile was genuine. After all, what are friends for?

The winter Australian sun had already slipped into the horizon when the young PhD stepped off the curb without looking. He heard the car before he saw it. A moonless sky made it impossible to see it coming - especially since the driver had deliberately neglected to turn on the headlights. Squeal of tires, an engine's accelerating roar were the last sounds he registered as thirty-six hundred pounds of steel slammed into his body, catapulting him onto and then over the hood of the Holden, landing with a horrible thud on the road. He never heard the car door open or the approaching footsteps falling heavily on asphalt, then quickly fading as the driver, having grabbed the backpack, turned and walked back to his car, satisfied that his problem was solved.

Days later, long after the body was discovered and loaded onto the Port Douglas ME’s van and the scene analyzed, the final report labeled the hit and run a terrible accident with nothing to suggest the real truth.

CHAPTER 1

Monday, August 18, 2008

South Florida

Stepping into the darkened VA hospital PTSD clinic, Mackenzie Dodd heard the faint click of the revolver before she saw its barrel pressed against the young sergeant’s sweat-beaded temple. The stench of his body odor filled the small space. Standing with his back to the far window, he was eerily illuminated by a tiny, bright swath of early morning light.

Don’t come any farther.

Mackenzie couldn’t recall his last name. PJ something. He’d joined these sessions only a week before - another victim of multiple back-to-back tours in Iraq. So many of these poor vets sent off to seemingly endless Middle East wars. Like her, he hardly spoke in group, but she remembered the handsome twenty-something because last time he’d dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that accentuated a muscular physique. Today he’d chosen a full Marine combat uniform. That and his grim-lipped expression made him appear a much older man.

Stay back. He pointed the gun at her, the barrel wobbling slightly.

Mackenzie stopped near the open doorway, not sure what to do.

At ten to nine the circle of chairs was empty. None of the other patients had arrived yet. It would probably be after nine before Dr. Mills showed. The laid-back therapy leader was notoriously late. Mackenzie, on the other hand, was obsessive about being on time, even early - just one manifestation of her need to be in control, no doubt a result of a chaotic childhood and these days, the only sense of control it seemed she had left.

Switching to nursing mode, though a member of the group herself, Mackenzie feigned calm. This young man was obviously on an emotional hair trigger. Anything might set him off.

You’re PJ, right? She spoke slowly, measuring each word like someone tiptoeing around a land mine. I’m Mackenzie. My buds call me Mac.

PJ remained silent, his stare a blank, but at least he lowered the revolver, holding it shakily at his side.

Desperate to distract him, Mackenzie noticed his half-bitten nails, then spotted the gold band on his left ring finger. She’d discarded her own not long ago. Think about your wife. Don’t leave her like this.

Hesitating, as if trying to determine the value in conversation, he finally responded in a low rasp, his tone bitter. She left me after my last deployment. Moved from San Diego to her mom’s in Deerfield Beach. Sent me a fucking email. He shook his head. A fucking email. Said I’d changed too much. Refused my calls. I couldn’t... His voice trailed off. I begged her to start over. Said I’d sign up for therapy at the VA. Took me six fucking months to get into this group. He focused on the ceiling for a moment, then back at Mackenzie. When he blinked, a tear traveled down his cheek. Last night she said it was too late.

It’s never too late. Mackenzie uttered the words, not sure she believed them. Her own marriage hadn’t survived the war. Swallowing hard, she observed PJ’s shoulder insignia, remembering Semper Fi tattooed on his bare bicep when he’d worn a T-shirt to the last session. Thundering Third? she asked.

An evanescent smile flickered across PJ’s angular face at the mention of the nickname given to the 3/1- 3rd infantry battalion, 1st marine out of Camp Horno.

Mackenzie had also been deployed from Pendleton. Were you in Fallujah?

PJ acknowledged her question with the barest nod.

Me too, she said. Nursing corps. Which operation?

First time. Phantom Fury.

Mackenzie did a quick calculation. That was four years ago. Mid-2004. The 3/1 had been sent in to clear the infamous Jolan District, to reclaim the city of Fallujah from unrest and capture or kill insurgents responsible for the deaths of a Blackwater Security team. Considered the bloodiest battle of the Iraq war, it took its toll on too many youngsters like PJ.

And now the young Marine was recounting how he’d been re-deployed back to Iraq in 2005 and again in 2007. Operation Phantom Thunder in Western Iraq.

Wounded?

Using the barrel of his gun, he traced a thick ribbon of scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to just below his right eye. I was taking a leak a few yards from our HumVee when the IED killed my two buddies. A fucking leak. Can you believe that? It should have been me.

Mackenzie exhaled, imagining all the horrors this kid must have seen. She was no psychologist, but she’d suffered her own trauma from that war and was well aware of the internal scars most of these vets carried - especially when they’d dodged a bullet only to watch their comrades die. Survivor’s guilt had led to more suicides than the Army was willing to acknowledge. Just another of their dirty little secrets, she thought bitterly, reminded of her own buried wounds.

Listen, PJ. I understand. I do. Her throat was so dry each syllable seemed to stick. I know about the nightmares, the pain.

Then you know I see them everywhere. Dead Hajis, dead Americans. And their cries. It’s deafening. He looked at her with sad, dull eyes. But it all makes perfect sense now. I know what I have to do and it makes so much sense.

MacKenzie held her breath, dread slinking down her spine from the sheer inevitability of his utterance. It was quiet enough to hear the ticking of the wall clock as the second hand swept closer to the moment when the others would appear. Please, PJ. Listen to me, she begged, slowly moving toward him. You’re upset now, but you can get help here. You don’t have to do this.

His voice was low and preternaturally calm. No...no, I have to die. I have to leave this earth and go up to God. I have to be part of God's army with my men. I have to stop the pain. Too much pain. This is the only way. He put his hands over his ears. The pain keeps screaming in my head. It never stops. Oh God, stop the pain.

Approaching footsteps just outside the therapy room made Mackenzie swivel to look and in that split second she heard the unmistakable blast of PJ’s gun. In the small space the sound reverberated like thunder.

No! she screamed, turning back to see PJ’s body slump to the floor, a pool of blood forming around his head like a crimson halo. His eyes, mercifully, were closed.

So you were here all alone with the victim?

Sorry? Mackenzie turned to the West Palm Beach police officer seated beside her, his pen poised over a fresh page in a spiral pad. Handsome in his crisp uniform, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or maybe thirty, she thought, aware that he was watching her curiously, probably wondering why she appeared so calm.

It was a ruse. For the past hour she’d been cocooned in a state of shock, her mind numb, as VA administration, hospital security and local law enforcement had swooped in and begun dealing with the situation.

She was perched on one of the empty metal chairs that earlier had been arranged in a circle, anticipating the members of the therapy group.

Now all but two of the chairs had been pushed off to the corners to make room for the number of people flowing in and out. The moment any therapy patients appeared in the doorway, they’d been whisked off, away from the scene, leaving only Mackenzie to answer what seemed like endless questions, first from hospital security and now local police.

Why did you arrive so early?

Why didn't you call for help?

How well did you know the victim?

All questions she’d already asked herself.

But no one had asked the unanswerable: Why hadn’t she done more to stop PJ?

Mackenzie stared blankly at the wall, trying to ignore the blood congealing on the floor by the window and the flash of the medical examiner’s camera as two men from the ME’s office lifted the marine’s body onto a gurney and wheeled it past her. Too painful to think of a young man’s life reduced to this: a stain others would struggle to scrub away.

Miss Dodd?

The officer’s voice brought her back to the moment. You were all alone with the victim?

The victim.

Yes, I came in around ten to nine and found PJ standing over by the window with a gun to his head. I only met him last week in group. I really didn’t know him. Though her expression remained blank, her voice quivered as she relayed her short conversation with the distraught marine. I tried to stop... Unable to continue, her emotional dam burst. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, Dr. Mills stepped over and gave Mackenzie’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Officer, I’m the psychiatrist leading this therapy group. I don’t really think there’s anything Ms. Dodd can add.

Mackenzie turned to look at the doctor, grateful for his intervention.

You need to go home and rest, he told her.

Mackenzie nodded. She wanted nothing more than to escape the nightmare.

Oh and take the rear entrance, Mills added, handing her a Kleenex. I hear there's already a couple of TV vans camped out front. No point in making the sergeant's death a sideshow.

The police officer flipped his pad closed. Of course, doctor. You’re right.

Mackenzie noted the policeman's curious look again before he handed her his card.

Just in case you think of anything that might be helpful, he said. I realize this is difficult for you. Go home.

Some time after Mackenzie left the hospital, one of the staff grabbed the receiver on his desk phone and dialed a memorized number in Washington. I’m afraid we’ve had another suicide.

The curse on the other end was barely audible. Any physical symptoms?

His medical record mentions a complaint of some muscle twitches. Looks like the PA who saw him chalked it up to insomnia related to depression. Gave him a script of Lexapro and sent him back to the PTSD clinic.

Guess the good news is your staff’s not only underpaid, but too overworked to recognize the early signs.

What do you want me to do?

Make sure there’s no autopsy.

That won’t be a problem.

Can you delete the medical note?

Can do.

And follow-up with family. Call if they start asking questions.

I understand.

I hope you do. The voice on the other end was cold. This is too valuable an operation. We can’t afford any further leakage.

Yes sir, the administrator said, adding God bless America before hanging up.

CHAPTER 2

Monday August 18, 2008

An hour later, Mackenzie pulled into the parking lot of Shady Palms Apartments. Still shaken, she had no idea how she’d managed to maneuver her ten year old Civic on busy I-95 from the West Palm VA to the rundown neighborhood in West Delray. Known to most Floridians as an upscale oceanside community, Delray Beach actually had miles of dilapidated dwellings stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the interstate - a well kept secret by the chamber of commerce who daily lobbied its zoning commission to approve expensive condo projects guaranteed to drive the riffraff even farther inland.

The moment Mackenzie shut off the engine and emerged from her car, she was assaulted by the abrasive sounds of pile drivers and Salsa music. Shading her eyes from the bright August sun, she peered through a cloud of dust toward the empty lot across the street. Less than six months before an apartment building identical to the four story stucco where she now lived had been demolished to make way for a luxury highrise. According to the huge billboard hanging on the steel fence surrounding the lot, the new glass and steel condo complex slated to open in January promised luxury living starting at only five hundred thousand dollars.

Sighing, Mackenzie turned and headed up the creaky stairs to the second floor of her own building which was marked for tear-down by year’s end. Its residents’ only hope for eviction delay was the sudden drop in Florida real estate prices caused by the economic crisis.

The aroma of poverty seeped beneath each doorway she passed on the catwalk - garbage mixed with day old cooking. At 2G she stopped to swipe at a swarm of no-see-ums and shoo away a tiny newt before turning the lock. The door stuck a little in the frame where the pale pink paint had blistered from the overwhelming summer heat.

Nudging it open, she was greeted by a blast of hot, stale air. Even at a humid ninety-nine degrees, the weather in South Florida couldn’t compare to her days in the Iraqi sandbox, dressed in pounds of protective army gear while temperatures soared to one hundred thirty degrees and beyond. That was eight months ago and some bitter memories fade. Wiping beads of sweat from her forehead with her palm, she leaned in the doorway to slide the thermostat up a few notches. Air conditioning was a luxury she could ill afford, but she felt she owed her mother some comfort.

I’m home, she called from the open door.

Go home, the officer had said.

But Mackenzie had no home. Not of her own. Maybe she never really had.

Stepping into the tiny apartment she’d shared with her mother since her Army discharge, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror. A short-haired brunette looking much older than thirty, pale blue eyes ringed with smudged mascara, stared back at her.

Splotches of reddish brown, like paint spatter, covered her white cotton blouse. Except that she knew it wasn’t paint.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Her stomach clenched. Waves of grief, pain, and anger flooded over her.

Damn you, PJ. Hadn’t she been through enough?

As if in response to her interior dialogue,Viv Wallach, sometime PBU art student and self-proclaimed social networking expert, appeared in the threshold of her mother’s bedroom. Tattooed and pierced, dark hair streaked with neon blue, the waif-like twenty-year old who dressed only in black, scared off most of the elderly residents of the building until they learned that her external Goth belied a heart of gold. Jeez, what happened to you, kid?

Normally, the kid moniker would summon a smile. Most of Mackenzie’s friends called her Mac. That is, when she’d had friends. These days, it seemed that Viv was her only real friend - maybe because they each lived with an older relative - Viv with her eighty year old grandfather, Mackenzie with her fifty-five year old mother. They’d found comfort in some kind of generational bond despite the decade between them.

Not ready to discuss the trauma of her morning, Mackenzie asked, where’s Karyn? Once a week, while Mackenzie attended a mandatory PTSD therapy group, the Jamaican aide came in to help care for Mackenzie’s mother.

School nurse called. Her daughter had a fever and wanted to come home. Viv pointed to the wall clock in the alcove that served as a kitchen. It was after one. You’re usually back by eleven.

Mackenzie stepped past Viv into her mother’s bedroom. Yeah. Long story.

Viv put a finger to her lips. She slept through the morning.

Mackenzie nodded, quietly approaching the tiny figure in the rented hospital bed. Swaddled in a white blanket, her mother’s chest rose and fell with the hum of the ventilator. For weeks, she’d been tethered to the breathing machine, fed through a tube, unable to move beyond this cramped space, forced to spend her waking hours staring at the beige ceiling, waiting to die. The sight of this latest incapacity made Mackenzie’s heart twist. Moving closer, she leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her mother’s forehead.

Less than a year ago Diane Carter had been a pleasantly plump beauty. Now she had wasted away to a gaunt shadow of her former self. ALS might sound like an innocent triumvirate of initials, but amyotrophic lateral sclerosis was the antithesis of innocence. Its relentless attack on motor neurons left even the strongest athletes like all-star Yankee slugger Lou Gehrig paralyzed and dependent on others for everything from eating to personal care to breathing. For someone who’d been left a widow at thirty-six and found the strength (albeit with some major missteps) to raise three children while working two jobs, ALS was as ignominious a fate as any Mackenzie could imagine.

At the touch of Mackenzie’s lips, her mother blinked open her eyes. Unable to speak, pupil size was the best barometer of her emotions. Dime-sized, crowding out once dramatically blue irises. Mackenzie knew she was glad to see her youngest child.

Hi. Sorry I was late.

Her mother slowly blinked three times - their agreed upon short-hand for it’s okay, then shut her eyes again and dozed while Mackenzie hung a bag of liquid lunch, expertly suctioned the tracheostomy tube, and emptied the urine bag.

Viv popped her head in the doorway. I’m off. Gramps needs his meds.

Thanks for being here, Mackenzie mouthed.

Kid, that’s what friends are for. Viv whispered. She cocked her head. If you want to talk later, text me and I’ll come down. I’ve got to finish the graphics for a mystery author’s website. Then I’ll have time to check out your new column on Online.com and we can revisit the idea of better marketing. Staring pointedly at Mackenzie’s blood stained blouse, she added, meantime, why not write about what happened for today’s entry?

Mackenzie was always surprised at Viv’s insight. For someone so young she had amazing instincts. It was Viv who’d urged her to start writing about the Iraq and Afghan wars, first for herself and then two months ago to apply for a column with a newly launched online newspaper. Her pay was dependent on how many clicks the column got and that was dependent on attracting readers.

Viv and Mackenzie had brainstormed pen names since Mackenzie insisted on anonymity. Finally, they’d both agreed on Silent Survivor. Mackenzie began writing about the experiences of the young men and women no one in America not directly involved in the military seemed to know or care about.

At first just a handful of people found the column, but with Viv’s social networking expertise, within one month the numbers were up and approaching several hundred hits a day. Viv was pushing for a website and Facebook tie-in, insisting the column could do even better. But that meant giving up anonymity.

I’ll think about it, Mackenzie had said a week earlier when Viv asked, not sure she was ready to come out of the shadows.

That's it!

Though the last time he’d seen her was a good twenty years ago, Officer Sam Cantori had been racking his brains since he'd entered the clinic and spotted Mackenzie. Of course in fifth grade she'd been Kenzie Carter. That's why he hadn't realized who she was at first. But now that he had a minute to think about it, he was sure he was right. It was the anguished look in her pale blue eyes that had given her away - the same expression she’d had when the principal called Mackenzie out of class to tell her that her father had died.

Long after General Paulsen slammed down the receiver, his knuckles were still white. How much more fucked up could his day get? First a notice to appear before the House Armed Services committee and now this. It seemed the harder he’d tried to keep a lid on the operation, the more complicated everything had become.

God damn unintended consequences.

He rubbed the bridge of his veined nose and closed his eyes, wondering just how many more loose ends he’d have to take care of before this thing was finally through.

While her mother slept, Mackenzie set her blood-spattered blouse to soak in cold water, took a quick shower, changed into jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed her laptop. Settling into the chair by the rented hospital bed, she logged onto the Online.com site and read her very first, tentative piece dated July 4, 2008:

Today is the day that so many in Florida and around the country will be celebrating. But how many of those eating hotdogs and watching fireworks actually know that on this day in 1776, the Continental Congress ratified the Declaration of Independence, that those thirteen colonies declared their independence from Great Britain to become the United States of America? Since that time so many US veterans and military heroes have and are proudly serving America, fighting for the freedoms that our nation guarantees, preserving our independence.

Today on local TV one of our state representatives urged Americans to honor and thank our vets and military not just on July 4th but all year long. Somehow, though, for me, it was just words. And that’s why I am starting this blog.

I am writing for you and me - for those of us who’ve been deployed in the Middle East, fighting for a country that tells us we are the bravest and the best, but seems to forget us when we come home wounded. Not just in body, but in spirit.

You know who you are. I am one of you and I’m hoping that by sharing some of our stories we can get stronger.

So you tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

- Silent Survivor

Since those first few paragraphs, Mackenzie had tried to write a little something at least every few days. Memorializing her private thoughts was freeing in a way that surprised her. For so long she’d struggled to keep her emotions in check, aware that bubbling just beneath the surface was a cauldron of rage, shame, and feelings of helplessness.

And so many secrets.

What she couldn’t say in group she wrote about here. At least some of it. It was like holding up a mirror without having to expose herself to people who actually knew her. In this ethereal world she never had to reveal her true identity.

What she hadn’t counted on was the fact that once she’d sent her secret thoughts out onto the Internet they were actually read by people who had their own secrets to confess.

She scrolled back to the first comment she’d received, recalling the exhilaration of not only making a connection, but creating a place where a reader felt safe enough to express herself:

They don’t call me a soldier because officially I’m not. I’m a soldier’s wife. I haven’t been shipped off to Afghanistan like my husband - three times so far in the last five years - and I haven’t been shot at or stepped on an IED. Still, I feel as though I’m a silent survivor like you - suffering the pain of the loss of my spouse, trying to keep up with the bills, with my kids. And I have needs. I’m only twenty-eight and I’m not bad looking. I miss having a man holding me at night. I haven’t ever cheated - I go to church regularly, but the other day when my son’s teacher smiled at me, well...I couldn’t help wondering...

I know it’s terrible to think this way, but I can’t help it. I have trouble sleeping. Actually I’m afraid to close my eyes because my dreams are so filled with fear - fear that my husband will be killed or worse, injured so badly that he’ll never be the same. Even now when he does come home between deployments, he’s changed. He hardly talks and he never smiles anymore.

I know that if I tell my husband how I feel, it will have a negative impact on his career. The Army wants us all to carry on as though everything’s OK. Stiff upper lip and all.

So thank you for this column. And please keep writing

- Just an Army wife in Albuquerque

That first comment gave Mackenzie the encouragement to continue. With her next few entries, more comments arrived, a torrent of sorrow and pain from wives and mothers and soldiers themselves - men and women who hid their true feelings from commanding officers and family, but who poured out their stories anonymously on the web.

Now Mackenzie clicked on New Entry and began to write about PJ.

I watched a young soldier die today. Not on the battlefield, but right here in the good old USA. He held a gun to his head...

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Knowing she was dreaming didn't make Mackenzie's nightmare any less terrifying. She was lying on her cot in the barracks, dressed only in panties and a T-shirt and she’d kicked off the sheet. It was so damn hot. Her roommate was somewhere OC - off campus. They’d both finished a twelve hour shift, but Brittany liked to party. Even though Mackenzie’s marriage was done by that point, she just wanted to sleep.

She was so tired all the time - not just from the heavy work schedule, but from the sound of mortars and RPGs going off every night, keeping her on permanent alert.

So when her commander tiptoed in and stood over her, her eyes opened instantly. No, she whispered.

The way he stared at her left no doubt that he was there to rape her.

Please, no, she repeated, grabbing the sheet to draw it around her at the same time that the captain pulled it back. He smelled like sweat and beer and he didn’t say anything as he ripped off her