Semper Mine (Sons of War #1)
Lizzy Ford
Chapter One: Sawyer
MARCH
Save Petr.
I can still hear Mikael Khavalov’s final words. There’s a reason the military doesn’t put brothers on the same special operations team, but that night seven days ago, it didn’t matter. A routine mission with a second team put the twins both under my watch, and every commander’s worst nightmare happened.
Sergeant First Class Mikael Khavalov – known as Khav-One – was one of four service members that died to give the rest of us, including his wounded brother, Petr – Khav-Two – a chance to make it to safety.
An early spring chill tickles my ear, a reminder that I’m in Massachusetts, thousands of miles from the war zone. The sky is unusually clear, blue and cloudless, with the scent of flowers in the air. My gaze sweeps over the men and women dressed in black, gathered for the final farewell to Mikael.
Nothing is quite as moving as a military funeral: the aching wail of a coronet, twenty one gun salute, and the piercing silence that follows. I’ve attended too many the past year, four this week alone. There’s a sense of peace in the final solemn, disciplined display that thanks a man or woman for the ultimate sacrifice before lowering him or her into the ground.
This one is unlike the others for a few reasons, and I feel out of place where I normally don’t. There’s no Taps or salute, no one else in uniform, and the flag that flew back with Mikael’s body is tucked under one of my arms. The wealthy Khavalov family declined the Arlington burial in favor of having their son laid to rest in a private, walled cemetery, behind the mansion where the rest of the immediate family lives. It’s a completely civilian affair, and I am out of my element.
A true blueblood, Khav-One had a degree from Yale, a sports car I wouldn’t be able to afford with ten years of wages in hand, and was friends with the families of politicians and celebrities, some of whom are in attendance today.
God knows what made someone with his background enlist, of all things, let alone pursue the grueling, gritty, elite path of a Green Beret, aside from a love of his country, mixed with a side of crazy. Whatever it is, it runs in the family. Mikael didn’t survive the worst night of my life, but Khav-Two did. He’s in a hospital near here, stuck in a medically induced coma to keep him stable after his leg was blown off near the hip.
It’s certainly the most peaceful graveyard I’ve visited yet. It feels more like a garden with hedges, stately statues and obelisks, a fountain at its center and a stone pathway that weaves among the dead.
I knew his family had money, but I had no idea they had money. It makes me think he was crazier than I first gave him credit for.
The ceremony ends with a Catholic priest blessing the sleek black casket covered by a blanket of flowers. I stand to the side, the only one in uniform. Khav’s father is someone I know better than my own from the stories the spirited twins used to tell. He’s a burly, former Russian KGB officer with white hair and bright blue eyes who defected to the States when he fell in love with an American heiress, a ballerina training with the Bolshoi Ballet group in Moscow.
Everyone in our unit knew their story. Fairy tales have a place, especially in war, and this was a nice, rosy one that was real enough for us to touch. A man leading a life of war and violence meets a beautiful ballerina and finds peace and happily ever after? Who doesn’t want that someday? Avid storytellers, the twins kept the morale of their respective units up with the sheer power of their upbeat personalities. I can’t imagine going back without them.
The Khavs’ sister, whose name I can’t remember, is standing beside her father, a veil covering her face. She’s small, like I expect of the daughter of a ballerina, and dressed in black. She leans into her father in a stance I’ve seen too often lately, one that makes me hurt for those like her. The only thing I recall Khav-One saying about her was never to eat the cookies she sent the unit, but not to tell her the cookies got tossed, because she has a temper.
The twins were known to exaggerate, though, and I didn’t believe it until I tried one. I’ve never met a cookie I didn’t like, especially in a war zone. The taste was nothing compared to the bellyache hers gave me after I choked a few down.
I wish I knew something else about her. I try to say something personal to everyone I meet at funerals. It seems like an oversight right now not to have something more thoughtful to express than please don’t send more cookies.
“Thank you for your service, Captain,” one man says, approaching me. I recognize him from television. He’s a senator. I haven’t been stateside in four years, so I’m not sure from which state.
“It’s an honor, sir,” I reply.
“Force Recon Marine at a Green Beret funeral? Things have changed since my day.” He smiles.
“We recruited the best of the best from all services for our special team, sir. It was an honor to serve with him.”
“Well said, Marine.” We shake hands, and he leaves. Two more men and a woman approach and shake my hand.
The people begin to drift away, talking quietly, while the two immediate family members remain. I stay with them, wanting to do what little I can to help, even knowing there’s nothing that can really be said. They hug, and I turn away to give them some privacy. I notice the rose bushes lining one wall, the source of the subtle scent has been tickling my nose since I entered the graveyard.