Montana SEAL (Brotherhood Protectors #1)(6)
3
“I told them it was only a flesh wound, and what do they do?” Hank shrugged into the leather jacket Tuck had found in his closet and brought to the hospital in Bethesda, where he and Swede were being treated for their injuries.
Swede sat in a sterile, white hospital bed, wearing a faded gown with the ties in the back, while eating the swill from the hospital kitchen. He still had a swath of bandages wrapped around his head where shrapnel had hit, and his hand was wrapped like a mummy’s, making it hard for him to hold his fork. As far as the docs knew, they’d dug all the metal shards out of his back and thighs. He’d find out if the surgeon had done his job the next time he went through the metal detector in a commercial airport.
Swede paused with his forkful of rubber chicken halfway to his mouth. “What did they do?”
“They’re running me through a medical review board.” Hank walked to the window and stared out. Cloudy skies matched his murky mood. “I might be discharged based on this goddamn leg.” He kicked his leg out and winced, his hand going to the side of his knee that had taken the bulk of the hit.
“If you’re discharged, what are they going to do to me?” Swede raised his bandaged hand to his head, fork and all. “Isn’t it an automatic career-ender when you get a TBI?”
Traumatic brain injuries were serious business. One minute a guy could be fine, the next, he could be on the floor, unconscious.
“Any headaches?” Hank asked.
“Sometimes,” Swede admitted. “Hell, I got hit in the head. I have stitches. They shaved my hair.”
Hank laughed. “Was that where all your strength was? In that headful of hair?”
Swede had worn his blond hair long and shaggy, like a Norse god.
“Damn right, it was. I feel as weak as a kitten.” He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Can’t hold a fork, much less a nine millimeter pistol. Forget an M4. The only good thing about being stuck in this bed is the pretty nurse who comes in on the evening shift.”
“Any confusion or dizziness?” Hank’s brow furrowed. “You’re thinking clearly, aren’t you?”
“Just confusion over where to tie the damned strings on this gown—not that I can manage them on my own with this bandage on my hand. No dizziness.” Swede nodded. “I’m thinking pretty damned clearly. I want out of this hospital. Yesterday, if it were possible.”
“How’s the steak?” Hank asked, his lips twitching, his eyelid dropping in a wink.
“It’s garbage. Tastes more like chicken.” Swede glared. “I only wish it was steak. I can’t wait to get back to my own place.”
Hank rubbed a hand across his face. “The medical review board doesn’t meet for another month. They recommended I go on leave until they come to a decision. The orthopedic surgeon doesn’t want me to start running again until I’ve been through a couple months of physical therapy. How the hell am I going to stay in shape if I can’t exercise?”
Swede shook his head, his lips twisting. “Have you ever considered you’re looking at everything all wrong?” his friend asked quietly.
“I’m a SEAL. What good am I if I can’t work out?”
“As much as I can’t stand hospitals, you and I were the lucky ones.” Swede set his fork on the rollaway table and pushed it aside. “Lt. Mike won’t be going home. His wife won’t be kissing him goodnight. His kids won’t know their daddy.”
Hank eased into the chair beside Swede’s bed and stared at the wall, his heart and stomach twisting into a hard knot. “Why did he do it?”
“The same reason you or I would have done it, had we been closest to the grenade. Lt. Mike just had the shit luck to be standing there. He saved all of us.”
“We could have run—”
Swede shook his head. “We wouldn’t have made it.” The big man sighed. “What’s important is that Lt. Mike bought us a second chance at life. We can’t go around second-guessing the past. We have to move on and make a difference in our futures. Lt. Mike would have wanted us to.”
“We have to do right by him.”
“Exactly. We can’t waste this opportunity to live our lives to the fullest.”
Hank glanced up and nodded. “And do some good, while we’re at it.”
“What about going back to Montana for a visit? Or better yet, you could go back to ranching. Isn’t that what you did before you joined the navy?”
Hank shook his head. “I joined the navy to get away from Montana.”
“Or did you join the navy to prove to your father you didn’t need him?”
Swede knew Hank better than Hank knew himself. “That’s part of it. I can’t go back to Montana flat on my ass, jobless and not fit to do anything but blow shit up. Going home isn’t an option.”
“I know you and your father didn’t see eye to eye, but what about your sister? Doesn’t she like it when you visit?”
The frown eased on Hank’s forehead. “Allie would be beside herself, she’d be so happy. But every time I return home, my father makes it a point to remind me that I’m wasting my life in the navy. He thinks I should get back to what I do best.”