The Top Gun's Return

There was a pause, and then, 'I was moved around a lot. Some places were better than others.'

'How were you treated?'

Jessie's whole body seemed to be vibrating in anticipation of the answer to that one, but Tris cleared his throat and said, 'I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind.'

'Can you tell us whether or not you were tortured?'

Hovering in the background, Jessie felt riled and jumpy, protective as a mother dog with one pup. The knots in her stomach had tightened with every question; her nerves were singing like high-tension wires. Her gaze and every ounce of her concentration were focused only on Tristan, so she knew just when the strain began to be too much for him. She knew by the set of his shoulders and the angle of his head, the lengthening shadows in his cheeks, the rigidity of his jaw. By the sheen of sweat across his forehead…white knuckles on the hands that gripped the lectern, out of the view of reporters and camera lenses. Were you tortured, my love? Oh dear God…

'Sorry-I'm not gonna comment on that.'

'Lieutenant Bauer, have you spoken with Cory Pearson since your rescue?'

Tristan gave his head a little shake, apparently not understanding the question. With her thoughts still agonizing over the previous question, it sailed over Jessie's head, too. 'I'm sorry-who?'

'Cory Pearson-the AP correspondent who was rescued along with you.'

'Oh. No…no, I haven't.'

'It's my understanding that in a way he's the one responsible for you being rescued. That the special forces team were, in fact, looking for Mr. Pearson when they entered that prison. Is that true?'

Again Tris cleared his throat before answering. 'That's what I'm told, yes.'

'Lieutenant Bauer, were you and Mr. Pearson able to communicate with each other?'

'How long were you together? Did you know there was another American in there with you?'

'Did he know who you were?'

Tristan waited patiently until the barrage of questions had died down, then leaned down to the microphone. 'Cory and I met when we were both transferred to the location where we were when we were rescued. Before that we'd been kept in different places. They moved us when the bombing started…that'd be about…three weeks before the SEALs showed up. Once I realized he spoke English, we began communicating, yes. We, uh…we talked when the guards weren't around. Mostly in whispers.' Jessie could hear the new ironic smile in his voice as he added, 'Hey, Cory's the journalist, he'd be a lot better at telling this than I am, why don't you ask him?'

'As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, in his stories filed since his return, Mr. Pearson has described being beaten and starved while he was a prisoner, as well as other forms of physical and psychological torture. Is it safe to assume you suffered similar treatment?'

During the silence that followed the question, Jessie realized that her throat felt raw and sore, as if she'd been screaming and yelling for hours. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and made herself think about playing on the beach when she was a girl, picking up shells and starfish and dancing barefoot in the lapping surf. It was a coping technique she'd learned to help herself when things went bad in the NICU. Watching a dying baby struggle for its last breaths wasn't an easy thing to do, but neither, she discovered, was watching her husband struggle to escape the horror of his memories.

At last, when she thought she wasn't going to be able to stand the suspense another minute, he ducked his head toward the microphone again. 'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'That's something I don't care to get into. That's in the past. I'd like to keep it there-put it behind me and get on with my life. Right now I'm looking ahead to the future I didn't think I was ever gonna have. I'm looking forward to getting back home, seeing my daughter, spending time with my wife…flying again. That's what I want to think about now. The past is over and done with. Let it be. That's all I have to say. Thank you…'

He turned away from the lectern, and Jessie's heart turned over when she saw his face. It was ravaged, haggard…tense and drawn…the face of someone looking into hell.

One of the officers in dress uniform quickly stepped up to the microphone and thanked all the reporters for coming. The press conference-one ordeal, at least-was over.

Chapter 9

Jess didn't say much in the car as they were being driven to the plane. Although Tristan knew there were two good reasons for her reticence-Al Sharpe at the wheel and Lieutenant Commander Rees beside him in the front seat-he still had the feeling the reason for her silence was that once again he'd let her down. Since the news conference he'd felt her disappointment like a physical touch; her unanswered questions were an incessant tapping behind his temples.

But explaining to her why he couldn't give her the answers she wanted seemed utterly beyond him, and eventually he put his head back against the seat and pretended exhaustion. He didn't have to pretend much, and the headache he had was real enough. Evidently, he wryly told himself, the aftereffects of a little too much Altbier.

It wasn't until they were in the Air Force jet somewhere over the North Atlantic that Jess finally broke a long, droning silence. Out of the blue-so to speak-she said, 'It might be better if you talked about it.'

Tristan had been dozing, drifting in and out of shadows. Shaking off their wispy remnants, he turned his head to look at her. Her luminous eyes, filled only with compassion and concern, were to him a silent accusation. Pretending to misunderstand, he yawned, grinned and leaned closer to murmur huskily, 'I'd a whole lot rather do than talk about it, sweetheart. Told you I was gonna make it up to you. Soon as I get the chance.'

He could almost feel the heat of her blush, but her gaze didn't waver. She said breathlessly, 'That's not what I mean, and you know it. Tris, what happened to you…you can't expect it not to have-I mean, PTSD isn't something to be ashamed-'

He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh and rolled his head away from her. 'God, Jess, don't you start. I've heard it all from the military shrinks, believe me.'

'Then why-'

'What's the point?' His voice, though barely above a whisper, was explosive, like an air gun letting go, and he paused for several breaths to force himself to ease up. 'Look,' he said when he felt calm enough, 'who do you think's going to understand? Nobody can understand. Nobody. I can talk about it until the cows come home and it's not gonna make anybody know what it was like. Ever. Okay, Cory Pearson's a journalist, he's gonna write about it because that's who he is. It's what he has to do, I guess. But not one word he writes, I don't care how good he is with words, not one word is ever gonna make anyone feel what we felt. So what's the point in talking about it?'

'That's not what it's for-talking about it.' Her whisper had a sticky sound. 'It's to help you.'

'Oh, yeah? Help me do what? Remember?' He fought against the sudden stabbing urge to tell her everything. About the pain, the cold and the hunger, the humiliation, the sense of utter powerlessness, the fear, the isolation, the constant expectation of death. Revulsion overwhelmed him and he couldn't stop a shudder. 'Trust me, I don't need any help remembering. What I need is to forget.'

'Yes, but you can't-'

'Jess, don't. Look…let's get something straight. I'm not gonna dump what's in here-' he tapped his temple '-in my head all over you. I won't do that, so don't ask me again.' The fine skin around her eyes flinched at his harshness. He couldn't stand to look at her eyes. He drew a quick, hurting breath and after a moment went on brokenly, 'Tell me-what kind of a man would I be if I laid all that on you? It's bad, Jess. Understand? It's enough one of us has to carry it around. I'm not about to burden you with it, too.'

He could see she didn't begin to understand, even before she whispered fiercely, 'I'm your wife, dammit. It's my job to help you carry your burdens. Please, Tris. Talk to me.'