Chapter 8 - The Terminal at Reagan
The bustling concourse of Reagan National Airport was filled with tourists, congressional aides, and business travelers rushing toward their gates.
I found Caleb sitting in a quiet corner of the terminal near Gate 14, staring down at an untouched paper cup of coffee.
He was wearing civilian jeans and a dark hoodie, his duffel bag resting between his sneakers.
The proud, untouchable young warrior from the graduation stage looked shattered, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark with sleeplessness.
When I stopped in front of his table, he looked up, flinching slightly as he saw the uniform I was wearing.
The silver oak leaves on my collar gleamed in the fluorescent terminal light.
"Maya," he breathed, standing up quickly, his hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know whether to salute or hug me.
"Sit down, Caleb," I said softly, pulling out the plastic chair across from him.
He sank back into his seat, rubbing his face with both hands, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Dad lost his credentials," Caleb whispered, staring at the table.
"NCIS showed up at the house. They served him with an administrative ban."
"I know," I replied.
"He’s blaming you, Maya. He sat in that living room and said you orchestrated the investigation to get back at him for Annapolis."
I let out a soft, tired chuckle, shaking my head.
"Your father has spent his entire life believing the universe revolves around his personal grievances, Caleb."
"I didn't call NCIS. The Pentagon’s automated intrusion detection systems flagged his login credentials within sixty seconds of his query."
Caleb looked up, his hazel eyes—so much like our mother’s—filled with raw, burning confusion.
"Why didn't you ever fight back, Maya?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"All those years at Sunday dinner. When Dad called you a quitter. When I... when I mocked you for your clothes, for your job, for staying single."
"Why didn't you just tell us to shut up?"
I leaned forward, resting my forearms against the table, looking straight into my brother's eyes.
"Because a real soldier doesn't need to bark to prove she has teeth, Caleb."
"When you spend twelve years operating in countries where a single careless word can get six people executed in an alleyway, you learn that ego is a disease."
"Dad’s pride was a cage," I continued gently.
"He built it around himself, he built it around you, and he tried to build it around me."
"I escaped it twelve years ago. You’re just now realizing you’re inside it."
Caleb swallowed hard, tears finally spilling over his lashes and running down his cheeks.
He reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out the gold SEAL trident, and laid it on the laminate table between our coffee cups.
"I don't deserve this," he choked out, his voice breaking completely.
"Captain Hayes told me I was a spoiled brat who cried about water temperature while my sister took bullets."
I looked at the heavy gold pin, then looked up at my brother.
I reached across the table, picked up the trident, and pressed it firmly into his trembling palm.
"You survived Hell Week, Caleb," I said, my voice firm and clear.
"Nobody gave you that pin for free. You earned the training."
"The question isn't whether you deserved it yesterday. The question is what kind of man you’re going to be tomorrow when you lead men in combat."
Caleb clutched the gold pin in his fist, bowing his head against the table as he wept—not the bitter tears of wounded vanity, but the cleansing tears of a boy stepping into manhood.
I reached out and placed my hand over his shoulder, anchoring him in place until his breathing slowed.
May you like
For the first time in our lives, we weren't competitors in Victor Ellison's manufactured arena.
We were just a brother and sister finding our way out of the dark.
