Chapter 3 - The Seventh Name
The formation roster should have contained twelve names.
It contained thirteen.
I discovered that at 2:17 the next morning, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor with Nathan's phone plugged into a charger.
The device was old enough that the battery barely held a charge.
Its screen flickered twice before coming alive.
Nathan's wallpaper appeared.
A photograph of us at Virginia Beach.
My hair was blowing across my face. Nathan was laughing. His arm was around my waist.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
I touched the photograph.
“Come on, Nate,” I whispered. “Help me out.”
The phone had no cellular service.
But its files were still there.
Photographs.
Messages.
Voice recordings.
A folder labeled TRAINING.
Inside were images of handwritten notes, weather updates, and a photographed formation roster.
Twelve Marines had been assigned to the movement.
Nathan's name was seventh.
Beside his name, in the remarks column, someone had written:
ROUTE CHANGE DISPUTED.
The handwriting was his.
I enlarged the photograph.
At the bottom of the page, beneath the final name, another entry had been added.
Observer: C. Brant.
But Major Brant's name had been crossed out.
Someone had tried to remove it using thick black ink.
I stared at the screen.
Why would a commanding officer's presence need to be concealed?
And why would Nathan photograph the roster before the exercise?
I opened the voice recordings.
There were seven.
Six were ordinary.
Nathan describing equipment shortages.
Nathan asking for clarification on training boundaries.
Nathan noting that two Marines had reported symptoms of heat exhaustion during an earlier exercise.
The seventh file was different.
Its title was a date.
The day he died.
I pressed play.
At first, I heard boots.
Wind.
A vehicle engine.
Then Nathan's voice.
“Recording this because I don't trust the changes.”
He sounded angry.
Not frightened.
“Original route was approved for the lower training area. Brant redirected us toward the ridge after the weather advisory. He says the movement has to happen tonight.”
A second voice answered.
“Staff Sergeant, you need to stop recording.”
Nathan replied, “Then put the order in writing.”
The other voice said nothing.
Nathan continued.
“Sergeant Price is here. He heard the same order.”
My blood ran cold.
Price.
The same sergeant who had spent the previous year training junior Marines with Nathan.
The same man who had stood beside Nathan's casket.
The same man who had told me at the funeral that Nathan died doing his duty.
I replayed the recording.
“Sergeant Price is here. He heard the same order.”
Then another voice entered.
Low.
Controlled.
Familiar.
“Reed, you will execute the movement as directed.”
Major Brant.
Nathan answered immediately.
“Sir, the weather report doesn't support that route.”
“You're not the weather officer.”
“No, sir. But I'm responsible for my Marines.”
A pause.
Then Brant said:
“That's enough.”
The recording ended.
I sat motionless.
This wasn't proof of murder.
It wasn't even proof that Brant had knowingly endangered Nathan.
But it proved something important.
Brant had been involved in the route change.
And the official account I had been given didn't mention him.
I copied the files onto an encrypted drive and wrote down the filenames and timestamps.
Then I called Price.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Walsh?”
“Were you with Nathan when he died?”
Silence.
“Erin, it's three in the morning.”
“Were you there?”
A breath.
“Yes.”
“Did Brant order the ridge movement?”
Another silence.
Then Price said something I hadn't expected.
“Don't discuss this on the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because you don't know who else is listening.”
I stood.
“Marcus, what happened to Nathan?”
His voice changed.
For the first time since the funeral, Sergeant Price sounded frightened.
“He wasn't supposed to be the one who went back.”
I gripped the phone.
“Went back where?”
Price didn't answer.
“Marcus?”
The call disconnected.
May you like
Thirty seconds later, a text arrived from an unknown number.
STOP ASKING ABOUT THE THIRTEENTH MAN.
