“There wasn’t a crash.” Eric chuckled grimly. “They all died in combat. But a helicopter crash was a convenient cover. Among other things, it explained why most of them had closed casket funerals. Hell, there weren’t even bodies in most of the caskets, just sandbags. We didn’t lose them all at once and quite a few weren’t recoverable.”

“And that was your unit?” Josh asked.

“Yep.”

“And you’re going back?”

“Yep.”

“That’s insane.”

“Yep.”

“Eric,” Josh said desperately. “You cannot go do… whatever it is you do, again. Forget what I said about the uniform. De-volunteer or something. Hell, I’ll hide you under my bed. With casualties like that…”

“Not much chance of believing I’ll survive, right?” Eric asked, finally turning away from the mirror.

“YES!”

“Believe it or not, on the last cruise I started to get into Goth and heavy metal,” Eric said, talking around the point.

“And I was happy, happy, happy,” Josh replied. “Since I no longer had to listen to Hank Williams, Jr. What’s it got to do with the statistical certainty you’re going to die?”

“I still listen to Hank,” Eric said. “But one of the songs I got into was called ‘Winterborn.’ You’ve never heard of Crüxshadows, have you?”

“Bit indy for me, man,” Josh said. “What’s wrong with Metallica?”

“Besides that they haven’t had an album out in ten years?” Eric replied. “But this song, it’s about the Trojans. There’s a line in the chorus: In the fury of this darkest hour, I will be your light. You’ve asked me for my sacrifice, and I am Winterborn. I’m good at what I do, Josh. Very good.”

“I didn’t figure you got the Navy Cross for being incompetent,” Josh said quietly. “But there’s these things called odds.”

“And if I didn’t do it, somebody else would have to,” Eric continued as if he hadn’t heard his brother. “From experience, probably somebody who wasn’t as good, who has less of a chance of coming back. You want me to put them on the chopping block, bro?”