“Why?” I ask, the ball in my gut turning to ice. I know the schedules as much as any other infantry officer, and I'm just waiting for the other boot to drop.
“Your new company rotated last month to Afghanistan,” Bradley says with a triumphant chuckle. “Unfortunately for them, their XO caught himself a very bad case of some disease or another and had to be rotated back to the States. The unit is short-handed now, so they've got priority. You're going to need to clear post by Wednesday. You fly Thursday morning.”
I ball up the paper, growling. “You're seriously sending me into a goddamn war zone with no prep, with Mountain boys? I'm not Mountain, I'm goddamn Airborne!”
“You're an Infantry First Lieutenant who’s qualified for an Executive Officer position,” Bradley shoots back, not offended at all. In fact, I think he's liking this. He'd want nothing more than for me to push it too far so he actually could have me arrested and court-martialed. “You are what the Army says you are. Now, my advice to you is to shuck your ass up to battalion to start the paperwork you need to get done. Oh, and don't worry about your property book. I've already signed it all back over to me. I'll take care of anything missing. I'll be making the announcement to the company at end of day formation. Try not to miss it so that you can say goodbye to everyone. You brought this on yourself, Simpson. Don't make it any worse.”
I stand up, trying to control my temper, and take a deep, shuddering breath. The only thing stopping me from wringing his arrogant neck is the fact that I can't see her in Leavenworth either. “Good fucking day, Captain.”
* * *
Lindsey's face is as grave as I feel while she reads the papers again, dropping them on the table. “Tenth Mountain, in Afghanistan. Oh, Aaron . . .”
Lance, who doesn't quite understand the problem, only sees that his Mommy and Daddy are sad, and he gets worried. “Mommy? What's wrong?”
“Daddy's going to have to go away for a while,” I tell Lance, squatting down and taking his little hands in mine. “About six months or so.”
Lance looks confused still, and I realize that even though he's been an 'Army brat' his whole short life, Lindsey's never been deployed. “But why?”
“The Army wants me to go, and I have three years left on my commitment,” I tell him, picking him up and sitting down with him in the dining room chair that's available. “Lance, have you ever made a promise to do something?”
“Yes,” Lance says. “Miss Wendy makes me promise to pick up my toys every day before I get to take them out.”
“And do you?” I ask. Lance nods, and I echo it. “Well, buddy, about two years ago, I made a promise to the Army. I promised them that since they paid for me to go to West Point, and they paid for all the classes I took and the food I ate and all that stuff, that I was going to serve five years in the Army afterward. They gave me my rank, and they even gave me a job that way, but I still have three years to go on that promise.”
“But you just started to be Daddy!” Lance says, upset.
“I know,” I say, hugging him tightly as he starts to cry. “But you want to know something? Now that I'm your Daddy, that's never, ever going to stop. We can live in the same house, different houses like we do now, or even if I'm on the other side of the world. I'm always going to be your Daddy. And that's never going to change.”
Lance cries harder, and I rock him in my arms until he tapers down to sniffles, calming. I help Lindsey set him up with a video on my TV, and the two of us step into my back yard, wanting the privacy. “I understand how he feels,” Lindsey whispers, coming closer so I can hug her. “It's not fair, Aaron.”
“I know.”
“Can't you just . . . I don't know, resign your commission?” Lindsey asks, and I shake my head. “Why not?”
“Because if I don't complete my five years, the Army can come after me for the pro-rated amount of what they value a West Point education to cost. If I'd flunked out of the PT test, or there were some other possible reason they'd have me let go, that'd be one thing, and they probably wouldn't come after me for it. But, I'd be refusing orders to report to a combat unit, currently deployed, for no reason at all in their eyes. I'd have no defense. They'd come after me for every cent.”
“How much?” Lindsey asks, and I sigh. “That much?”
“You got somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty grand sitting around?” I ask with a dark chuckle. “Never mind that they'd probably bring me up on charges if I do. Face it, Lindsey. Bradley had a trump card, and he played it very damn well.”
“So what do we do now?” Lindsey asks, and I reach out, hugging her.
“We spend every minute together that we can between now and Wednesday,” I tell her, kissing her. “They're flying me straight out of Pope to Germany before bouncing me to Afghanistan, so I can get on that plane exhausted and wiped out. Who gives a damn? I'm already on 'transfer leave' from the 82nd, so while I'll be busy, I don't have to worry about anything other than cleaning out my stuff and packing my bags. Bragg's even letting me keep my field equipment so that I don't have to check out anything in Afghanistan, so that's squared away too.”
Lindsey nods, sniffling. “So this weekend?”
“This weekend is a family weekend,” I tell her, kissing her again. “I was thinking spending time with my son and my woman, eating pizza and going to Chinese buffets, and just packing as much fun into the next two days as I can. Then dealing with the rest. I did have one request.”
“What's that?” Lindsey asks, and I smile.
“How'd you like to housesit for me? Keep your quarters on base if you want. The lease on this place is locked in for another six months before it goes month to month. Or live here, use all my stuff, and then, when I come back, help me get it up to Drum?”
Lindsey nods, smiling. “I'm giving your green girl to Lance. I'm the only girl you need from now on.”
“Damn. I'm going to miss that green girl,” I say with a sarcastic chuckle, pulling her closer. “Someone's going to have to keep me warm at night now.”
“I think I know someone who might be up to the task. But you promised our son pizza first, right?”
“Or Chinese buffet. Let's let him choose.”
* * *
“It ain't right, El Tee.”
I nod, turning in the last of the company items that I personally have to Pillman, who's signing for them in the interim, a ridiculous gesture since he checks out next week. It isn't much, just some books and a few company records that I kept with me, and I'm early, in the gap in between the time the company finished PT and morning formation, about eight fifteen in the morning.
“Don't matter if it's right or wrong, Sarge. It is what it is.”
Pillman nods, and both of us look up when the door to the company opens and a fresh-faced, scared-looking shavetail lieutenant walks in. “Uh . . . is this Delta Company?”
“It is,” I say, looking at his uniform. Second lieutenant, looking fresh out of Ranger school . . . did I look this scared out of my fucking mind when I walked in my first day? “You the new platoon leader?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” he says, seeing my rank. “Are you the XO?”
“Negative, I'm the guy you're replacing,” I tell him, offering my hand. “Aaron Simpson.”
“Matt Petersen,” he says, shaking. “I just got on post yesterday.”
“I can tell. You’ve still got your Ranger skinny to you,” I joke, looking at the way his ACUs hang on his shoulders. He's about thirty pounds under his weight when he bought them, that's for sure. “This here's Sergeant Petersen, your platoon sergeant for another week or so. If I can give you any advice, listen to him. He knows his shit, and he knows the Regulators. I don't envy you or your position, man, so good luck.”
I sign the last form for Pillman and hand him back his pen. “And that's it. Good luck, Sarge.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but we can't. There's just some things that a Sergeant and his Lieutenant can't say to each other. Like thank you, S
arge. You saved my ass a lot of times. Or that he's a hell of a man, and I'd be happy to share a beer with him some time. I want to say these things, but I can't.
Lieutenant Petersen, unaware of my situation, looks on like an eager puppy. We shake hands, and I grab my beret, heading for the door. “Hey, Lieutenant Simpson?”
“What's up?” I ask, opening the door and heading for the parking lot. “I'll be honest with you. I'm not in the unit anymore. I'm on transfer leave.”
“I got that, but . . . can you give me any advice about Captain Bradley? I heard he's a hard ass.”
I stop and look at him. He's a decent looking guy. He should do okay, and I don't want to fuck up his mindset. “You a West Pointer?”
“No . . . ROTC at UNLV. Why?”
“Then you'll do just fine, I think. Go by the book, trust your NCOs, and you'll be fine. Good luck, El Tee. The Regulators are yours.”
I spend the rest of the day sort of just drifting. I've cleared the last of my papers here on Bragg, and I even get a glimpse of Lindsey at work in uniform. She's dropping off some paperwork at the MP station at the same time I'm signing the form stating that I have no firearms or dangerous materials left on post. She's grim, but she controls herself well as I finish my work and leave. I wish I could talk to her, but I can’t. I can't trust that I could keep up the charade of just being the 'Big Brother' to her son.
I'm leaving the MP station when I hear someone call my name behind me, and I turn to see Pete Lemmon jogging toward me. “Yo, Aaron, wait up!”
I give him a salute—he is a Captain, after all—and he waves it off, grinning. “It's lunch time, man. Cut the shit between old Devils. Come on, let me buy you Burger King. You're going to be missing that shit, from what I hear.”
We drive over to the PX complex, where the line for Burger King isn't too bad, and we get our meals, Pete paying before I can pull out my wallet.
There's an open table by the window, and we sit down, Pete unwrapping his Whopper while I open my double barbecue bacon burger. “Thanks, Pete.”
“Not a problem, man. Besides, I didn't ask you to lunch just to fill your gut with some calories before the 'Stan,” he says with a shrug. “I did a rotation over there back in my platoon leader days. Don't trust anyone without an American flag patch on his shoulder, and you'll be fine.”
I bite into my burger, my stomach stretching. I know that I'm going to be eating crap for the next six months, and I've been indulging in every food that I'm going to miss. I don't expect to eat a real piece of pork for a long damn time. I like pork chops too, dammit!
“I plan to keep my head on a swivel,” I mumble, chewing the bacon and relishing it. The fine swine. I must remember it. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, what about?”
“That kid I'm the Big Brother for, Lance Morgan. His mom is in your company, right?” I ask, doing my best at keeping up the deception. Pete may be a former D-1 Devil, but he's also an MP officer, sworn to uphold the law as well as being a commissioned officer. I don't need to go there.
“Yeah, she works in the Battalion S-1 shop. You want me to keep an eye on them?”
I nod, grateful. And while I feel bad shading the truth with Pete, I'm not outright lying. “He's a good kid. And to be honest, it's going to really, really suck leaving him behind here. I . . . I've developed feelings for him.”
Pete chews his burger and nods. “Not a problem. You know I run my company like a family anyway. Like when I heard that you hung out at her house, I didn't do like your CO and throw a shit fit. What he did to you . . . it's bullshit, man.”
“Yeah, well, the Army runs on bullshit. You know that. After all, what else are officers for?”
Pete chews his burger, trying not to laugh. “Good point.”
* * *
Our final meal together, and Lance does his best, trying to be cheerful and happy while he eats his ground pork moussaka that Lindsey made especially for me. Afterward, though, he clings to me, his arms locked around my neck for the next two hours until he falls asleep in my arms on the couch. I lie there, hugging him tightly until his arms relax, and I carefully roll him to the side, tucking my green girl around him and sitting up. “He's out.”
“It’s nearly ten o'clock,” Lindsey notes, sitting on the floor next to the couch where she's been holding hands with me. “He's going to be a zombie tomorrow morning at daycare.”
“That's okay then,” I whisper, sliding over enough that Lindsey can sit next to me. “How about you? You've still got work tomorrow.”
“I'll be fine. I'm just in the S-1 shop. No Sergeant's Time for the MPs tomorrow,” Lindsey says, leaning into my arms. “Aaron . . .”
“It's okay. I keep telling myself that, and if I do, then it will be,” I tell her, holding her. “I'm coming back, and when I do, we're going to form a family. Somehow, we will.”
Lindsey turns her head and looks me in the eyes, her face intent. “You promise?”
“I promise,” I whisper, leaning down and kissing her. What starts as a soft, reassuring kiss deepens, and I reach down, cupping her breast and causing us both to moan.
Lindsey moans again, taking my hand. “Take me.”
We stand up, walking hand in hand to the back of my house, where my bed awaits. Lindsey looks at it and shakes her head, chuckling. “I'm so buying us a bigger bed for when you get back.”
I laugh softly as well, pulling her closer to me. “I love you, Lindsey.”
“I love you too, Aaron,” she replies, turning around and kissing me softly. We move closer to the bed, and as I lay her back, I know that when I get the chance, there's one more question I have to ask her . . . but when I get back. I won't force her to make a decision because of my deployment.
In the moonlight that comes through my window, we hold each other, our bodies and souls joined, and when we cry out, it's softly, with joy and happiness.
* * *
It's gray pre-dawn light when I ease myself out of bed, taking a quick shower and shaving before changing into my ACUs. Before I pull my top on, I kneel, kissing Lindsey softly on the cheek. “It's time for me to go.”
Lindsey mumbles, and her eyes flutter open. “I don't want you to go.”
“I know,” I whisper, not knowing why but not wanting to break the stillness. “But the taxi will be here in a few minutes. It'll take me to the airfield.”
“Wait,” Lindsey says, reaching behind her neck and unclasping her necklace. “Show me your neck.”
I bend forward, and she clasps the necklace around my neck. It's long enough that it fits, then slides underneath my shirt. “I'll bring it back.”
“I know,” she says. “It'll protect you, because it has my love in it.”
I reach down and look at my left hand, where my class ring has sat for most days since I got it as a firstie. I take it off and put it on her left hand. “I know you can't wear it, but it's the only ring I have for now. Keep it safe?”
“I'll wear it under my shirt,” she promises. “When I can.”
“Don't risk yourself,” I reply, trying not to be harsh, but still, I want her to understand the importance of this. “One person sees a West Point ring around your neck, and we're both screwed. My name is on it. So, no PT, no field work in it.”
Lindsey nods and clasps it to her chest. “I promise.”
The sound of a car outside my house and the beep of a horn break the spell, and I kiss her one last time. “I love you. I promise, I'll come back.”
“I love you too.”
In the taxi, the driver, who's probably ferried dozens of guys to the airfield just like me, gives me a sympathetic look as I put my gear bag in the back. “Ready, buddy?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, casting one last look at the house. Lindsey stands in the doorway, one of my t-shirts hastily pulled on, and she waves, even though I can see the tears she's wiping away as she does.
“That's tough, buddy. I don't know which is worse, going over alone, or going ove
r while leaving people behind.”
I don't say anything, and the taxi driver gives up on conversation. Instead, he just drives, dropping me off at the airfield with my two bags. For the first time in a long time, I don't have a beret on my head, and the patch on my shoulder isn't the 82nd Airborne's.
Six months can't pass quickly enough.
Chapter 20: Lindsey
The weight of his class ring is comforting between my breasts, and the second dog tag chain that I wear around my neck is totally anonymous. In fact, under my duty bra, in between my breasts, about the only way anyone would be able to tell the ring is there is if someone punched me in the chest, which I doubt is going to happen.
Like Aaron told me, I don't wear the chain during PT or when it could be noticed, but I only do it to protect him. I don't really care one way or another. I've made up my mind . . . or have I?
“Hey, Morgan?”
I look over and see Beanie come into the S-1 office, all grins and false cheer. It's been six weeks since Aaron left, which means I've got, as of tomorrow, six months left on my enlistment contract. Beanie's going to be giving me the full sales pitch, I'm sure.
“Come on over, Beanie. What's up?”
Beanie comes over, snagging a chair and sitting down next to me, just outside my desk area. He knows the deal—an office soldier defends their desk area like a street gang defends their turf. Cross that line without an invite, and you might just get a knife in the ribs. “Hey, Captain Lemmon sent me over. He wanted me to see if you'd made your decision. We've got battalion breathing down our necks on retention for this quarter, and I don't think you need the Sergeant Major down here trying to give you the hard sell, you know?”
I know. For most of the six weeks since Aaron left, I've been bouncing between two extremes, from telling the Army to go to hell to re-signing for the long haul. The problem is, what if it was just rapid infatuation again? What if, after both of us being celibate for so long, we were just literally fuck-drunk and were saying anything to get our damn rocks off one more time?
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