“Sir?” First Sergeant asks as I leave the Hummer behind to get set up and head back toward second platoon, which is in the middle of my area.
“What's up, Top?”
“Sir, the men are worried. No offense. If the bad guys hit us hard, we could be in for a world of shit.” First Sergeant looks at me pensively, and I stop, casually looking down the road. Behind me, the town's buttoned up, with every civilian Afghan burrowed as deep as they can. These people have been living through this for nearly forty years now, if you include the Soviet occupation. It's a part of life for them as common as a snowstorm in Michigan or a hurricane in the Carolinas.
Top's right though. I'm pretty unproven, other than slipping them some comforting snacks from home every once in a while. We haven't been under fire yet, not on this rotation, and they don't know me well enough to trust me. Okay, I can handle it. “I understand, Top. Say, you know much about the Spartans? The ancient ones.”
“Negative, sir. Captain Stephens told us about Molon Labe, but that's about it.”
“Crazy battle, Thermopylae,” I reply, picking up a rock and tossing it away where it flies into the night. “But I like something else in Spartan history. During the rise of Phillip of Macedon—he was Alexander the Great's father—he wanted to take over the Peloponnese, the part of Greece where Sparta is located. He assembled what may have been the greatest army in the world at the time, and by this point, the Spartans were nowhere near the fighting force they'd been under Leonidas, but they still had their reputation and their pride. So, Phillip sent them an emissary with a message. In it, he threatened them. He said, 'Surrender, for if my army invades Sparta, we will kill every Spartan male, and every Spartan woman will be raped and made our slave. Your children will be sold into slavery, your old people slaughtered. Your crops will be burned, and no stone will be left unturned in the ruins of your villages.' You know what the Spartan reply was?”
“Negative, sir. What did they say?”
I smile and look at the First Sergeant, ready. “They sent back a one-word reply. 'If.' Phillip of Macedon never invaded Sparta. Got me?”
First Sergeant nods, his eyes looking at me with newfound respect. “I got you, sir.”
“Then spread the word. If.”
“If, sir.”
Top hustles off, and I take a deep breath, hoping that little speech wasn't just bullshit. A rifle cracks in the distance, and I hurry off. It's time.
* * *
Dawn breaks, and I'm limping, blood soaking the lower half of my right ACU trouser leg, a ricochet that clipped the meat of my calf sometime during the fire fight. I'm exhausted, but I can't rest, not yet. Not until I know that my men are safe.
My God, the enemy fought hard, with bravery and ferocity that, even though they were my enemy, earned my respect. Attacks on horseback, attacks on foot, any and everything they could think of to break through our defenses. As Lieutenant Colonel Kierney expected, most of the attacks came against the southern perimeter of town, although Headquarters Company soaked up plenty of probes themselves.
My face is covered in gray dust, and I'm not sure if it's dust or the souls of the men who have died tonight, clinging to my face in a desperate attempt to be reborn instead of departing to the afterlife. Even with the advantage that night vision gave us, they were able to get close, and more than once, I squeezed off bursts that blew open men's chests so close that I could see the light leave their eyes as they died.
The worst attack was just before dawn, when what sounded like the entire fucking Afghan horse cavalry charged against the center of the Spartans, their voices raised high in a piercing, screeching war cry that had more than one person pissing their pants in fear. It was the only time in the entire battle when I was worried, not because we were absorbing too many casualties but because we were going to run out of ammunition. They poured against us in wave after wave, not caring about our rifles picking them off, our machine guns tearing them apart. They just didn't care. They were devoted, powered by something more fanatic than a desire to keep living.
Finally, when I was on my last magazine, there was a bugle call and the attacks stopped, the warlord's troops melting into the remnants of the night. It's only then that I notice the pain in my leg, and I slap a bandage on, hoping it just caught muscle and not anything deeper. At least I can still walk. That's a good sign, I hope.
The radio crackles, and my radioman, PFC Redman, talks into it. “Sir? It’s the battalion commander.”
I take the handset and key the mike. “Eagle Six, this is Spartan Six, go ahead.”
“Spartan Six, be advised, Zoomies got two Predators in the sky. They say they've got nothing in the area in terms of hostiles. Also be advised, there are three Blackhawks inbound to evac casualties. ETA ten minutes. Over.”
“Eagle Six, copy that. I'll have my First Sergeant start gathering them up.”
“Spartan Six, roger. Keep your eyes open, but . . . fine job, Spartans. Eagle Six out.”
I hand the handset over to Redman. The sun breaks over the horizon, and finally, after what seems like forever, I sit down. I'm so tired, but the mission isn't over yet. I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes, that's all. Just a few minutes.
Chapter 22: Lindsey
“Turn on the TV!”
My head comes up from my computer, curious as I see people rushing toward the battalion reception area. There's jostling, but before I can join them, my phone buzzes, and I see that I got an email. It's from Aaron, and I pull a fade, going into a supply closet and opening it.
I'm surprised to see that it's a video mail, and I open the attachment, watching with an expectant smile on my face.
“I don't know how we'll handle the work side of things, but that's not the point. I was thinking, when I get back, we need to talk about maybe—” he says, when suddenly, a crunching sound comes from outside the tent, followed by someone screaming. “INCOMING!”
Aaron disappears from the screen, and there's nothing but background noise and half-seen figures running past the screen for another ten seconds before the video cuts off. With numb fingers, I slip my phone back in my pocket and leave the closet, emerging to even more chaos.
“Initial reports are still coming in, but reports from Kabul state that a battalion of the 10th Mountain Division has come under attack from what could be nearly a thousand local fighters.”
“Yes, Melanie. Reports are still scattered, but it is believed that local warlords that are aligned with ISIS or Al Qaeda have attacked the second battalion of the twenty-first infantry regiment. There have been, according to first reports, some significant casualties. I'm still getting word, but from what we know, the attack was against a battalion headquarters and rest area, where two companies were gathered while . . .”
The 2-21st? Oh, dear God, no. Aaron's video . . . oh, God. I stumble back, hitting the edge of a desk with my hip, but I don't feel it. Everything's starting to swim before my eyes.
“Someone grab Morgan!” I hear a voice say, and suddenly, hands are on my arms, helping me out of the room and into an office. It's cool, and I am sat down in a chair, where the tears start. The people gathered around me are faceless, and I don't know what is going on. I'm just scared. It can't be, it just can't be.
“Everyone out,” another voice says, and the room clears until there's only one person in the room with me. I blink and wipe my eyes, and it's Captain Lemmon, a concerned look on his face and a tissue in his hands. “Hey, Morgan. You okay?”
I wipe my eyes, blowing my nose and shaking my head. “No.”
Captain Lemmon nods and takes a seat in one of the other chairs, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Chill, I saw the news too. But don't sweat it. Sure, the 2-21st is Aaron's battalion, but he'll be okay. There are five companies in that battalion, and so the odds aren't even good that he was involved. Lance's buddy will be fine.”
“He is,” I whisper, tears slipping down my face. “He's fighting right now.”
C
aptain Lemmon grows concerned, and he goes over, locking the door. “Talk to me. Obviously, you know something, so what's going on?”
I take out my phone, handing it to him. He plays it, then hands it back to me. “We met when he was a yearling at the Academy,” I explain before he can even ask, my voice soft. “I . . . I knew he was a cadet the whole time. He never lied to me at all about it. But there was something about him that made me ignore the rules. It took us a while, but we became friends. And then more. I guess the tipping point was when we raced each other out to Buckner, and we ended up . . . well, you know.”
“When did Aaron find out you were enlisted?” Captain Lemmon asks, not angry, just curious. “How did you two handle it?”
“I didn't mean to keep lying to him, but then he got hours. He said it was something about setting his room on fire. I remember that much. But he was talking to another cadet on hours, and then he confronted me about it. I didn't lie to him then.”
Captain Lemmon nods, then laughs. “Yeah, I remember when Aaron set his room on fire. He said he was distracted by something. I guess you were it.”
I snort, nodding. “Yeah, I guess so. We broke it off when I was reassigned to Lewis. I just knew it couldn't last. We’d been together for over a semester at the Academy. We were pushing our luck as it was. And . . . and I knew that it was more than just dating, more than just sex by that point. I was in love with him, and I was pretty sure he was in love with me.”
“Then when you got reassigned to Bragg, did you look him up?” Captain Lemmon asks, and I shake my head. “What happened?”
“He ran into my cart while I was shopping with Lance. He literally smacked right into me.” Telling the story is helping to calm me down, even though I know with every word, I'm getting myself and Aaron into deeper and deeper trouble. But it helps, and I need to continue. “He noticed Lance, and we started talking again.”
“Lance is Aaron's son, isn't he?” Captain Lemmon asks, and I nod. “I thought I'd seen those eyes of his around somewhere else. And what's this email he's talking about in the video?”
“I . . . I'm pregnant again,” I whisper, then look up at Captain Lemmon, squaring my shoulders. “I'm pregnant again, sir. It's Aaron's baby. I was telling him.”
Captain Lemmon sits back, and I wonder what he's going to do. He looks at me for a long, long minute, then he smiles. “Okay. Congratulations, Lindsey.”
I blink, surprised. This isn't the reaction I expected. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I said congratulations,” Captain Lemmon repeats, his smile not fading. “On your new baby.”
“I'm not in trouble?” I ask, stunned. “But . . . Aaron's an officer. Hell, I had his child while he was still a cadet. They can't take away his diploma for that, can they?”
“No, they can't, and yes, the fraternization will go in his record too, I'm sure. It at least explains why Captain Bradley transferred him off post, although I still think that's a shitty way to handle things. But Lindsey, you're fewer than six months from the end of your enlistment. What good would it do to bust you right now? You're a single mom with another child on the way. Busting you with an Article 15 or a court martial does nothing but hurt my company, hurt this battalion—hell, it hurts the Army. But more importantly, it hurts you and Lance. So, here's what I'm going to do. You are going to get an Article 15 on this, a company-level Article 15 so that nobody can try to bring this up later—double jeopardy and all. Which means I can't bust you in rank. You will be barred from re-enlistment, however. I can't do anything about that, nor do I think you need to worry about it right now. In the meantime, HQ Company is going to take care of its own. You're going to start seeing the doctor for prenatal checkups. You're excused from PT formation as long as you check in with me that you are staying in shape in order to have a healthy baby, and we're going to support you.”
I wipe at my eyes, tears of gratitude springing to my eyes. “And Aaron?”
“Aaron's a tough Devil. Even more, he's an Airborne Ranger. And he loves you. I can see that from that video. He'll do what he needs to do to come back.”
I nod, wiping at my eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
Captain Lemmon shakes his head again, standing up. “No thanks needed. Now, take about ten minutes or so, get your head right, and let's get back to work.”
* * *
Somehow, some way, I get through the rest of the work day, even as every television I come across has news about the attack on it. Reports are spotty, except for confirmation of casualties as the night drags on over in Afghanistan. Finally, just around three o'clock, I shut off the television in the S-1 shop, looking around to see if anyone's going to object. “For the past two hours, it's been nothing but repeated over-dramatic hyping.”
“No complaints here,” the S-1, Major Lincoln, says, sticking his head out the door. “By the way, Sergeant Morgan, can I see you in my office?”
I go in, closing the door behind me. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Have a seat,” the S-1 says, and I sit down. “I got a call from Captain Lemmon, says he's putting you in for an Article 15. When I asked why, let's just say I wasn’t expecting the answer that I got.”
“I understand, sir. I hope that this doesn't affect my work in the shop.”
He waves it off and sits back, shaking his head. “Why should it? It seems to have been going on for at least a few months, if not a few years, and you're doing a good job here. Honestly, the only thing that is going to suck is not being able to put you in for another medal at the end of your service.”
“Thank you, sir. Now that it's out, if I'd known the way everyone would react to this, I might have let it come out a while ago.”
He shakes his head, his smile fading. “I wouldn't have. Sergeant, can we speak plainly?”
“Of course, sir. I assume this has something to do with Aaron?”
“You're correct. Sergeant, regardless of what is happening overseas, from what I understand, this would hammer most officers’ careers. Some super-strict Ring Knockers would even call it an honor violation—not my opinion, by the way. Either way, it's a pretty big violation of regs. If you'd come out earlier, your problems would have been compounded. All in all, it probably would have been best if you could have waited another couple of months, but considering today's situation, I think I can understand it.”
I swallow, nodding. “You're right, sir. I apologize for being careless about that.”
The S-1 shakes his head and reaches for his phone. “Never mind. Actually, I called you in here for another reason. I have a friend who’s been getting notifications of casualty lists faster than the public. I'm going to give him a call, see if we can find out about Aaron. He'll understand if I tell him he's got some friends down here at Bragg worried.”
While the phone rings, I feel the room start to spin again until the S-1 uncovers the handset and waves. “Breathe, Sergeant Morgan. It helps,” he says before he talks to his friend on the line. “I was wondering, if I gave you a name, can you give me an update?”
I take a deep breath, and the room stops spinning, but I'm still so nervous that I'm afraid I'm going to throw up my lunch. “Come on, Mark. I know that it's breaking the rules, but I'm asking about one name. You don't need to tell me anything more than that. Really? Okay, it's Aaron Simpson. Alpha Company. Thanks, Mark. Yeah, I can hold.”
He takes his handset away from his ear and gives me a thumbs-up. “He's checking.”
“Are you going to get in trouble for this, sir?”
The S-1 shakes his head, but before he can answer, he hears something. “Yeah, I'm here, Mark. Yeah, Simpson . . . I guess he's the Alpha XO. He's the only Aaron Simpson in the battalion, right? Okay. Thanks. Bye.”
He hangs up the phone and looks over at me. “The reports are unclear now, but both the CO and XO for Alpha Company were choppered out after the firefight. One of them had some pretty severe injuries, but the Pentagon's still trying to get confirmation on everything. Morgan . . . I'
m sorry. I was hoping to give you some good news.”
I shake my head, getting to my feet. “Sir . . . you did your best. With your permission, I think I'd like to take the rest of the day off though. I think I'd like to pick my son up from daycare early, if possible.”
“Permission granted. Just . . . just have hope, Morgan. He's not KIA, we know that much. Remember that.”
I nod and leave the office, gathering my cap and walking out without talking to anyone. I'm in half a daze as I reach my car, and it's only inside that I'm able to start crying. Aaron's class ring hangs heavily between my breasts, and I clutch it to my chest, praying to whatever is listening that he comes back to me. Just . . . I need him to come back.
* * *
It's Sunday, and for the first time in years, I'm not up. I just don't care. I don't care about eating. I don't care about bathing. And if it wasn't for Lance needing food, I'd probably not be waking up at all except to piss every once in a while. Now, Sunday afternoon, and I'm still deep in the dark depths of depression.
“Mommy?” Lance asks, coming over to the couch, where I'm wrapped in Aaron's green girl comforter. He's tried to be good, I know he has, even though he doesn't understand what's going on. He just knows that his Daddy had some trouble, and that I'm worried about him. But after the forced play of Friday, I haven't been able to keep it up, and a day and a half of sitting around the house is wearing on him. There's only so much Disney channel even a boy his age can watch. “Mommy, I want to go for a bike ride.”
“Not right now, Lance,” I mumble, turning over. “Maybe later.”
“You said that before lunch!” Lance whines, and I turn on him, angry.
“We'll go bike riding when I say we can go bike riding!” I snap, yelling even though I don't mean to. “Now leave me alone!”
Lance backs up like I just slapped him and puts his head down, his tiny little voice breaking my heart. “I'm sorry, Mommy.”
Baby Fever Page 38
