Lance wakes up just like Lindsey anticipated at a little after seven thirty while I’m sitting back and re-reading Lindsey's list of rules she left me. The only hard one, I think, is going to be keeping him away from sugar after five o'clock, but I can understand. I wouldn't want to be dealing with a kid going gaga off the walls when I get home from duty either. “Good morning, Lance. How're you doing?”
Lance yawns and shakes his head, rubbing at his hair. His hair may be the same color as his mother's, but he wakes up like me, that's for sure. It took me nearly all of plebe year to get used to waking up early, and even now, I tend to treat non-duty Sundays as a day to see if I can sleep the sun down.
He mumbles something, but I’m not sure what, then plops back down. “Okay, buddy. Mind if I turn on some TV?”
Lance waves his hand, and forty-five minutes later, he opens his eyes again. He blinks and smiles, and I have to admit my heart melts a little. “Apple Jacks?”
I laugh. I can't help it. He knows exactly what he's doing. “Sorry, little man, but I read your Mommy's rules very carefully, and rule number three was no Apple Jacks, Smacks, or Cocoa Puffs for breakfast. So, from what I saw, that leaves Cheerios or Wheaties.”
“Yuck,” Lance grumbles, and I laugh.
“If you don't want that, how about we go out then? Nothing in the rules about not having waffles. Think you'd like to be taken out to breakfast?”
“Can we?” Lance says immediately, brightening. “Where?”
“Where else but Waffle House? And if you promise to play hard afterward, I might even bend Mommy's rules a little and let you put the thick syrup on them with the butter. How's that?”
Lance helps me with instructional commentary as I struggle with his car seat until finally, I get it and him buckled in and we head out. After a good breakfast of a big waffle for him with butter and blueberry syrup and hashbrowns with eggs for me, we go to a state park near Pope Field, because apparently, my son loves to watch airplanes.
“What's that one?” Lance asks as a rumble fills the sky and I look up, smiling.
“That's a C-130, buddy. The Air Force calls them the Hercules, but we don't really worry about the names in the Army.”
“Oh. What is it doing?” Lance asks.
I shrug and give him a smile. “You never know, buddy. It could be a group getting ready to try an airborne drop. It could be some reservists getting their flight hours in.”
“Are you the boss?” Lance asks. “Mommy says officers boss people around a lot.”
“We do,” I say with a laugh. “But I hope that when I give orders, I do it for a reason.”
“Why?”
“Because my job is to do everything I can to take care of my soldiers, to keep them safe and to make sure that if we ever do have to go fight, that they have the best chance to come home safely. At the same time, I have to do the job that my bosses say, to complete the mission so that everyone in other units has the best chance to come home safely. It's . . . it's sometimes difficult to understand.”
“So are you like when Velocicycle forms up with the other Velocifighters to form Hypertron, but they still have to listen to Commander Houston?” Lance asks.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I tell him. “But it sounds right. So, what do you like to do outside, besides watching the planes?”
The rest of the morning is absolutely a blast as Lance and I play in the park. He's working on kicking, and for nearly an hour, I chase him around while he kicks his little soccer ball, scoring between the two 'goals' that we set up using some trees and some stuff from my car.
After lunch at the mall, I take Lance to a movie, some new animated film that is playing in IMAX. It's not what I normally go for. My typical chill out movie involves aliens, explosions, or even better, exploding aliens, but it's still nice. Lance is tired when we finish, and I take him home, putting him down for a nap not too much past his normal time.
I nod off as well, waking up when he wiggles over and puts his head on my thigh. He looks up at me “I’m hungry.”
“You're a growing boy. So how about . . . liver, raw onions, and lima beans?” I tease, but Lance smiles. I don’t know if he somehow knows I’m messing with him, or if it’s just the expression on my face. “Okay, but no burgers. Let's see what's in the kitchen, okay? I'm not taking you out for three meals a day. Your mommy would kill me if I did.”
Dinner ends up being spaghetti, and we watch football for an hour before he yawns and I help him get ready for bed. Tucking him in, I brush his hair out of his eyes, smiling. “Did you have a good day, little man?”
“Yeah,” Lance says, yawning. “It was fun.”
“I had fun too, buddy,” I whisper honestly. I watch him until his breathing deepens and he goes fully to sleep, smiling a little before rolling over. I'm tempted to give him a kiss on the forehead, but instead, I get up, leaving the bedroom and sitting down on the couch. I see that I've got a message on my phone, and I check it. It's Lindsey.
Sorry, duty is running late. Are u 2 ok?
I quickly text back. He's fine. Just went to sleep. I'll watch over him until you can get home. Stay safe.
There's no reply, but that's okay. I turn on the TV again, keeping the volume low, and watch what's probably the world's worst sci-fi movie, but it is at least worth a few laughs as the hours wind away. It's nearly ten thirty when I hear a car pull up outside, and Lindsey comes in, looking exhausted.
“Are you okay?” I ask, getting up and leading Lindsey over to the couch. “Jesus, you look like you went through hell today.”
“It's okay,” Lindsey gasps, her face still dotted with sweat. “Just had a long day. How was Lance?”
“Just like before, an amazing little boy,” I reassure her as she winces, pulling off her ACU top. “What happened?”
“Nothing a good two bucks in that massage chair they've got down at the PX can't fix,” Lindsey groans. “Too bad the line is an hour long on Sundays.”
“Here, lean back on the couch and just chill,” I tell her, getting up. “I've had a few tough days too. Let me get you some herbal tea. I'd offer you a neck rub, but . . .”
“But I understand why you don't,” Lindsey says, smiling until she turns her head and winces. “The tea sounds nice though.”
I brew some, confident at least that she'll like the blend since it’s hers, starting the kettle on the stove. I'm just getting the cups down when I hear her behind me, and I turn, surprised. “Thought you'd be chilling out.”
“I just wanted to say thank you for watching Lance today,” Lindsey says, going to the freezer and opening it up. “Share a slice of pound cake with me? It's my weakness, the Sara Lee frozen pound cake. I buy one about once a month, pre-slice it, and then nuke it on bad days or if I do a really good PT session.”
“Deal,” I reply, making the tea while Lindsey portions out the pound cake and starts the microwave. After it's done, we take it all into the living room, where she sets it down on her coffee table and settles in. “So, what kept you late?”
“Right at 1700, we had an incident in the barracks. That took up a lot of extra time, and it’s why I'm stiff.”
“What the hell happened?” I ask, shocked.
“My shoulder went bouncing off a wall when someone thought that I could be shoved out of the way when two guys found out they were seeing the same girl,” Lindsey says with a light groan. “Thankfully, I've got Monday off because of it.”
We sip our tea, sharing the pound cake. It's store bought and still delicious, and I smile at the homeliness of it all. “That was pretty good,” I tell her when I finish the cake but still have half a cup of tea. “Hanging out with Lance is about the most fun I've had since getting to Bragg. I seem to be a bit of a homebody otherwise.”
“I know what you mean,” Lindsey says, shaking her head. “You . . . you know, it's not easy.” She sets her tea down, looking up at me. “I know loneliness, Aaron. I've been going to bed with it for four years too.”
“Did you ever . . . well, did you ever try and just hook up, just to try and break out of the rut?” I ask. “I tried, but I just couldn’t do it.”
Lindsey nods, biting her lip. “Same with me.”
She leans toward me, and I can see in her eyes the warmth, the connection that's been missing for all these years. I didn't know it at the time, but I gave her more than a child and a gold chain four years ago. I gave her a piece of me, and I see it in there, waiting for us to just come a little closer. I reach up and run my thumb along one perfect cheekbone, so close that all we have to do is . . .
My phone rings, startling us both, our lips just an inch apart, her breath tickling against mine, and it's with real regret that I sit back. I grab my phone and look at it, sighing. Captain Bradley. “Yes, sir?”
“The battalion commander just got a call from the MPs. You need to come in. Got a problem with your platoon, Lieutenant.”
I close my eyes, feeling my dreams shatter. Lieutenant. Always, first and foremost, Lieutenant. “Roger that, sir. Need me in uniform?”
“Negative. Civvies are fine. Top's already notified your Platoon Sergeant, so get here ASAP.”
“Understood, sir. I'm ten minutes out. I'm on post already.”
Captain Bradley hangs up the phone, and I put it away, hating my phone. I look at Lindsey, who smiles softly and nods. “Go. Duty calls.”
I get up and go to her door, Lindsey following me. “Lindsey?”
“Yes?”
I swallow and look into her eyes, wanting to say so much more than I have the time for. “Tell Lance I had a great day, and I'd like to do it again soon. Call me this week?”
“I will. And again, thank you.”
Ten minutes later, I'm still fuming over the interruption, about ready to kill whoever the fuck just ruined my evening. Parking my car in front of the company headquarters, I see that the CO is already there, and while I'm getting out, Pillman pulls up. “Evening, sir.”
“A perfectly fucked up one,” I reply, returning his salute. I take a deep breath and go in, trying to calm myself. We go into the headquarters, knocking on Captain Bradley's door. “Sir?”
“Come in, you two. Let me fill you in,” Captain Bradley says, sighing. “We'll get to run through all this again Monday morning anyway, so have a seat. Let's be quick about it, it's twenty-three hundred hours, and this is not where anyone should be at this time on a Saturday night.”
“You mentioned the MPs, sir. What happened?” I ask, sitting down. Captain Bradley's in jeans and a t-shirt himself, and he looks tired. “One of mine?”
Bradley nods. “Specialist Hardy got himself into a fight at the bowling alley after putting down a few too many beers. The staff broke it up, but he punched out a reservist Major.”
Oh, shit. Getting drunk and fighting is one thing, but to punch out an officer? A perfectly good way to fuck up your time in the Army. “He's cooling his heels, sir?”
Captain Bradley nods, then passes over the paperwork. “The Major had to go to the hospital from the ass kicking. Now from what the MPs said, the Major had it coming to him. He was drunk too and a total jerk. But you know we can't just overlook it. So, the commander told me that Hardy's going to be spending the rest of the weekend in the cooler, and then, depending on what happens between him and the Major's commander, Hardy may stand tall before the Lieutenant Colonel, or he might be standing tall before a court martial. What's your point of view on this?”
I don't even need Pillman to give me any advice on this one. I know Hardy. “He's dumb, sir, but he's a good trooper. If we can hammer him with non-judicial punishment, let's do that. He's got two years left on his contract. He doesn't need a Big Chicken Dinner on his discharge form.”
A Bad Conduct Discharge, or Big Chicken Dinner, is just about one of the worst discharges you can get. It's not quite dishonorable, but it's damn close. Pillman nods, speaking up. “Sir, Lieutenant Simpson's right. Hardy doesn't need time in custody. He needs to be allowed to ride out his contract. I'll watch him myself if we need to, me and his squad leader. That boy won't be able to fart without someone in the platoon knowing about it and offering him a wad of toilet paper to make sure he's clean as a whistle.”
“Okay. We'll get the details hammered out Monday. At least it gets us out of the motor pool for the morning. All right, Sergeant Pillman, thanks for coming in on a Saturday.”
“No problem, sir. If you don't mind, Hardy's squad leader lives in the barracks. I'm going to go have a talk with him before I go home.”
“Fill me in Monday, Sarge.”
Pillman leaves, and the commander turns to me, sitting back. “Bad luck, Lieutenant.”
I nod, rubbing at my temples. “Yeah. I knew Hardy is a country boy, likes his Budweiser and his MGD, but he's never had problems before. Worst we've had is him messing up the bathroom in the barracks when he tosses his cookies. But then when he sobers up, he always cleans it down spotless and makes it up to the guys who helped him out the night before.”
“That's what Top said too. Still, bad timing for you. It was in my email when I came in. Your pin date for First Lieutenant is set. Congrats, you pin next month.”
“Thanks, sir.” I nod, wondering if it’s as important to me as I thought just a few weeks ago. Going above the zone to Captain, being a hot shot, and looking good for promotion or for cool jobs in the Army just don’t seem as important as teaching Lance how to pass a soccer ball or figuring out who the hell the Velocifighters are. “Anything else?”
“Nope. See you Monday morning for PT.” I stand and give him a quick salute, which he returns. “Carry on, Lieutenant. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
Yeah, right.
Chapter 14: Lindsey
“Hey, Sergeant Morgan?”
Wednesdays are probably the easiest day. It's a good day to just chug away and clear my desk. I like Wednesdays.
I look up from my desk to see Beanie there, a mixed expression on his face. “Hey, Sergeant Beanie, what can I do for you?”
“You got some time? CO wants to have a chat.”
I check my desk. It's not too bad. “Sure, Beanie. Hey, Reilly, hold it down. I'll be back.”
I go next door, Beanie looking tense as we walk. “What's up, Beanie?”
“Two things, actually. First, I talked with the post re-enlistment office. I've got some options for you. Then, CO said he'd like to ask you about something he heard. He didn't say what, but by the look on his face, he didn't look like he was all that happy. But who knows?”
We get to Beanie's office, and I have a seat when he points to a chair. “So, what's the bargain, Beanie?”
“According to the Army, they've got a few options for you. The first is a two-year hitch, with a guaranteed slot in the Squad Leader Development Course. But, the signing bonus is low. No offense, Morgan, but you know that Admin Specialists just don't get the sexy re-ups. So, a two-year contract, and you get a five-grand signing bonus.”
Five grand? I mean, it’s better than nothing, but still. “What's behind door number two?”
“Longer terms, but bigger bonuses. Basically, a three-year term gets you an eight-grand bonus, and with a five-year hitch, they get really generous—fifteen grand, and you have your choice of duty assignments, based on what the Army has available at the time. Pretty sweet deal, but seeing your record, I can see why. Hell, Morgan, if they gave me that, I'd be sitting on some General's staff and making coffee for the rest of my career.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Beanie, I know you well enough to know that there's no way that you'd be happy on a General's staff. That takes someone who knows how to stay buttoned up, stay in the background, and be Johnny on the spot.”
“So what's looking good to you right now?” Beanie asks, and I know he's shifting into pitch mode. “You know what the Army would like. You sign the five-year, and that gets you halfway to a twenty-year retirement. Halfway to retirement at thirty years old. That's pretty sweet.”
“Sometimes,” Beanie acknowledges. “Honestly, though, you're one of the ones that I don't think it would. You'll make your decision for other reasons. Your son, for example. I'm not trying to go there hard, but you're a single mother. The Army does a pretty decent job of helping out with that. Schools are pretty good, you can't knock the benefits, and the scholarships available for Lance would be good too. If you want, I'll get you a little booklet on it, and you can read it over.”
“What, no high pressure to sign now?” I tease, and Beanie laughs.
“Nah. You've got a while left still. Six months from now, I might be pushing more, but hey, the earlier you sign, the earlier we can throw you a keg party,” Beanie says.
“I thought we're in the new Army, where we don't fuel everything by beer?” I ask, mock shocked.
“We'll party responsibly. Sergeant Washington, in Alpha Company, can't drink alcohol at all. He can be the designated driver. Stuff like that,” Beanie says, gathering his papers. “Here, keep these. I'll get you that packet I was talking about for when you and the CO are done. I have the websites saved. You leaning one way or another?”
I shake my head, gathering up the papers. “Not yet. I've got to think hard about this, Beanie. You know that. But thanks for the information.”
“No worries,” he says, standing up. “If you need any more help, gimme a ring. I know I'm the re-enlistment NCO, but I'm not totally biased.”
I leave Beanie's office and knock on the CO's door, where he has me wait a moment while he finishes up a phone call and waves me in. “Have a seat, Morgan.”
“Sure, sir. Beanie said that you wanted to talk with me about something?”
Captain Lemmon nods, then gets up and closes his office door. “Sorry. This is highly unofficial. I just wanted to give you a chance to explain something that Top saw this weekend. He brought it to me, and I felt like I should be the one to ask about it.”
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