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?
“I gotcha, Beanie. But things are complicated. No offense to you or anyone else in retention, but I'm getting awfully damn tired of Lance spending twelve hours a day in daycare. And that doesn't even count the FTX we've got coming up next month, where he gets to spend a whole week hanging out at my neighbors' house.”
Beanie hums, his fingers drumming on the edge of my desk. “I know it isn't ideal in that regard, Morgan, but the signing bonus and the bennies, you can't beat them. I mean, I don't wanna be cruel about it . . .”
“But you're going to be anyway,” I interrupt him, leaning back in my chair. My stomach rumbles, and I rub my tummy absently. It's been going on for a few days now, and I hope I didn't pick up . . . oh, hell. I plaster a smile on my face and gesture for Beanie to go ahead. “Gimme the pitch, Beanie.”
“Well, you're a single mom, Morgan. And I'm not trying to be a dick. My mom was a single mother too, so I'm speaking from experience. She busted her ass twelve hours a day all the time, sometimes six days a week to keep food on the table. And we never had a spread as good as what you're able to do for your son. The signing bonus alone on the big contract, you set that aside in a savings plan, and you've got a good chunk of what he's going to need to go to college down the road,” Beanie reminds me. “Just sayin', the grass looks greener outside the service, but before you change houses, make sure that it really is.”
Beanie and I talk another few minutes before he leaves, and it's nearly lunch time. Instead of eating what I packed, I grab my keys and drive to the PX, concerned. It was the same way last time. A few days of rumbly stomach in the morning, no real sickness, just looking at breakfast and not wanting to eat, my stomach doing little twists the whole time.
The over the counter pharmacy has kits for sale, and I pick one up, glad that Bragg is so large that the worker doesn't know who the hell I am. I take my package to the toilet and do my thing, not able to look at it after. I have to force myself to read the result, and it takes me a few seconds to accept it.
Blue.
The indicator is blue. As in . . . hold on, let me read the package again. Blue . . . blue . . . If the indicator turns blue, the test is positive. Congratulations on being pregnant. The makers of this test would recommend that you go to your doctor . . .
Yeah, doctor. Doctor. Oh, hell.
I can't help it. I put my face in my hands and start crying, trying to keep it down, but obviously, someone hears, because after some time, I hear a knock on the door of my stall. “Excuse me, are you okay?”
I sniff, wiping at my eyes and sitting up. “Y–yeah. Gimme a minute. I'll be out soon.”
I quickly wipe my face with toilet paper and pull my pants up, adjusting my uniform. I can do this. I can be strong. Besides, if I didn’t want to risk this, I should’ve used protection. I leave the stall, nodding gratefully to the woman who's looking on with concern. She's in civilian clothes. I'm guessing she's someone's spouse from her age, but I move past her before she can see much more than that I'm in uniform. I don't need some nosy Nellie calling Captain Lemmon about this.
Getting to my RAV4, I sit down and take a deep breath. I take out my phone and pull up my email app. I don't use it much on my phone, but it's still there. I quickly type out my message.
Dear Aaron,
I can't send this by paper mail, and even sending this by email might be dangerous. But you deserve to know.
I just left the PX, where I took a pregnancy test. I'm pregnant. I know this is a shock, and we're both in a place where the timing isn't great, but I made a decision. I want this child to have your name on the certificate from the beginning. You're the father, and I made that mistake once already, not telling you. Never again. I won’t do that to you.
I don't want you worrying, though. I want you to be happy. Just think of it this way. You're Infantry, a Combat Arm, right? I'm AG, Combat Service Support. So . . . I'm going to stay strong, and I'm going to support you. I'm going to be your strong arm back here, supporting you and supporting your son.
I'm going to be strong. So, you have to stay strong and come home safe.
I love you.
Lindsey
I send it, knowing that it might be days or even weeks until Aaron can read it. Afghanistan isn't exactly a Wi-Fi capable country for the most part, and I doubt he's running around with a smartphone or a laptop with Google access all the time.
Still, I mean every word, and I start up my engine, heading back to the office. Time to stay strong. I wonder how I'm going to tell Lance?
Chapter 21
Aaron
There's a rugged beauty to this part of the country, I have to admit. The mountains are beautiful and different from anything that I saw in the States. One of the privates in second platoon, Maldonado, is from Arizona. He says that some of the mountains around there are like this, but I don't know for sure.
I inhale deeply, enjoying the crisp air, even though my ears are a bit cold, and turn back to the writing pad on my thigh. I've had a lot more practice with handwriting over the past month, and I think it's actually legible now.
Dear Lindsey,
I wish I could tell you more about where I am, but it's beautiful here. The mountains rise like hulking, primeval beasts, and here within them, I can look down on the valleys below and marvel at the natural beauty. It's a place out of time. The mountains, they don't care about our squabbles, or our arguments, or the stupid things man gets up to. The mountains have been here for a million years, and looking at them, I realize they'll be here long after I've left them, too.
So far, I've been accepted pretty well by my company. My new CO is a decent enough guy, and he's relaxed seeing that his new XO can actually pull his weight. By the way, I've been able to grow my hair out more. There aren't a lot of barbers here in Afghanistan. You'd like it, I bet.
If you've gotten my other letters already, then you probably know what to expect. The food's not as bad as I feared. It seems the Army sends the good MREs overseas while stateside units get the old stock. Still, I'm about ready to go nuts for good coffee or tea. This freeze-dried stuff is a crime against humanity. But it does help get me up in the morning, at least.
In the down time that I have, I'm finding myself thinking of you constantly. The comfort of the memories has helped me go
to sleep, to rest peacefully when I can. The three of us riding our bikes, or playing in the park, or the quieter moments when it was just the two of us.
Tell Lance that I miss him, too. I feel bad that I won't be able to be there for his birthday, but I promise him that when I get back, I'm going to take him out for a belated birthday party. Tell him . . . tell him that Daddy is proud of his boy, and that I know he's doing a great job taking care of his mommy.
And for you, I miss you so much it hurts sometimes. I feel like fate is measuring us, to see if our bond is strong enough to last the test of time. Well, I'm certain after two separations, that it is. When I get home, we're going to have a bond that can survive the end of the universe, I'm sure of it.
Okay, that's my First Sergeant. We're moving off. I hope to be able to get back to a fire base where I can send you an email before you read this. The mail's a little slow. But if that happens, well . . . the feelings are the same. I love you.
Aaron
I fold up the letter and put it in the envelope that I'm keeping in my pocket, already addressed to my house in Fayetteville. I'd like to mail them directly to Lindsey, but I can't trust the censors to not figure it out at that point.
“Hey, Sergeant Hatton!” I call over to the company supply sergeant. He's making a run back to battalion HQ in a couple of hours, and he takes the mail all the time.
“Sir?” he asks, coming over. I hand him the letter, and he nods. “Gotcha, sir. It'll go in the supply convoy right away.”
“Thanks. Stay safe on the way back. Hey, you making a PX run?”
Hatton chuckles, nodding. The “Post Exchange” back at the supply depot isn't much more than a large tent, but it still has a few creature comforts from overseas. “Yeah, I am. Why, you want more on your tab?”
I'm up to two hundred dollars on my tab, but it's not even the amount I'm getting for combat zone pay, so it's worth it. “Sure. Forty bucks, whatever snacks and other pogey bait you can grab, distributed to second platoon.”
“Same story, sir?” Hatton asks. I'm sure some of the senior NCOs know, but the official story is that my little gifts are 'care packages' from home. Sadly, while the deployment rate has gone down, so has the public's interest in the troops. Other than a few packages from groups back at Fort Drum, nobody's gotten anything, and honey roasted peanuts just aren't cutting it for some of these boys who haven't been more than a phone call away from their families in their entire lives.
“Same story. Carry on.”
“Molon labe, sir.” It's the only thing that took some adjustment for joining Alpha Company—the Spartans. Captain Stephens is a big history nut, and he insisted that the company adopt the classic statement. He says it’s for esprit de corps, and I'll say it seems to work. They’re a good unit and good troops.
I head back to the company area, running the rest of the headquarters section while Captain Stephens takes a visit out to the third platoon area. It's a different job, being the Executive Officer. As platoon leader, I was 'the man,' responsible for combat decisions as much as I was bureaucratic decisions. Now, my main job is to keep Captain Stephens clear to be able to do all the command decisions and make sure that the Headquarters Platoon runs smoothly. At the same time, though, I need to make sure that the different Headquarters sections all have what they need to do their jobs, which is more complicated than just running a single-purpose platoon. I'm enjoying it and the challenges involved. It's stretching.
At about four in the afternoon, Captain Stephens comes back, walking up the road. The mountains we're patrolling in are too rough most of the time for our Humvees, so we're doing a lot of walking, old school style two- and sometimes even three-day-long patrols from our company firebase. Our Hummers are all down the road in their own security perimeter along with one of our heavy weapons sections. “How's third platoon, sir?”
“Enjoying some Snicker bars someone sent them,” Stephens says with a smirk. “We're the most loved company in the country right now. All those care packages.”
“Thank Bob Hope, sir,” I answer, scribbling on one of the forms that I have to complete for Battalion S-3. “He's a great man. Does a lot for the troops.”
“Yeah, even if he's dead. By the way, on the way back, I got a message over the radio net. They're having us rotate back to the battalion area. Seems the old man thinks that Alpha's done a bang-up job, and it's time for us to have a few days off and some hot chow and a shower while Charlie gets to enjoy the local goats.”
“They do make good cheese, sir,” I reply with a laugh. “You should have tried a couple of pieces the last time the locals brought some by. We only had to trade two sets of gloves and three bucks for a whole five pounds.”
“Gloves,” Stephens says, shaking his head. “Too bad they get lost in combat so easily. Remind me when we get back to have Hatton requisition some boots for the troops as well. If the locals happen to want to trade for them, all the better.”
I rub at my face, amazed at how refreshing a lukewarm shower and fresh blade shave can make you feel in a cool twilight. I'm officially off duty for the next twelve hours, something I haven't had in a month, and I wonder what I'm going to do. I see the Morale, Welfare and Recreation tent and head over, seeing if maybe I can snag a computer for checking my email. The battalion relief area isn't much, just a spot on the edge of the town that is at the center of 2-21's area of operations, but it does have showers and an MWR tent. I'll take it over dust and goat's cheese any day.
There's a line, but it's only ten minutes before I sit down and open a browser. There are three emails, one from my parents, one from Pete Lemmon, and one from Lindsey. I check the ones from my parents first. Nothing much. They're just keeping tabs on me, wondering how their son is doing, and my snail mail letter will take care of that just fine. Pete's keeping me up to date with Bragg, and it's with just a little bit of glee that I read that Captain Bradley ended up rear-ending a Colonel two weeks ago.
I open Lindsey's email, and I'm shocked, re-reading it three times. In a rush, I go over to the guy running the tent, a Staff Sergeant from Headquarters Company. “Hey, can I set up a video call?”
“Calls gotta be screened by the battalion commander, sir. And coordinated with the other side. What's up?”
“My . . . my girl's pregnant, man. It was in my email. Can we do something?”
The Staff Sergeant thinks, then nods. “Yeah, sir. Here, my computer has a video camera, and I spliced in a video chat system. It ain't great, totally off the books, and getting it through the mail server can take a long fucking time sometimes, but I can get you a one-minute video that we'll be able to send back to her email. I figure every new Daddy’s gotta be able to say hi back home.”
The Sergeant lets me log off the other laptop and onto his computer, where he has me set up a new message before turning on the camera. “Okay, sir, just hit this button here, and you’ve got yourself one minute. I’ll give you some privacy on it.”
The Sergeant moves away, and I take a deep breath, trying to think of everything I want to say in my minute. Finally, I hit the button, and a timer in the corner starts. “Lindsey? Hey, babe, it's me. Oh my God, I just got your email, and to say I'm happy is an understatement. In this place, this kind of news is exactly what I needed. Of course, I'm worried about you. 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—”
Suddenly, there's an explosion outside, and I jerk my head to the side, trying to look. Outside, someone screams, and then another rushing sound fills the air. “INCOMING!”
The terrorists hit the sleeping areas first, lobbing their two mortars right over the heads of our perimeter defenses and into the cluster of tents that everyone slept in. They aren't real mortars, more like pumped up fireworks, which probably saves a lot of lives when they impact, but still, four men die, along with a dozen other casualties.
I'm working the perimeter, making sure that every s
winging dick in Alpha company is online and covering our ass when a runner from battalion comes up, calling for me. “Lieutenant Simpson!”
“Yeah?” I ask, checking that fourth platoon is set up. I tell their platoon leader to adjust his machine guns some to better integrate with third platoon, then turn to the runner. “What do you need?”
“Sir . . . battalion commander is asking for you, sir. He needs Alpha Company's commander.”
“I’m sorry, but I don't know where Captain Stephens is.”
The runner tugs at his rifle strap, and I realize what happened and head back with the runner. As soon as we're out of hearing distance of the line—the troops don't need to hear this—I look over. “Is he KIA?”
“No sir, the rocket hit his tent though. He's knocked out and severely wounded. The medics say it's lucky he hadn't taken off his Kevlar yet. It saved his life. But you're in charge of Alpha now, sir.”
We reach the battalion HQ area, and I report to our commander, Lieutenant Colonel Kierney. “Sir?”
“Guess you heard already,” Kierney says, his face half-covered by a bloody bandage, but still, he's on his feet, his eyes sharp and clear. “Here's the situation. With nightfall upon us, the Aviation guys are saying they can't get choppers in here until morning.”
“Why the hell not, sir?” I ask, fuming, then take a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem, Aaron,” Kierney replies, smiling painfully. He's one of those leaders that calls subordinate officers by their first names in stressful situations, and he has a flawless memory for them, too. “My language to the brigade commander was a little harsher than that when he told me. But, while they can't land a chopper, even for medevac, the Air Force does have a surveillance Predator in the sky, giving us eyes on, and it has night vision. It’s going to loiter in the area for as long as possible. Brigade says that they expect further attacks throughout the night. Some local warlord or another wants to prove how big his dick is, and he decided trying to kill us is the best way to do it. Our job is to hold out until relief can come at first light.”
Duty: A Secret Baby Romance Page 19