“Really? What on earth did you do to forfeit it?”
“Just a reminder of my time spent with the lads.”
Zanna smiled at his use of such a familiar term for the men he was referring to. “Yes, those lads like getting up to shenanigans.”
“Yo, people,” Raul raised a hand, “What’s so freaking special about this Credenhill?”
Zanna chuckled and addressed Rivera. “You want to tell him or shall I?”
“Be my guest.”
“Credenhill is, as you say, somewhat ‘special’ due to its being home to the Special Air Service.”
Raul face palmed. “Oh, shit, I shudda known. The Regiment. The SAS!”
Rivera lowered his head. Zanna rubbed at the hairs standing on her arms. “Turn over, please.”
He did so gingerly, and without a sound.
She continued her treatment on the backs of his legs. A few minutes later, she stepped away from the table, stretching her arms and wiggling her fingers. “I hope that feels better now.”
Rivera rested his weight on his left leg, lifted his torso just enough so he could remove his t-shirt, then settled back with his arms by his sides.
Zanna raised her eyebrows at Raul. He replied with a shrug. She shrugged back.
“You need me for anything?” Raul asked.
“No, you can take a stroll around the Beer Garden. Back here in about twenty minutes.”
She applied fresh oil, then placed her hands either side of Rivera’s neck for a moment before sliding them down to his shoulders. My, the deltoids are tense. You must be in a lot of discomfort from that too. If you can feel anything over the pain in the leg. Since there were no injuries to his torso, she proceeded to give all the major muscles a deep tissue massage; kneading, rolling, pummeling, and walking her fingers up and down with a firm pressure.
While she worked, Zanna admired his physique. He was not bulked up like some of the healthy Marines she had seen around the base. They looked more like body builders. Rivera was lean, but not skinny. Sinewy—not a spare ounce anywhere. And Gant was damn right about him. Hard in mind; hard in body.
“Turn over.” She wiped a forearm across her forehead and took in his sturdy but not overly developed chest muscles, the two scars Amanda had talked about, and the ridges in his washboard abdominal muscles. Totally ripped. However, this monosyllabic grunt—is that where the name comes from?—was an enigmatic paradox. She certainly didn’t pity him; he was gaining strength every day, and fussing over him would have just been counter-productive. OK, so he was easy on the eye as were many other men around here. Yet there was none of the jokey innuendo, light banter, or even open flirting that some of the other guys engaged in—even some of the married ones. They openly talked about their loved ones and hometowns. Rivera hardly spoke unless spoken to, but at least he was not overtly unpleasant. However, he’d dragged himself out of bed to go comfort the patient with night terrors. And just what had he done that so motivated Joel?
After working on Rivera’s neck, she moved down to his chest and stole a glance at his face. It wore the soft expression it only had when he was asleep. Awake, he always looked as if he was thinking about something. She looked again; he was asleep. Her hand rested lightly on his right pectoral muscle.
A man on crutches hobbled past her table on his way to the Wet Room. “I could sure use one of those if you’ve got time later.”
He jolted Zanna from her reverie, causing her hand to give a little abrupt push to Rivera’s body. In an instant, his eyes were fully open, alert and locked on hers in a frigid stare. The muscles under her hand had turned to steel. Zanna snatched her hand away and took a step back. Registering where he was, he relaxed and his eyes once more returned to their unreadable depths
Shit! Who the heck are you, Gunnery Sergeant Rivera?
9
Cooper was not at his desk when Zanna arrived to update Gant with her patients’ progress reports. She tapped on the door and waited a few seconds before sticking her head into the office. Gant looked up from his computer and gestured she should enter.
“Hey, honey, how’s it going?” he said, his head tilted to one side.
Zanna was about to give him a cheeky response, but realizing he was on the phone she headed for the coffee station. She caught Gant’s eye and waggled the pot. He replied with a thumbs up. Not wanting to encroach on his call, she poured two mugs and remained at the discreet distance.
Gant removed the cell phone from between his ear and shoulder. “No, why?” He listened for a moment, then in a guarded voice said, “For the love of—I’ll be in Washington, this weekend.”
A pause.
“No way. Sorry.”
Another longer pause.
“OK.”
A short pause.
“Me too. Bye.” He slowly placed the phone on the desk.
Zanna handed him his coffee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Gant waved away her apology. “I will miss spending some time with my wife this weekend because I have to attend a briefing on the East Coast.”
Zanna was at a loss. “Silly question, but there’s no chance you could skip the briefing?”
“I’m speaking there.”
“Oh.”
“I’m but a small cog in a big Navy machine.”
“It sounds like a fairly important cog.”
“I’m answerable to people above me. If they tell me to go somewhere and do something, I go there and do it when they want it done.”
Zanna nodded. “Sort of on that note, I know Amanda is very keen to make the Afghanistan trip with you, but I confess to being a little worried, nervous even, on her behalf.”
Gant sat back in his chair. “When I extended the offer, I apprised her of the situation in country. I explained the security briefings and safety courses she would need to attend, which she completed to the satisfaction of the instructors.”
“But—”
“I would not contemplate taking anyone into any scenario without them being aware of the risks.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Amanda is aware.”
Zanna smiled. “Thanks, Will, I just needed to voice my anxiety.”
Gant moved the talk on to patients currently undergoing physical therapy with her. Rivera was the last to be discussed and they conferred about which direction to take his rehab now that the IM nail had been inserted.
“Will you have to remove the nail later?” she asked.
“Not necessarily. The fixator did a great job stabilizing the fractures. Now we need to work on strengthening.”
Zanna shifted in her chair. “There is something else I would like to address. Is he on any pain meds? If I ask him if he’s in pain, he says no or deflects but he must still be in a lot of discomfort.”
Gant gave a curt nod. “A fine example of your understatement. Yes, he’s been prescribed pain meds, but we can’t force him to take them.”
“Why would he not?”
“Because he doesn’t want to become dependent on them, even though they’re prescribed on a descending dosage to limit any chance of that. Because he doesn’t want any traces in his system when it comes to passing his Medical Evaluation Board. Because men like him regard pain differently than us mere mortals. He uses it to tell him he’s alive; to gauge for himself where he is in his recovery.” Gant tugged at his ear. “Because men like him are a breed apart.”
Zanna nodded slowly. “You know? Actually, nothing he does surprises me, but I don’t claim to understand him one little bit.”
Gant leaned back in his chair. “You’re not the only one. Believe me, you’re not the only one.”
On her way out, Zanna spotted a red folder and a small blue box on a shelf by the door.
10
Zanna contemplated the bar above her head. How hard can it be? He pumped out twenty with a major injury. She rubbed her palms together then jumped up and hung from the bar. She visualized her chin coming above the bar in the
same effortless manner Rivera’s did. Taking a deep breath, she attempted a pull and nothing happened. The burning in her shoulders raced up her arms and set fire to her fingers so she dropped to the floor and shook out her hands to rid them of the pins and needles.
Raul’s voice came from behind her. “How many?”
She spun around. With Raul was Rivera sitting in the wheelchair. He had a pair of combat boots slung over his shoulder.
“Ummm, you know,” she said.
“Four? Five?” Raul asked.
“Slightly less.”
“One,” Rivera said.
Zanna hung her head. “Slightly less.”
Raul laughed. “They’re not as easy as they look, right? I can teach you if you want to do them correctly.”
“I thought you said you didn’t do them in the Navy?”
“Not as a rule but nothing to stop you doing them if you want to.”
Rivera placed the boots in his lap.
With a bemused smile, Zanna said, “Am I right in thinking you plan on wearing those today?”
He nodded.
“You haven’t worn them yet?”As if you haven’t!
He looked her in the eye. “No.”
She believed him. Gant had given the green light for Rivera to introduce bearing weight on his right leg, so she gave him permission to put them on. He cautiously eased his right foot into the boot and laced it up, but maybe not quite so tight as the left one.
When Rivera took his crutches, Zanna told him to still rely on them and not to attempt to bear his full weight at this stage. He nodded and hobbled about, testing the feel. Although his stony expression gave no outward show of pain when he placed any weight on his right foot, the crows feet around his eyes told her what she needed to know. She was on the verge of telling him not to do too much walking when he lay on a padded floor mat and attempted some Marine-style crunches, in which the elbows must touch the thighs on each of the up, but the pressure on his damaged leg was too much. He sat up and banged his fists on the floor between his knees.
Zanna knelt at his side. “Look, I know for you the mission comes first. Do or die and all that, but the mission here is you. You wouldn’t assault a target without planning the attack thoroughly. Break your rehab down into those minutiae that you train for assaults. Do ten crunches, then fifteen, then twenty, instead of going for fifty from the off. You set yourself up to fail . . . and when you do, you get mad. Chunk it down. Congratulate yourself on the small victories.”
He stared at her. “A plan is only good until first contact—you have no idea.”
“No, I haven’t. And I hope to God I never have to find out. But I’m not the enemy, I’m trying to help you here.”
He dropped his gaze to the ground between his legs. A vein pounded in his neck.
“You are making excellent progress but you need to steer a steady course.” She touched his forearm. He stiffened and moved it out from under her hand. Oh, no. What have I done? “Domingo—”
His head stayed down, his gaze still on the ground. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice.
“Please, let me help you.”
He grabbed the crutches, got to his feet and limped toward the set of varying height steps.
Zanna clenched her fists by her sides. Don’t even think of tackling those yet.
He didn’t. He just shuffled around them, still scowling.
“I’ve met some stubborn men in my time,” she said, “but he takes the biscuit.”
“He what?” said Raul, coming to stand next to her.
“He’s always pushing the envelope, testing the boundaries.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Zanna turned around to face a Marine officer she had never seen before and a Navy lieutenant from Psych whom she knew by sight. The name badge on his right breast proclaimed him to be Tchibowsky. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“This officer needs to speak with Gunnery Sergeant Rivera,” Tchibowsky said.
“Of course,” she said.
Rivera watched the two officers approach and Tchibowsky motioned for him to sit on the steps. He declined. Zanna could only see the Marine officer’s back, but throughout whatever he was saying Rivera’s face remained impassive.
Tchibowsky put out a hand as though to touch Rivera’s shoulder. Rivera blocked it with his forearm. They connected. Raul took a sharp intake of breath.
“My God, is that considered striking an officer?” Zanna asked.
“I’ve no idea what it’s about, but it depends on whether the officer presses charges. He did reach out to touch Rivera, first,” he said. “Not sure he shoulda done that.”
When the men left, Rivera methodically unlaced his boots, pulled them off, and then slowly removed his t-shirt and socks, leaving them where they fell.
“What’s he doing?”
Raul shrugged.
Rivera stuffed the socks in the boots, folded the t-shirt and laid it on top of them.
Zanna moved toward him but before she had taken three steps, he grabbed the crutches and hobbled toward the Wet Room. He smashed his way through the double doors, ditched the crutches and dove into the length pool. The buffers on the doors closed them softly behind him.
“Stay with him, Raul! I’ll be right back.” She ran after the two officers but slowed to a walk when she reached the hospital hallway. Tchibowsky and the Marine shook hands and went their separate ways.
She called after the lieutenant. “Excuse me, sir.” He waited for her. “Would you mind telling me what just happened in the gym?”
He looked her up and down. “The Casualty Assistance Calls Officer had some news for the gunnery sergeant.”
Zanna’s shoulders sagged. “Oh.”
“Someone Rivera knew died yesterday from wounds sustained in an IED blast.”
“Someone from his unit?”
“No.”
Zanna trudged back down the hallway. In all likelihood, this isn’t the first time he’s received one of those notifications. She went through the Wet Room doors and stopped. Rivera was swimming and Raul was leaning on the wall.
“What did Cheapo say?” he asked when Rivera was at the far end of the pool.
“Who’s Cheapo?”
Raul chuckled. “Tchi-bo, not Cheapo. Lieutenant Tchibowsky.”
She relayed the news of the death.
He pushed off the wall. “From his unit?”
“No.”
He resumed his leaning.
“Raul, he wouldn’t have jumped in the pool if his wounds weren’t healed, would he?”
“No. He wudda found some other outlet.”
They silently watched Rivera for a while. He used an efficient, effortless stroke, a combination of the front crawl and breaststroke with the arms, and a scissors kick with the legs. He kept his head low, almost parallel to the water line and his body moved in a corkscrewing manner through the water. Each length of the pool was achieved in an average of four strokes.
Honor Courage Commitment Page 6