Duty(59)

“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 f*cking 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, Sarge. 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 f*ck 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.