Duty: A Secret Baby Romance (20 page)

T
here'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.

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!”

* * *

T
he 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 swinging 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.”