Duty: A Secret Baby Romance (9 page)

I
t's been a long
, strange ride, I think as I pick up my ACUs from the tailor. They look perfect, and I'm impressed at how quick and how cheap the work was.

“Thanks,” I tell the tailor, an old guy whose shop's been around for a long damn time, according to the scuttlebutt. “Perfect work.”

“Eh, no problem,” the guy says, ringing it up. “I wish it was like the old days, the BDU days. The old ones, everything was sewn on, tabs, badges, name tapes, all of it. Back then, three tops like yours would get me thirty bucks easy. Then I had the dry cleaning and starching work on the side. That was even better. These new things, just no money in it.”

“So why do you keep doing it?” I ask, folding my tops and putting them in my bag. “Doing the dry cleaning on dress uniforms can't replace that, can it?”

“No, but I still get enough from the civilian side to keep things going, and I'm retiring in two or three years,” the man says, smiling wistfully. “Besides, us Airborne types gotta stick together, you know? Good luck.”

I leave the tailor's shop, taking one of his cards and making sure I do come by. I don't have a lot of things that need dry cleaned. Even a year after graduation, I still don't have a big clothes collection, and most of it consists of jeans and casual shirts.

Still, he's right. Airborne sticks together. I've only been with my unit two days. I still haven't officially taken over my platoon yet, but the idea that Airborne sticks together winds through everything in the 82nd Airborne. Fort. Bragg is a good-looking post, and it's a lot greener than Benning, where I did Infantry and Ranger school. And with fall coming on, North Carolina is a beautiful area, cooling down nicely. Doing Ranger school in the summer sucked ass. Even the mountain phase sucked.

I circle around post, staying outside the gate until I get to my house. Bragg's got enough space that an unmarried officer like me could use the Bachelor Officer Quarters, but the idea of having to live in a military controlled building is not one that I want to even consider. Not after living in West Point barracks for four years. I like the freedom, and the house is close enough that I don't even need to drive fifteen minutes in the morning to get to the unit.

I see my unit welcome packet on the seat of my car and shake my head, still kind of amazed. Third Platoon, Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 405th Parachute Infantry Regiment. The ‘Regulators’.
My
platoon.

It's scary and awesome at the same time, and I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I’m actually formally introduced to the company at morning formation.

I bring my uniforms inside, hanging them up before checking everything else. I've spent two weeks shaping and forming my maroon beret. It's damn near perfect, along with its backup just in case I fuck one of them up.

“Well, Lieutenant Simpson, looks like you're ready,” I say to myself, stopping when I realize that talking to yourself is a sign of stress and something I've been doing far too much the past three years and some change. It started while I was going to Airborne school, really. And I know why. Three years, and I can't get her off my mind.

I wonder if she's still in the service? She could be. She said she'd still be when I graduated from USMA. She could have . . .

“Stop it, you dumb fuck,” I mutter to myself, bitter. “Just . . . fucking stop it.”

It's hard, though, I think as I turn away from my uniforms and plop down on my couch. At Airborne school, when I twisted my ankle on that second jump and still had to force my way through another two days of PT, she was there, telling me she was proud of me. The last two years at school, I drove myself from a solid middle of the class up to the upper quarter, even making the Supe's Award one semester. Hell, even in Ranger school, she was there, in my mind. One of my patrol buddies, a funny kid from Oklahoma, asked me at one point who the hell Lindsey was, because I'd spent ten minutes of sleep deprived zombie status talking to what I thought was her, and it turned out to be a pine tree.

I've tried so hard to get her off my mind though. Following Mel Riordan's advice, I tried to date my last two years at the Academy, both civilian and cadets. But I never even sealed the deal, as pathetic as that sounds. It just didn’t seem right.

Making out was easy. Second base? Date one, maybe date two for sure. But when it came time to seal the deal, I couldn't do it. Three and a half years, and I'm totally celibate.

“I don't know why I can't get you off my mind,” I mutter, rubbing at my temples. “You changed your phone number. I guess I know why. I promised myself that I'd respect your wishes, but that first chance I had, I tried to call your cell. Still, almost four years . . . what did you do to me, Lindsey?”

I sigh and reach forward, grabbing the remote to my TV. There's gotta be something loud and distracting on, something that can get her off my mind. I flip around and see some pro wrestling on one of the cable channels. I smile, thinking about the little group of guys who'd gather down in the dayroom to watch Monday Night Wrestling back at school, although this isn't the same company. These guys on TV right now are louder and dirtier, with more chairs involved. At least the violence is distracting.

* * *

“
W
ell
, let's see if El Tee can hang,” one of my privates cracks as I stand outside the circle, waiting my turn. I've only been in charge of the platoon for a few days. I figured this would happen. There's always a feeling out period when a new leader comes into a unit. The Regulators have been together for a long time. They're cohesive, they're a good platoon from their records, and I've got to prove myself worthy of being 'the old man' with them. Why is it Lieutenants are always called 'the old man' anyway, when I'm younger than all of my squad leaders?

It doesn't matter I guess. Still, being the old man is why I'm out here on a Thursday morning, even though Thursday mornings are the traditional 'Sergeant's Time,' when we officers are supposed to fuck off and leave the enlisted to themselves. But when the platoon sergeant told me that the platoon was doing a little bit of what they call 'blood bonding,' I knew I was being handed an opportunity to prove myself.

“Next!” Staff Sergeant Mellencamp, the first squad leader, calls out. I slip my mouthpiece in and pull on the football helmet that everyone's using for safety and step into the circle.

There's an anticipatory hum from the platoon when they see me step forward and take my padded pugil stick. The hum turns into a laugh of bloodthirsty derision as the circle parts again and Specialist Hardy, all six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of ripped muscle of him, one of the platoon's heavy machine gunners, steps in on the other side.

“Someone call for a medic!” the same joker as before taunts, and there's a ripple of laughter. I can see why. Hardy's got three inches on me and about forty pounds. I look like I'm easy pickings for him.

“Okay, El Tee, the rules are simple,” Mellencamp says. “We go to three points, on my call.”

I shake my head, looking up into Hardy's eyes. “Negative, Sergeant. We go to tap or ten-count knockout. Old school rules. No nut shots.”

The platoon goes silent, nobody expecting me to pull that one out. I mean, I'm a West Pointer, a Ring Knocker, a
softie
who isn't hard like a real Regulator. Hardy grins, though, and nods. “Your loss, El Tee. You’re going to have to call in sick tomorrow.”

“We'll see,” I reply, stepping back. I hold the pugil stick vertically like a rifle and salute Hardy with it before drawing it back down to my side. “Ready.”

“Go!” Mellencamp calls, and the fight's on. I expect Hardy to attack hard and fast. He's got reach and muscle on me, but he doesn't know about my hockey past or the martial arts classes I took my last two years at the Academy. He lunges in, and I sidestep, swinging the one side of my pugil stick hard, catching him in the hamstring and buckling his knee before dancing out of the way, stepping back and circling.

I can hear the platoon cheering, but it's just a roar, a wall of white noise that surrounds us as we circle in the grass, looking for the next opening. He's carrying his stick high, protecting his head, which makes sense if that was what I was going for. He thinks a knockout has to be a head shot. Most guys do. But instead, I attack his legs, locking sticks with him and neutralizing his ability to hit back before sweeping his legs out from underneath him, sending him tumbling to the grass.

He’s fast as a snake, though, and before I can turn and maybe deliver a big hit, he's rolling to his feet, his stick sweeping out in a large arc to defend himself. “Not bad, El Tee.”

“I'm a tricky bastard,” I warn him, jabbing forward with the end of my stick, aiming for his stomach but only for deception. He swings, and I turn, taking the stick like a boxing body blow to my arm before I wrap around it and twist, sending him down. The maneuver pulls his stick out of his hands, and when he looks up, my stick's in his face, frozen an inch from his facemask. “Tap out.”

“Tap,” Hardy admits, and I pull my stick back, letting him up. Hardy gets to his feet, and I put my stick down, offering my hand. The platoon applauds, there are some excited 'Hooahs' as Mellencamp announces me the winner, and I step out of the circle.

Outside, my platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Pillman, comes up. We walk away from the platoon while Mellencamp calls out the next two, lowering our voices. “Nice fight, sir.”

“I played it dirty. I knew he’d be thinking of headhunting. I never had any plans to knock him out.”

He laughs softly, nodding. “I thought so. Hardy's a good kid. Great field soldier, but he's not the sharpest bayonet on the line.”

“That's okay, we'll get him there,” I say. “So what's on the rest of your Sergeant's Time agenda?”

“Obstacle course after this. That new kid, Rodriguez, has got to earn his props too with the platoon. He didn't do too good a job with the sticks.”

“Okay, but I don't want him being bullied or hazed,” I tell Pillman. “I saw enough of that stupid shit at West Point. I don't want it in my platoon.”

“Roger that, sir. What are you going to be doing?”

I laugh and point up the road toward the company area. “I'll check in with the Captain, see if he wants anything from me. If not, I've got to work on getting back into my pre-Ranger shape. Guys like Hardy aren't going to let me get away with sneaky shit anymore.”

He gives me a respectful nod. “Okay. One piece of history, sir.”

“What's that?” I ask, taking out my beret and putting it on.

“Captain Bradley doesn’t like West Pointers. He's got a beef against you guys. He won't say shit about it in public, but the last two USMA Lieutenants we got through the company, he rode them hard. Watch yourself, sir.”

I must be making an impression if he’s going to tell me that already. “Roger that, Sergeant. Keep my legs together and make sure I ask for a kiss as well.”

He laughs. “Something like that. See you tomorrow morning, sir.” He gives me a salute, and I return it, heading for my car. At least I've got the start of half of my equation. My platoon and my platoon sergeant are giving me a clear shot. Now let's see if I can get my commanding officer on my side as well.

I find Captain Bradley at his desk. I knock on the jamb of his door, and he looks up from his computer, where he's typing something or the other. “Sir?”

“How were the pugil sticks?” he asks, pointing to a chair. “You're not bleeding, so I take it you showed yourself well?”

“Got Hardy to tap out,” I tell him, rubbing my left arm. “Real life, I'd have a busted arm, but I played the game a little bit. Got in his head enough to ride it out.”

“Good deal. Hardy's a big guy. I've seen him with the stick before. They gave you a tough test,” Bradley replies, tapping away hunt and peck style at his laptop. If that's the way he types all the time, he's gotta take forever to get stuff done.

I nod. “Is there anything you'd like me to do around the company? If not, I was going to hit up the fitness center and see if I can get rid of some of this flab.”

“Nope, it's all good. I've got your cell number in the meantime. See you tomorrow for the company meeting before PT.”

“Hooah, sir. See you tomorrow.”

I'm at the door when Captain Bradley calls my name. “Lieutenant Simpson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I'm sure by now, one of your NCOs has filled you in a bit on my history. I go through Ring Knockers like some commanders go through toilet paper,” Bradley says, half smirking. “You want to know why?”

“It'd be helpful, sir. I'd like a fair shot.”

Bradley nods. “Well, life isn't always fair, Lieutenant. But, I like to think I am. Your predecessors got hammered because they couldn't follow the rules. Some commanders let their platoon leaders play around, like officers are supposed to be some sort of rebel. And you Pointers, I guess after being hamstrung and bubble wrapped for four years even before the stress of Ranger School, you feel the need to live it up like real college kids do. Some commanders understand and give you some free reign. I feel differently. I think we're here to set the example. If you do that, you'll find that you'll do fine with me.”