“Something about our retreat just doesn’t add up, Michael.” Shannon O’Leary sat across from me in the NCO cantina, nursing a dark brown concoction in a frosty, glass mug that might have been beer. Her short, red hair hung in an even layered cut around her oval face. Porcelain skin, a slightly pug nose, high cheekbones, and piercing green eyes pinned me helplessly to the chair across from her. I was firmly in lust with her.
“How did the LT get separated from the headquarters squad? How did the Sarge get away with a good portion of the squad intact?”
Feigning nonchalance, I squeezed some lime around the edge of a shot glass and threw back my sixth shot of tequila. “Whaddoya mean?” I asked, leaning back in the booth. I had trouble focusing on her face. My nose was tingling.
“And to think, they bumped your sorry ass all the way to buck sergeant after that Jupiter debacle.” She smiled and sipped her beer.
“You’re just lucky I don’t make you shalute, Corporal.” I enunciated very clearly and carefully to get most of the sentence out properly. “’Sides, you’re just jealous.”
Her smile turned into a giggle as she put the mug on the table. “Jealous? Of what?” She stood half out of her seat, reached over, and pulled a stray thread from the chevrons adorning my sleeve. “Of one more stripe? We go the same places, eat the same food.” I was stiff as a board as I felt the warmth of her hand on my upper arm. I was conscious of her breath, warm and smelling slightly of alcohol, as she fixed the haphazard sewing job the base tailor had done in sewing my new rank to my uniform.
For a moment, her green-eyed gaze met my own watery blue eyes. She stayed like that for a moment, our faces inches apart. A slow, sweet smile spread her features. Perversely, all I could focus on was the tiny details of her face. I could see the faint remnants of freckles on her face, a slight callous just under her hairline where our helmets rested, and the dimples in her cheeks. I leaned forward, tilting my head to side.
“Having fun, Sergeant?” I literally jumped out of my seat as I realized that my former section sergeant, Eliza Dunkel, was standing by our table, her hands on her hips.
While in the NCO cantina and off duty, it was customary for us to remain seated, even if a superior entered. I wanted to stand at attention. I felt like a little boy with my hand caught in the cookie jar. Dunkel had been promoted as well, and would be a platoon sergeant in our next campaign.
“Yes, ma’am.” I said.
Dunkel smirked. “Corporal?”
“Yes, ma’am.” O’Leary said. Her smile hadn’t faded. For some reason, I got the thought they were enjoying my discomfort.
“I wanted to take the opportunity to tell you, off duty, that both of you have been assigned to my platoon.” She studied her perfectly trimmed nails. “I was going to put O’Leary in your section, Collins, but I think that I might put her in another section.” She locked eyes with me. “That way she’s outside of your chain of command should you decide to…well. You know what I mean.”
O’Leary nodded. “Thank you, Sarge.”
Dunkel turned to leave, stopped, and then turned back around. “O’Leary.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She pursed her lips. “I couldn’t help but overhear while I was at the bar.”
“Overhear what?” O’Leary asked. She seemed genuinely puzzled.
“I overheard your idle speculation that somehow our retreat didn’t add up.” Dunkel took a few steps closer and straddled a chair. “You guys, even though you’re combat vets, are still pretty green. You may have the best training that Earth can provide, but you don’t have the experience to understand some of the problems we face out there.” She paused and traced a design on the table top with her finger. “You’re both NCOs now. Sometimes you might be left with a tough decision. Which is more important: the lives of your men, or the goal of the mission?”
I choked on my seventh shot of tequila.
“At ease, Collins.” Dunkel said with a wry smile. “I’m just giving you food for thought.” She stood, her face suddenly stern. “Don’t talk about that speculation any more, O’Leary. That’s an order.”
She looked startled. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dunkel strode back to the bar, her back straight, her stride precise. She was the perfect example of a senior NCO.
“What was that all about?” I asked, pouring myself another shot.
O’Leary looked at me steadily. “If you weren’t soaking your frontal lobe in ethanol, you’d know exactly what she’s talking about.” She sighed. “Still, I thought something didn’t make sense. I guess now we know why.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hands. “Thanks for dinner,” she said.
“You’re welcome!” I said, trying diligently to squeeze some lime into my shot glass and not being very successful at it.
“Let’s go back to my place.” She stood as I raised the glass to my lips. “Did you know that the Irish invented the missionary position?”
I choked on my eighth shot of tequila.
good stuff! now less COH and GG and more story!