Текст книги "State of Rebellion"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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“There’s no ladder,” she says. “This is criminal.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“I guess. As long as you don’t mind me bouncing off the bottom mattress when it’s time to get up in the morning.”

We both laugh. After we settle in we check out the bathrooms, which are no more than a huge hall of showers separated by thin plastic curtains. There’s a dressing room, a row of sinks and a long line of mirrors. I leave, not wanting to glimpse my reflection. I’ve had enough stress today without having to look at my face, too.

“This is a little more crowded than the barracks at Camp Freedom,” Sophia says. “I’m used to sleeping in a room with just our militia.”

“If we could sleep in Kamaneva’s labor camp, we can sleep anywhere,” I reply. “We could sleep on the concrete floor with the rats.”

“And then there were the ones that didn’t sleep at all.”

And the ones that didn’t wake up in the morning.

We both pause, chilled by the memory of our imprisonment. I physically shake myself and lean against the bunk. “So,” I say. “Let’s go find out what the next step is. I’m not going to sit around and wait for Rivera to give me an order.”

“Okay,” Sophia shrugs. “But Rivera’s not in charge of what we do, is he? We get to use their weapons and equipment, but we answer to our militia leaders.”

“But which militia leaders? There are a lot of different groups here.” I look around the room. The ages, sizes and ethnicity of the women here are very diverse. I wish I knew what everyone’s story was. How did they get here? What happened to them after the EMP? Why are they fighting in the militia?

Their story is a lot like yours, a little voice says. That’s what unites all of you.

“The commanders have called a meeting.” Vera brushes past us. “Your presence is requested.”

I fight the urge to make a smart comeback.

Sophia and I head out of the barracks, down a long concrete corridor that descends further beneath the ground. It smells musty, but the temperature is nice and cool. Two gigantic steel doors are at the end of the hall, guarded by soldiers. Sophia and I follow Vera through the doors, entering a vast concrete chamber. There’s a long table, sturdy chairs and maps on the walls. It looks like a top secret briefing room from a spy movie. It’s unimaginably large. Vera, Sophia and I can only stare at everything, awed.

Colonel Rivera is sitting at the head of the table. Chris and Angela are there as well. Derek, Max and Alexander have showered and dressed in new National Guard uniforms. Chris is wearing combat pants and a brand new jacket, his beard freshly trimmed. He looks clean. He looks great.

Me? Not so much. I need new clothes and a shower, too.

“Have a seat, ladies,” Colonel Rivera says.

If he notices that I’ve brought Sophia with me to a bigwig meeting, he doesn’t show it. Chris doesn’t question her presence, either. We’re all on the same side here.

“Here’s the situation, folks,” Colonel Rivera begins. An unlit cigar is clenched between his teeth as he talks. “You Freedom Fighters need to establish a solid chain of command, with one command officer to interface directly with me. How you structure that chain of command is up to you, but I recommend that you establish Officers and NCO ranks that parallel ours.”

“NCO?” Sophia mouths.

“Non-commissioned officers,” I whisper.

“I’ve got my own platoons outfitted and mission ready,” Rivera continues. “You need to move ahead and get yours squared away.” He grinds his cigar between his teeth, glowering at us. “Well? Which one of you fine guerilla warfighters is going to be the Militia Field Commander?”

The room remains silent. Then all heads turn towards Chris.

So we are picking a single commander today. Somebody needs to state the obvious. “Chris,” I say.

Angela fixes me with a cold stare, turning back to Rivera. “I agree,” she replies, a thin smile on her lips. “Chris has the practical experience and background for this task. He will be a fine field commander.”

Well, duh.

“How about it, Alpha One?” Colonel Rivera growls, impatient.

“I’ll do it,” Chris says, locking gazes with me. “I’ll need help.”

“Angela, you will of course retain staff authority as militia leader,” Chris says, nodding at her. “I will handle combat operations. As to the officer corps, Alexander, Max.” He nods at each of them, leaning forward, looking directly at me. “And…Cassidy.”

I stare at him. Me? An officer?

He smiles. Vera stiffens, but says nothing to protest the appointment. I don’t speak, only nod slightly to indicate that I accept the appointment. What am I going to do? Say no?

Not happening.

“I’ll need new weapons and equipment for my troops,” Chris says, turning to Colonel Rivera. “Give us what we need, and we’ll be ready to go.”

“Excellent.” Colonel Rivera folds his arms. “Now that we’ve got that squared away, let’s get one thing straight: this base operates solely on its own electricity. It was built years ago as a failsafe in the event of a catastrophe for the elites, if you will. A place for federal and state leaders to bunk out in the event that something huge went down. It was a way to preserve the chain of command, from the Executive Branch down. Well, folks, the catastrophe is already here, and the feds and everyone else in between never made it to the shelters. So the National Guard utilized them.” He stops and surveys the room. “The Federal Government has been protecting itself from a possible EMP attack for years. True, Washington D.C. and the Eastern Seaboard have been nuked, but remnants of the government still survive. State governments. State militias. State law enforcement. Our leaders are gone, but what we’ve got in this base – and in bases across the country – is access to electricity, food, water, weapons and information.”

“Define information,” Chris says.

“Sit back and enjoy the show.” Colonel Rivera grabs a black device off the table. A remote control. He dims the lights with one flick of a button, and a white screen rolls down from the ceiling.

“What the hell is this?” Alexander asks. “A power point presentation?”

Chris holds up a hand, a wordless warning to be silent.

I look up, my eyes falling on a projector mounted to the ceiling. A burst of color blossoms on the screen. Speakers in the wall crackle with an electric hiss. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

It’s been so long…this is so alien.

An image appears. It looks like security footage. A grainy picture of a large parking lot. There’s a Wal-Mart and a collection of fast food restaurants and clothing stores in the background. It’s night. Everything is glowing with color. Cars are driving through the parking lot.

“What is this? Derek mutters.

There’s a clock at the bottom of the film feed. As soon as it hits 1832 hours – 6:32 p.m. – the lighting in the shopping center shuts off. The Wal-Mart sign, the restaurants, the car headlights. Everything. Several vehicles careen off the road and smash into parked cars.

“This is footage from the night the EMP hit,” I say. “How did you get this?”

“Satellite,” Colonel Anderson replies. “There are devices that the military – and the government – put into use that were resistant to a technological attack. We’ve used images and footage from those devices to learn more about what happened that night.”

It switches to another image. This one is of an outdoor patio along a fancy walkway near the beach. The lights are glowing brightly. People are dining at tables with white napkins and wine glasses. The power goes out. Everything turns black.

I bite my lip.

“The following images are footage we received from a satellite,” Colonel Rivera says. “It’s not pretty.”

The image is similar to something you’d see on the weather channel. A long distance shot of the earth from above the atmosphere. I can clearly make out the eastern coastline. It’s a sunny day, and from below something disrupts the landscape. There is no audio – not that there would be from a satellite in outer space. There is a sudden, blinding flash of light. The screen goes dark. A few moments later the screen resolves to show a cloud growing across the coastline. And that’s when it hits me: This is footage of a nuclear bomb detonating in Washington D.C.

I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until Colonel Rivera shuts the projector off. The lights come back on. The room is dead silent. No one knows what to say. What can we say? The mushroom cloud represented the instant death of millions, the agonizing radiation poisoning of millions more. The beginning of the end.

“Omega will bring their invasion force into the east and west coast,” Colonel Rivera says, his voice a hollow echo in a room full of shocked people. “They will bring a force of five thousand troops from Los Angeles into the central valley. We will meet them at the mouth of the foothills and choke them out.”

“How long do we have until they get here?” I whisper.

Colonel Rivera takes his cigar out of his mouth, taps it on the edge of an ashtray, and holds it between his fingers.

“Two weeks.”

Chapter Nine

Warfare is all about patience. It’s the same thing, day after day. Sheer, complete and utter boredom occasionally interrupted by sheer, complete and utter terror. For the first time in my life, I realize why organization and structure is so important in the military. It’s not just to keep guys in line. It’s about keeping guys from going out of their minds with impatience.

We’ve been here at Sector 20 for one week and the waiting is driving me crazy. There are no windows that allow us to see outside. The barracks are sterile and boring. The bright spots in the day are our meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. The chow hall is also a huge underground room. The food is filled with protein and calories – meat, potatoes and vegetables – and for that I am incredibly grateful.

I go on scouting missions with Chris during the week, looking for enemy activity. This is my escape from the mundane routine of life on a military base. I get to see the sky at night and watch what society has become. And let me tell you, it’s not pretty.

Nomadic gangs rove the urban areas, pillaging everything that’s been left behind since the EMP hit. You think downtown Fresno had a gang and graffiti problem before the EMP? You should see it now. It looks like a can of spray paint threw up on every blank wall and billboard in the county. There’s hardly a single building in the city with even one window still intact. We avoid the roving Omega patrols, who seem content to bide their time, waiting for backup to arrive.

Occasionally on our scouting missions we will see buildings erupt into flames, casualties in gang wars or just a random spark catching fire. The city is not safe, but gangs ignore us. Our firepower and numbers are far superior to theirs. And they know it. They would have to be suicidal to start a turf war with us.

During the daytime hours I stick with Sophia. We stay in the Dugout, a nickname for the day room at the base for soldiers to spend time away from their barracks. There’s a pool table, a library, couches and board games, along with items that have been salvaged from abandoned houses. Last night somebody brought Uno and Connect 4 from a loft apartment downtown.

It’s not like we’ve got video games anymore.

But when I’m not in the Dugout watching the soldiers play games or read books, I’m keeping our men drilled. Since I was made a noncommissioned officer for the militia forces in the National Guard, I’ve got some authority now. It’s my job to make sure that the volunteer militia force is kept sharp and ready. This is what keeps me from going insane being stuck in an underground tin can with a thousand people.

We practice shooting, fighting and military maneuvers. Exercising and remaining fast and fit is an absolute must. I make sure everyone has equal time standing guard duty and running scouting missions day and night to keep an eye on potential Omega troop movements. Oddly enough, I consider myself kind of like Chris’s activities coordinator. I make sure things are running smoothly, that the men and women are healthy and capable, and that our soldiers are keeping their sanity within the confined living quarters.

And Chris? His job is to come up with the military strategies, enforce discipline, and fine-tune the militia’s skills. As the days pass I see him as less of a hardened, battle-worn Navy SEAL and more of a calm, steady leader.

I guess I’m not the only one who’s matured.

The National Guard has provided us with fresh clothing, weapons and ammunition. In fact, that is the best part of being here. We’re no longer working with salvaged equipment. We’ve got the best of the best.

On our seventh day staying in Sector 20, Chris takes me to one of the supply rooms on the base.

“This,” he says, “is all yours.”

I step into the room. Weapons and equipment are hanging from every nook and cranny. It’s a goldmine of war goodies. Chris, however, is holding up a single object. A rifle. It’s brand new, it’s sleek, and it’s awesome. He hands it to me.

It’s mine.

I curl my fingers around the weapon, the metal cool against my skin. I test the weight. Not too heavy. Just right for my size. A scope is mounted on top of the weapon.

“I’ve really needed one of these,” I say.

“You’re a great shot without optics,” he replies. “With it you’ll be unstoppable.” He hoists a backpack. “I packed this for you. It’s got a new uniform, supplies, equipment. Upgraded radio, night vision goggles.” He grins and pulls out a small handgun. “There are some nice toys in here, too. This one’s just your size.”

“You packed this for me?” I asked, touched. Because with all of the things he’s got to worry about, it’s beyond sweet that he would go to the trouble of getting supplies together for me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He drapes one strap of the pack over my shoulder. “You’re really in the military now, Cassie. It suits you.”

“I don’t know.” I gaze up at his sure, handsome face. “Does it?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “There’s not a lot of people that would adjust to this sort of lifestyle so well. You’ve got a gift.”

“I’ve got a great leader,” I reply, standing on my tiptoes. “You.”

He laughs softly, placing one hand on each side of my waist.

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Yes.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Chris. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“It was hard leaving Dad behind.” I blink back tears. “After all I went through to find him again.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Chris says, pulling me close. “There’s nothing else you could do. I’m proud of you. You’re growing up fast.”

I smile against the fabric of his jacket.

“Growing up sucks.”

“Nah.” Chris pulls back to study my face, tracing the curve of my cheek with his thumb. “It’s not all bad.”

He kisses me then. It’s the first time I’ve really kissed him since we’ve been here. Since the ambush in Sanger. Since I got shot. Come to think of it, we haven’t had any real privacy since I escaped from the labor camp months ago.

I thread my fingers through his hair, melting into his strong embrace. He’s all around me, flooding my senses. Calming my fears. Being the steady rock I need him to be. “See?” he says, pressing his lips against my jaw. “It’s really not all bad.”

I raise an eyebrow, flushed.

“You have a point. Please continue.”

He laughs, and I feel it rumble deep in his chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

He’s right.

Growing up isn’t all that bad.

National Guard recruits are everywhere. There are a little over a thousand troops crammed into this hole in the ground, and every single one of them is here because they volunteered. And it’s not just men. There are plenty of women, too. Colonel Rivera has command over his men, and Chris maintains control of the militia groups. The two work together.

Because of this, Chris is considered an equal leader of the entire Central Valley California National Guard. I guess that makes him famous. Why shouldn’t it? Everyone is finally seeing him for the amazing leader he is.

For the record, I knew how great he was before everybody else did.

Just saying.

At any rate, the monotony of military base life is finally broken when Chris gives us the green light to go out on our first urban ambush. It’s going to be a lot different than what we did up in the mountains.

Our target?

An Omega emergency relief camp. I remember them well. They were relief camps set up for survivors of the EMP, but in actuality they were traps. Ways to concentrate the populace and carry out executions. Little more than modern day concentration camps.

This should be interesting.

How long has it been since I waited at a drive-through window for an order of French fries? Way too long. And right now, staring past the broken glass from inside a drive through window at Carl’s Jr., I’m getting an eerie sense of dejavu. The night is silent. Unlike the mountains, where the steady background of nature kept my nerves calm, there is nothing to hear in this urban environment except distant screams and gunshots. The earth hasn’t quite reclaimed what belongs to it. Concrete and steel structures still reign supreme.

I notice the sign at the corner of the window.

Thanks – come again soon!

I roll my eyes.

Sophia and Alexander are with me. I edge towards the door of the abandoned fast food restaurant, crouching in the shadows. The moon is shrouded with dark clouds, making it easier for us to hide, but harder for us to see the enemy. And they’re not far away. The enemy camp is located in the parking lot of a former Best Buy distribution center.

Cruel irony. The world ends and millions of dollars of technology just sits inside a giant warehouse, nothing but a pile of worthless pieces of wiring and blank screens. How sick is that?

The camp is surrounded by a chain link fence. There’s razor wire, heavy patrols, Omega vehicles and a large gathering of people inside the fence. It looks exactly like the last relief camp I saw a year ago in Bakersfield. Only this one is a lot smaller, and the civilians are emaciated. They hardly look human anymore.

“This isn’t going to be too bad,” I whisper. “I don’t even see any dead bodies.”

“Oh, boy. This is a good night,” Sophia snorts.

“Hey, you and I both know how bad these places get.”

She glances at Alexander. His expression is stony.

“We wait for the signal,” he says.

This is the first time I haven’t been with Chris for the duration of a mission. I’m always in his platoon, but I have separated myself from routine tonight. Why? Because I’m an officer now. I have new responsibilities. I have to lead. I can’t merely follow anymore. Or maybe I just want to be sure that I can function without him. That my talent and skills aren’t dependent on his presence.

But you know they are, a little voice says.

I shake off the confidence issue and step away from the corner of the building. “Let’s climb,” I say. And that’s when I realize that Alexander and Sophia are actually doing what I tell them. This is odd for two reasons. First, because Alexander is an officer, too. That technically makes us both Lieutenants. And second, because Alexander always assumes command of a situation. We’re both equally ranked. Sophia and Derek are sergeants, each in charge of units of eight men within their platoon.

Tonight Alexander’s being nice. Maybe it has something to do with Sophia. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together since we moved into the National Guard base in Fresno. Could she be – dare I say it? – softening him up?

I smile at the thought.

Alexander is not the “softening up” type of guy.

I head over to a corner of the building, where two walls intersect near the rear exit. I use the windowsill and Alexander’s armored shoulder to boost myself up to the roof access hatch, pulling myself up. I crawl on the roof, keeping a low profile to avoid silhouetting against the skyline. I’m wearing a black and gray uniform. My face is streaked with camouflage grease. I lie prone near a rise in the roof and remove my rifle. It’s as sleek and shiny as a new car. I adjust my position as Sophia and Alexander move in beside me, scoping our sectors of fire.

We are snipers tonight.

The rest of my platoon is broken into four sections. Each section is led by a sergeant like Sophia. Alexander and I – we are lieutenants – oversee the platoon itself. They are the main assault force on the camp. Our job as snipers is to cover our men when all hell breaks loose and the National Guard raids the camp. Which, according to my calculations, should be any minute now. “I love these new weapons,” Sophia whispers. “But they’re not shiny. They’re dirty.”

I stifle a laugh.

“They’re not supposed to be shiny,” I explain. “They have a matte finish so they won’t reflect light and give our position away.”

“Oh. Well, it’s nice to have real equipment to work with.”

“Tell me about it.” I check my optics one more time, tweaking the settings slightly. Waiting for the right moment. “They should be in position by now.”

Our forces are slowly surrounding the camp, and Chris has positioned snipers along the roof of the distribution center. We’ve got about a hundred troops with us tonight for this assaulting force– and that’s all we need. Surprise Omega, break the gates down, drive them back and let the prisoners out. We’re not necessarily here to provide food and shelter for the prisoners who escape. We’re just here to free them. The National Guard has supplies and first aid in place to administer help to the refugees, then we’ll be on our way.

I slide my radio off my belt, running my thumb over the hard surface of the equipment. Technology like this almost seems like magic after living without it for so long. I push the transmit button.

“This is Yankee One. Condition green,” I say quietly.

“Alpha One, copy that.” Chris’s voice. “Standby, Yankee.”

“This is so cool,” I grin.

Sophia chuckles.

“I know, right?”

“This is how things are supposed to be,” Alexander mutters.

My adrenaline isn’t pumping yet. I’m strangely calm. If anything, I’ve been dying to get out of Sector 20 and go on a mission. It feels good to be outside.

A bright white light suddenly flashes in front of me. I tense and shield my eyes, trying to figure out where the light is coming from. Because when you’re cloaked in total darkness, a sudden light source is the last thing you expect.

I lean my head to the left, staring at Sophia. A horrified expression crosses her face, and in her hand is a slim flashlight. She fumbles with it for a moment, her fingers shaking. The light flicks off, and in that moment somebody patrolling the outside of the fence looks up. He shouts. Two or three figures raise their weapons and open fire on the front of Carl’s Jr.

It happens that fast.

Any glass that’s left in the windows below shatter.

We’ve been compromised.

Heart racing, I grab my radio and contact Chris. The gunfire is ridiculously loud, making it almost impossible to hear anything on the radio.

“Alpha One,” I shout, “our position has been compromised!”

“What do we do?” Sophia yells.

“Standby and stay hidden!”

The radio crackles to life. I have to shove it up against my ear to hear Chris’s response. “Leave your position, Yankee,” Chris says. “Regroup and pull back.”

I tuck my rifle close to my chest and slide down the slope in the roof, stopping in a crouch near the gutter. “Come on, move it!” I shout to Sophia over the din of the gunfire. I swing myself off the roof, landing on the sidewalk. Sophia and Alexander quickly do the same. We round the backside of the building. By this time I’m furious.

“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “Why did you turn on a flashlight?!”

“It was an accident!” Sophia replies, on the verge of tears. “I’m not used to the new equipment.”

“Well, get used to it,” I snap. “That almost got us killed. And the mission has been compromised.”

I’m surprised at the venom in my voice. I’ve never gotten angry with Sophia before. Then again, I’ve never been in a situation like this before. My radio crackles.

“Yankee, what the hell is going on over there?” Chris asks.

“Our position has been compromised, over,” I repeat. “We need to abort.”

“Negative, Yankee. Proceed with the plan.”

“But…” I slam the radio back into its holster, knowing better than to argue over the radio. “Come on, guys! Let’s go.”

Alexander looks pleased with my command. We fall back from the building, making a dash across the street towards another abandoned business. This one is a former sushi house. From the roof of the distribution center, Chris’s sniper platoon opens fire. Because the Omega patrols are busy trying to figure out where we are, they’re taken completely by surprise by the sudden attack. Explosions detonate along the fence line, compliments of Max and Derek. A huge blast destroys the main gate. It’s the same old same old. The sound of warfare. The shriek of gunfire. The screaming, the panic. The taste of gunpowder in the air.

I use the gutter on the side of the sushi restaurant to haul myself up. I climb onto the roof, staking out in the corner. This is farther away than I’d like to be, but I’ll take what I can get. I lie down on my stomach, tuck my rifle against my shoulder and peek through the scope. Fire has erupted on the east side of the camp. Omega is switching on their generator-powered backup lights. It makes it easy for me to sight enemies, tracking them through my scope. Chris’s team of snipers is so well concealed that I can’t even see them from my vantage point on the roof.

Of course, he can’t see us, either.

As long as Sophia doesn’t turn on a spotlight again, we should be good.

Our National Guardsmen assaulters rush the blasted ruins of the front gate. It doesn’t take much for them to push through, since there’s not a lot of security and we’ve already taken them by surprise. The prisoners, taking advantage of the distraction, begin flooding out of the camp. I cover their escape, sniping any Omega soldier that starts shooting at them. Sophia and Alexander are doing the same thing, but I can tell that Sophia is rattled. Her mistake with the flashlight has shaken her up.

I’ll have to talk with her later.

Her hands are trembling on her weapon, and the color has drained from her face. She’s not merely scared – she’s embarrassed. I feel a pang of regret for yelling at her, then remember that it’s my job to keep my men disciplined. I can’t feel bad for doing something that keeps us alive a little longer than the bad guys.

One of Max’s detonations lights up the night sky no more than a hundred yards away from us. The force of the explosion is like a physical wall of heat. It slams into the sushi restaurant and washes over our heads. I duck down and cover my scalp with my hand instinctively, the heat singeing the tips of my hair.

Lucky I’m wearing a hat.

The flames lick at the edges of plastic bins and piles of trash, lighting trails along spilled gasoline and diesel. It doesn’t wander further than the edges of the parking lot, though. There’s not a lot to burn around here.

I hear a thud behind me and spin around, grabbing my handgun on my belt. An improvising – and unusually clever – Omega soldier has climbed up on the roof behind us. He’s got his weapon out, ready to kill the first person he sees. Which would be me, obviously.

I nail him in the chest. An unhesitating reaction – pure instinct now. But I quickly realize that I’ve made a mistake. He’s wearing a vest, and although the impact of the shot knocks him backwards, the bullet doesn’t penetrate the vest. I stay crouched, shoot again. This time I shoot at a slight angle, right in the weak spot: the armpit. A bulletproof vest can only cover so much.

It’s a clean shot. A perfect shot. He drops dead, the bullet probably cutting right through his heart, into his lungs. I swallow a gag. Killing people – regardless of whether or not they are enemy soldiers here to kill me – is difficult for me. Especially when I can see the look on their faces as they die. When I am a sniper, I’m killing from a distance. It sounds horrific – and it is – but I’m not as traumatized when the job is done in a detached way. It helps separate me from the death.

But up close there’s no escape. These are the faces I see when I sleep at night.

Well. Try to sleep.

Within minutes the prisoners are free and the Omega troops are either dead or wounded – or fled. Some of them ran away during the firefight. I climb down from the roof and approach the camp. Everything happened in a mad rush. A contained rush, but a rush nonetheless. Bloodstains and black smudge marks line the pavement. Sophia says nothing. Neither does Alexander.

I do a headcount of the men in my platoon. Everybody here? Good. I didn’t lose a single soldier. Great news, especially since it’s my first mission as a Lieutenant. A tall, lean young man with cropped black hair is standing at the back of my platoon. I don’t know his name. He’s holding his left arm, his hand covered in blood. Concerned, I walk up to him.

“What’s your name, soldier?” I ask.

“Andrew, Ma’am,” he replies, grimacing.

I look around for a field medic. They’re occupied with other soldiers that are more badly hurt. I roll up Andrew’s shirtsleeve. He’s been shot through the arm – looks like a clean wound, though. In and out. A flesh wound.

“You are a very lucky guy,” I murmur. “This didn’t even scrap bone.”

“If you say so, Ma’am,” he replies.

I flip my knife out of the pocket in my boot and cut away a strip of cloth at the bottom of my black undershirt. I’ve got a tiny emergency first aid kit on a pack nestled snugly on my back. I whip it around, unzip it, and open up some alcohol wipes. I swab the wound. He winces but doesn’t complain. I wrap his arm in clean bandages, tie the strip of cloth around that, and nod.

“You’re good to go,” I say. “Check in with the Medical Staff when we get to base.”

He smiles. It’s a kind, sweet smile.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he replies. “For everything.”

I’ve never known what to do with gratitude, so I just remain silent, zip up my little packet and sling it across my back. And I leave. I gather my platoon into one spot and watch as Chris approaches me through the crowd. He’s flushed. He’s mad.