a/n: I hope to have the final chapter of my story Coulda etc up on my blog tomorrow, or late tonight. 2.10.13. check it out?
Shelter from the Storm
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Chapter 53 ~ Sidelined
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Washington DC, The Pentagon
[Ranger]
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General Jackass, not General XXX the good one, this is the other guy— says, "This operation entails infiltrating the Colombian cartels' cocaine production sites."
"Refineries," elaborates one of the drones who hover around the general.
"And shipping routes," adds another guy. They look expectantly at me and Tank.
Oh man, this is just waaaay too easy.
I put my boots up on General Jackass's cheap metal military issue desk and say, "No, sorry. Can't do it. I've been sidelined with an injury."
General JA scoffs. "I thought you were such a man of iron, Manoso—man of steel. You're not some overpaid baseball player, Colonel."
No but I still wish...nevermind.
Hey, a man can dream, right?
"I got shot, General. Just the other day." I stand up and pull my RMPMC-USA t-shirt out of my faded light desert camo combats, start to pull it up. The black t-shirt with the big grey lettering and the grey American flag hides any bleed through. (The function of the shirts, besides hiding dirt and blood, is so that my men are easily identified as military contractors in the field. After the incident where Jackass got us all on CNN, yes, again!, Seventh Avenue knocked the shirts off and they sell for a hundred, two hundred bucks on eBay. Like Steph says, it's not my fault.)
I drag my t-shirt up to my armpits and say, "Wanna see?" They gape at the blood splotched white patch of gauze on my abdomen. The large non-NATO-approved, armor-piercing round went through the muscles above my hipbone, missed anything crucial. However— "That's not the best part. The exit wound is the size of a grapefruit." I turn and display the much larger bandage on my lower back.
Someone gasps and a tray of glassware crashes to the floor. I wipe the grin off my face, pull my shirt down, and walk out.
In the hall Tank says, "That was disgusting."
I stare him down. "Did you want to go to Colombia and chase down HCL-coke labs? You can still volunteer."
"No but you didn't have to give them a strip show, boss. This is the Pentagon, not Chippendale's"
I decide not to inquire about his familiarity with Chippendale's, famous for its beefcake male strippers.
I say, "I enjoyed it."
"Huh."
... ... ...
later, Trenton
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"Daddydaddydaddyyy!"
Oomph. My five year old daughter Zoë crashes into me and I know I turn white—not pale: ghost white. The room spins a bit. Not only am I injured, that large exit wound seeped out a few pints of blood. I refused both a transfusion and the good pain meds, so even Zoë's little forty pound body, hitting me at warp speed, is painful. Very painful.
I wobble, cover by lifting her into my arms and swinging her around. Tank gets a good grip on my bicep and steers me to the sofa. I plop down gracelessly with Zoë on my lap.
"Daddy!" She plants a big wet smooch on my cheek. I kiss her back and pat Killer-the-pug who has waddled out to greet me too.
"Yeah, baby?"
"We are going to the museum, remember?"
"Ah..."
"The Cradle of Aviation Museum! It is in New York!"
I try to figure out how New York could be a cradle of aviation. Weren't the Wright Brothers from, I don't know, North Carolina? Vaguely I wish Anthony was here; he'd know all the historic details.
Lindbergh, supplies my stealth brother, who'd been keeping an eye on me and my injuries.
"It is our almost springtime class trip, daddy! We are going on a loooong bus ride. And we will have movies and songs and games and, and, and, a competition, it's a treasure hunt at the place where we're going! And a box for lunch! And maybe, you know, Kool-Aid?"
Huh? I mumble, "No Kool-Aid!" but she ignores me.
Tank says, "Box lunch, Zoë, like a picnic."
She smiles at him and nods. "The bus has a bathroom!"
Thank God. Or maybe: not?
"And when we get there we will see many many many air-o-planes." She throws out her arms and does the airplane zooming thing, still seated on my lap. I'm pretty sure I've left white and gone on to grey. The room wavers a little.
"So—you're gonna go with us, right, daddy?"
"Ah..."
"Daddy! You said! You said if you got home you will be the parent-person instead of Monster and Uncle Lester. You promised."
"Shhhh, baby. Give your dad a minute, okay?" I hide my sigh but I think she feels it or her ESP is kicking in because she looks me in the eyes really closely, seeing into poor Daddy's black black soul. I block her and wonder why they want to drag little tiny near-toddlers all the way to NYC to see airplanes. It's beyond my comprehension. It's not like the zoo where the animals are cute and cuddly. And it's winter. They'll be lucky if it doesn't freakin' snow.
I give Zoë a little hug and stare into her big brown eyes. Saying no to my daughter is a lot harder than saying no to General Jackass.
"Are you gonna puke, daddy?"
"No." I hope not. Not right now.
Tank finally says hesitantly, "Zoë, sweetie..."
She turns her head to him and her lip wobbles. Tank meets my less than focused eyes over her head and he caves. He says, "Can I go too, honey? It sounds like fun."
She smiles, nods, hugs me (I wince discreetly) then hugs Tank. Lucky for me, Tank always has my back. And he kindly doesn't mention cocaine wars or Colombia which is looking greener and prettier with every passing second.
I can do this. I will do this.
I say nothing, just give him a tiny nod.
Tank nods back.
the end, series tbc
The Cradle of Aviation Museum, Long Island, NY
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