SUSAN LUTE

Hands under her armpits pulled Gunnery Sergeant Jane Donovan back from the hard surface mashing her face. Through a haze of alcohol, she heard her Corporal’s voice amidst the sounds of the bar. “Come on, Gunny. It’s time to hit the sack.”

The disembodied words were filled with patience and something else. Pity. Jane swore. That was the last thing she wanted.

Easy anger flicked to life. The same anger she’d taken such pains to obliterate with the alcohol clogging her brain so she wouldn’t remember.

Twisting away from the hands helping her into a nearby chair, She banged her fist on the table. Her vision cleared for a brief moment.

Corporal? She vigilantly searched her intoxicated memory. Yeah...Johnson.

“Johnson. I need a drink. Have a drink with me.” She recognized the slurring, thick voice as her own, but just didn’t give a damn. All that mattered was making the searing memories go away. “Come on...buy you a drink.”

“No, Ma'am. I have orders to take you home and then escort you to a meeting with the CO at oh-seven-hundred.”

Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Anger pushed her beyond any oblivion the alcohol had provided. “Not going anywhere.”

Lashing out, she aimed a fist at the Corporal’s chin. It took too much effort to bust the young Marine down to size. When he easily stepped out of reach, she over compensated, twisting awkwardly, the mind-numbing stab to her hip a cruel reminder of why she was trying to drink herself into a stupor in the first place.

When the killer pain finally evaporated, she was lying on the NCO Club floor, staring at shined-to-perfection dress shoes.

“Okay. Let’s get you home.”

No fight left, she gave in to the hands lifting her, allowing the blackness nipping her heals to catch up.

Five hours later, Jane roused, flat on her back, staring at the bedroom ceiling as drums in her head synchronized with the pulsing throb of her miscreant hip. A battering sense of loss stirred up nausea in her stomach.

She’d been dreaming of that awful day again. The drum roll increased proportionately with the bitter anguish that never went away, no matter how often she drowned herself in booze.

Maybe, if she lay perfectly still, the piercing pain of her failure would disappear...for just one damn moment.

It didn’t. The pounding in her head got louder.

“Gunnery Sergeant. It’s oh-six-hundred.”

Corporal Johnson. A vague memory of trying to knock the Corporal’s lights out sent a wash of shame and regret over Jane, compounding the bleakness that was her constant companion.

“Go away, Johnson. That’s an order.” Her voice croaked dryly, evidence the amount of whiskey she’d consumed was not particularly compatible with human tissue or sanity.

The bedroom door cracked open. Johnson bravely stuck his head through the opening. “I have orders from the CO. You’re to report to him at oh-seven-hundred.”

Jane groaned, rolled onto her stomach, the better to block out the Corporal’s baby face with his you’re-my-superior-so-I-won’t-sit-in-judgment-of-you expression. Well, the kid should pass judgment. She certainly judged herself guilty. She’d failed to do her duty. There was no way to go back and change that day now.

“Go make coffee. I don’t need you to hold my hand while I shower.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Before the bedroom door closed, she called the young man back. “Johnson?”

“Yes, Ma'am?”

“I’m sorry about last night.”

For the first time, the junior Marine smiled. “No problem, Ma'am. You didn’t even come close.”

Grimacing when the soft click hid the Corporal’s cocky grin, she carefully maneuvered to a sitting position. The pounding in her head combined with the pain in her hip as if competing in a wild disco dance contest. Her roiling stomach desperately attempted to keep up.

Battling her unstable gut, she dropped her aching head into shaking hands, and took slow deep breaths. One step at a time, she bleakly advised her battered body. That had been the best she could do since waking in a Turkish Military Hospital.

A cold shower and three strong, black coffees later, she was on her way to see her CO. Medication dulled the abuse from the night before, and her body's response to the injuries that still hadn't completely healed. Sunglasses protected burning eyes from the sharp southern sun. Her watchdog, Corporal Johnson, acted as chauffeur.

Colonel Hawke motioned for them to enter. The lifer Marine was as lean and fierce as his name. A frown etched his sharp features, his pen tapping against the papers stacked in neat piles on the utilitarian desk.

“That will be all, Corporal.”

“Yes, Sir.” His expression stoic, Johnson quietly exited the austere room.

“I don't need a babysitter,” she growled at the man who had been more of a mentor than Commander over the last five years.

“I'll be the judge of that. Have a seat, Gunny.”

Grateful for the respite offered her aching hip more than she was interested in obeying orders, Jane did as she was ordered. There wasn’t much the Colonel could say that she hadn’t already figured out for herself.

Hawke’s scowl morphed into a frown. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

The night before all hell broke lose. She turned surly to hide the uneasiness joining the nausea in her stomach. “My eating habits aren’t your problem, Sir.”

“You are my problem, Gunny.” Any softness in the Colonel’s stern expression disappeared. He leaned on his arms, hands clasped on a file she presumed was hers. “You’re a grenade ready to self destruct. Drinking too much. Starting brawls in bars.”

Putting steel in her spine, she pinned her gaze to the left of the Colonel’s head. Outside the sparkling clear window, an early summer day sparkled with sunlight, but she had no appreciation or appetite for the illusion of pastoral peace.

Filling her vision was a bomb strapped to a child's chest.

“Yes, Sir.”

“That boy's death was not your fault. We have people who can help you deal with this.”

“I don’t need help, Sir.” She'd spent uncountable months, first in a Turkish hospital, then when her condition allowed traveling, at Bethesda Naval Hospital, talking to shrinks and counselors. Nobody had been able to “fix” the broken Marine.

The Colonel's tone took on a hard edge. “You've got new orders, Gunny.”

Jane's scattered attention snapped back to Hawke’s narrowed gaze. “Sir?”

“You're to report to Eagle's Outpost in Oregon for special assignment. Your orders are to get well, physically and emotionally.”

Uncontrolled anger slammed into Jane. For the first time in her military career she considered disobeying a direct order.

Before she could mutiny, Colonel Hawke's uncompromising stare told her this assignment was not negotiable. “If you don’t go, I will bust your ass right out of the Corps.”