Cut him some slack, would you?”
“Well, there’s processing to get better, and then there’s processing to get back to where you started,” Weicholz commented while filling out Key’s chart.
“Hey, it’s a miracle he’s still alive,” Key said. “The blowback from his grenade launcher alone should have perforated him.”
Weicholz stood and looked down at his patient with caring concern. “It’s a miracle you’re both still alive. Honestly, Joe, I don’t know why you put up with his, shall I say, somewhat Neanderthal approach to life.”
Key nodded knowingly. “Because, as you now know, doc, I wouldn’t be here without him. Right?”
Weicholz couldn’t argue the point, marveling again at Key’s equilibrium, especially after what he had recently been through. He could only attribute it to the calming influence of the post-concussion and detonation response.
“Right,” he finally agreed, taking a second to reconsider his reaction. “Okay, I could’ve done without his crude fairy tale, but his parting advice was solid. Rest and recover, Corporal. That’s an order.”
Key gave the doctor a mild salute. “Yes, sir,” he said, then returned to his recuperation stupor. It was so thick that the doc was almost out the door before Key thought to call out. “Hey, any word on when I can get back to the unit?” But Weicholz was already gone.
Key stared vacantly out the ward’s window, trying not to think of anything: not his brush with death, not what now seemed to be “his” unit, and especially not what happened to everyone else in the 3rd. But, try as he might, he couldn’t help wondering what he was doing in the Seth Michaud Emergency Medical and Dental Facility at Camp Lemonnier, in Djibouti on the horn of Africa.
Sure, it was directly due west, across the Bab al-Mandab Strait, from Shabhut, Aden, in Yemen, but there had to be at least two aircraft carriers in or near the Strait that were closer, and even better equipped to deal with wounds both physical and psychological. Coming to Lemmonier couldn’t have been Daniels’s decision. Nothing Morty liked better than hitching a ride on a carrier.
“Corporal Josiah Key?”
He turned his head and instantly guessed that the speaker had something to do with it. Standing in the hospital room doorway was a blonde woman whose blue eyes could be appreciated even from this distance. So could the rest of her, which was amply evidenced by Morty Daniels, who was standing right behind her, much in the way, Key imagined, that the wolf stood behind Little Red Riding Hood.
“Yes,” Key replied to her unnecessary question. He had little doubt that the file she was carrying had everything there was to know about him, probably going back to kindergarten.
She nodded, with a small smile of accomplishment, then started walking toward his bed. None of the new gender-neutral uniforms for her. Her service uniform of cap, coat, skirt, and even the one-inch black pumps looked tailored to her with a laser measuring device. But the thing that stood out to Key was the gold second lieutenant bar insignia on her garrison cap and shirt collars. That meant she outranked him, even if the field promotion Daniels had cracked wise about was true.
Only then did Key note the wave of eyes that followed the Second Louie across the room like dandelion seeds following the breeze. They were mirrored by Daniels, who trailed her like a devoted hound, only his eyes were transmitting different information: five-seven, a hundred and twenty pounds; thirty-six, twenty-five, thirty-six…
“Good morning, Corporal,” she said, putting out her hand. “I’m Second Lieutenant Barbara Strenkofski. I’ll be supervising your debriefing.”
She pulled over a metal chair with green seat padding and sat down beside his bed, at the same moment Daniels pulled out the neighboring bed’s chair and sat opposite her, with a look of excited expectation on his face. Key looked at him like the endlessly patient owner of a naughty puppy, then turned his calm gaze to the Second Louie.
“I thought I was already debriefed,” he told her. “I wrote a thorough report—”
“Which I have right here,” she said briskly, holding up the file. “Perhaps debriefing was not a wholly accurate term. Consider this more of a personal follow-up.”
“Personal follow-up,” they heard Daniels snigger before he leaned in with eager anticipation. “I haven’t been debriefed, ma’am. You can debrief me.”
There was a moment of silence before Strenkofski slowly looked down and, just as slowly, opened the file. She seemed to be reading, then, without looking up, spoke coolly. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Morton L. Daniels, ma’am.”
“Yes. I see you are mentioned in Corporal Key’s report.”
“Mentioned?” Daniels looked at his bedridden friend with a slight look of hurt on his face.
“Yes,” Strenkofski said again, same tone as before, without looking up. She didn’t speak until she did look up several moments later. By then the chill of her tone and attitude was just reaching Daniels. “You will be debriefed in good time, Sergeant. Until then, I would appreciate it if you could afford Corporal Key and me a little privacy.
Daniels nodded, smiling, until he processed her actual words. Then, continuing the canine analogies, straightened like a puppy who had been tapped on the nose by a rolled-up newspaper for the first time.
“What? Oh, sure. I mean, yes sir, um, I mean ma’am. Sure.” He hastily got up, slid the chair back to the next bed, and started for the door before stopping by the end of the mattress. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Joe.”
“Yes,” Key said with humorous pity. “I know, Morty. Thanks. I believe I can handle it from here.”
Daniels almost got to the door when Strenkofski called out. “Sergeant?”
Daniels stopped on a dime, and made a sharp turn. “Yes, ma’am,” he said expectedly.
“What’s the ‘L’ for?”
Daniels looked at her blankly. “‘L,’ ma’am?”
“In your name,” she said patiently, giving him a look that would cool soup.
“My name? Oh. Oh, yeah.” Daniels’ expression fell a little. “Leonard, ma’am.”
Strenkofski turned her head away, as if in disappointment. “I figured it would be something like that. Thank you Sergeant. We’ll be in touch shortly.”
Daniels left the room with his figurative tail between his literal legs. When the blonde officer’s satisfied face returned to Key, he was looking at her with amused disapproval. “I appreciate your, no doubt, hard-earned coping skills, ma’am, but watching a top cat play with a trapped mouse isn’t always the most enjoyable thing.”
Strenkofski looked at him evenly. “No regrets, Corporal.” Her eyes returned to the report. “His kind makes me tired.”
Key studied her as she read. Dropping this ice princess into the African horn was the opposite of dropping a cockroach on a wedding cake. Either way, no one would miss the contrast.
“Personal follow-ups can be tiring too, Lieutenant,” he said carefully. “What can I do for you?”
She didn’t look up, nor react to his mild insubordination—both actions convincing Key that his and her presence here was above and beyond the call of due process. “Your report says something that concerned you about Lieutenant Colonel Goodman’s death.”
“Yeah,” Key said. “It was the last second before the concussion symptoms began taking over. It was the only thing I could be certain of.” He waited until she looked back up at him before continuing. “I’ve spent my life and career distinguishing between flesh and bone exploding from the force of ordnance, and flesh and bone exploding from…other sources.”
Suddenly she didn’t feel