Pillman nods, and both of us look up when the door to the company opens and a fresh-faced, scared-looking shavetail lieutenant walks in. “Uh . . . is this Delta Company?”
“It is,” I say, looking at his uniform. Second lieutenant, looking fresh out of Ranger school . . . did I look this scared out of my fucking mind when I walked in my first day? “You the new platoon leader?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” he says, seeing my rank. “Are you the XO?”
“Negative, I'm the guy you're replacing,” I tell him, offering my hand. “Aaron Simpson.”
“Matt Petersen,” he says, shaking. “I just got on post yesterday.”
“I can tell. You’ve still got your Ranger skinny to you,” I joke, looking at the way his ACUs hang on his shoulders. He's about thirty pounds under his weight when he bought them, that's for sure. “This here's Sergeant Petersen, your platoon sergeant for another week or so. If I can give you any advice, listen to him. He knows his shit, and he knows the Regulators. I don't envy you or your position, man, so good luck.”
I sign the last form for Pillman and hand him back his pen. “And that's it. Good luck, Sarge.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but we can't. There's just some things that a Sergeant and his Lieutenant can't say to each other. Like thank you, Sarge. You saved my ass a lot of times. Or that he's a hell of a man, and I'd be happy to share a beer with him some time. I want to say these things, but I can't.
Lieutenant Petersen, unaware of my situation, looks on like an eager puppy. We shake hands, and I grab my beret, heading for the door. “Hey, Lieutenant Simpson?”
“What's up?” I ask, opening the door and heading for the parking lot. “I'll be honest with you. I'm not in the unit anymore. I'm on transfer leave.”
“I got that, but . . . can you give me any advice about Captain Bradley? I heard he's a hard ass.”
I stop and look at him. He's a decent looking guy. He should do okay, and I don't want to fuck up his mindset. “You a West Pointer?”
“No . . . ROTC at UNLV. Why?”
“Then you'll do just fine, I think. Go by the book, trust your NCOs, and you'll be fine. Good luck, El Tee. The Regulators are yours.”
I spend the rest of the day sort of just drifting. I've cleared the last of my papers here on Bragg, and I even get a glimpse of Lindsey at work in uniform. She's dropping off some paperwork at the MP station at the same time I'm signing the form stating that I have no firearms or dangerous materials left on post. She's grim, but she controls herself well as I finish my work and leave. I wish I could talk to her, but I can’t. I can't trust that I could keep up the charade of just being the 'Big Brother' to her son.
I'm leaving the MP station when I hear someone call my name behind me, and I turn to see Pete Lemmon jogging toward me. “Yo, Aaron, wait up!”
I give him a salute—he is a Captain, after all—and he waves it off, grinning. “It's lunch time, man. Cut the shit between old Devils. Come on, let me buy you Burger King. You're going to be missing that shit, from what I hear.”
We drive over to the PX complex, where the line for Burger King isn't too bad, and we get our meals, Pete paying before I can pull out my wallet.
There's an open table by the window, and we sit down, Pete unwrapping his Whopper while I open my double barbecue bacon burger. “Thanks, Pete.”
“Not a problem, man. Besides, I didn't ask you to lunch just to fill your gut with some calories before the 'Stan,” he says with a shrug. “I did a rotation over there back in my platoon leader days. Don't trust anyone without an American flag patch on his shoulder, and you'll be fine.”
I bite into my burger, my stomach stretching. I know that I'm going to be eating crap for the next six months, and I've been indulging in every food that I'm going to miss. I don't expect to eat a real piece of pork for a long damn time. I like pork chops too, dammit!
“I plan to keep my head on a swivel,” I mumble, chewing the bacon and relishing it. The fine swine. I must remember it. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, what about?”
“That kid I'm the Big Brother for, Lance Morgan. His mom is in your company, right?” I ask, doing my best at keeping up the deception. Pete may be a former D-1 Devil, but he's also an MP officer, sworn to uphold the law as well as being a commissioned officer. I don't need to go there.
“Yeah, she works in the Battalion S-1 shop. You want me to keep an eye on them?”
I nod, grateful. And while I feel bad shading the truth with Pete, I'm not outright lying. “He's a good kid. And to be honest, it's going to really, really suck leaving him behind here. I . . . I've developed feelings for him.”
Pete chews his burger and nods. “Not a problem. You know I run my company like a family anyway. Like when I heard that you hung out at her house, I didn't do like your CO and throw a shit fit. What he did to you . . . it's bullshit, man.”
“Yeah, well, the Army runs on bullshit. You know that. After all, what else are officers for?”
Pete chews his burger, trying not to laugh. “Good point.”