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CHAPTER 20



A week later, they were back in their small, unassuming shop/office in a sixty-year-old building. It felt good, Kyle thought. Be it ever so decrepit, there’s no place like home. Far better than cargo aircraft, decks of ships, trucks in jungles, huts in jungles, or bare skies in jungles.

On the other hand, to be stuck here every day would be a sentence in hell. It was the contrast and variety that kept Kyle sane. You had to leave to know how good home was.

The stop in Germany had been far too brief. They wanted him at a Stateside hospital for follow-up tests that showed nothing. That was the military. Afraid he’d develop something lasting they’d have to pay for. They’d concluded it was minor, would heal quickly, and posed no long-term threat. So he didn’t get any German beer or sausage. They weren’t popular with Janie, either. She’d spent half the night snuggled up to him in her waterbed, sobbing in relief and clinging. The other half, she’d been incredibly passionate. He could still feel her hair and skin touching him, her hands. It was good to be missed, and to be welcome home. But he wasn’t about to credit the Army with that.

He sat at his desk, perfectly arranged with the pile of magazines and tech manuals on the left, phone on the right, miscellaneous junk on the shelf above the monitor and cutouts from the Beetle Bailey comic strip on the wall. It looked like a mess to anyone else, but everything he needed was at arm’s reach. That was helpful. His foot throbbed even when elevated and despite lots of Motrin. He wouldn’t be walking much for the next week.

The in-box was stuffed, of course. Between receipts for all the material and paperwork they’d handled so far, and routine memoranda, the stack was inches high. Same for email. Some soldiers could never get over the amateur habit of replying-all to acknowledge a letter. Some people felt compelled to report every minor event. Still others sent out jokes that were appreciated by most but triggered a wave of responses. Kyle groaned and started deleting, reading, filing, sorting, and signing. Wade followed suit at his desk, which was much neater, even obsessively so. Neither spoke much, though the occasional sharp tap on a keyboard indicated satisfaction or frustration with die load.

“Wiesinger returned most of the cash upon reporting back,” Wade said.

“Figures. So Bakri got his trucks repaired in exchange for hospitality, food, lots of hours, risk to self, seven of his men dead, and a price on his head. Such a deal.”

“Nothing we can do now, man.”

“No,” Kyle agreed. It sucked. Get over it. He wished he’d handed a bunch over while in charge, but he’d been focused on the attack.

He received an email from someone in intel. He read it.

“They think they got him!” he announced to Wade.

“Who?”

“Some scumbag who goes—went—by ‘Agung,’ who was the probable party behind the explosive shipments was probably one of the ones the Kopassus killed in the raid. And we got the imam . . . so we may have batted a thousand.”

“Will we ever know for sure?” Wade asked.

“Probably not. It’s all extracted data.”

“So don’t sweat it, Kyle. We did our job, we came back in one piece, we saved a lot of people. Let the intel wienies worry about it.”

“I guess so,” Kyle agreed. It made sense. But, dammit, he wanted to know. That was the point of the scope to him; to be sure he got the kill.

But that was a rare situation. Guys in Iraq and ’Nam had swapped fire daily and never known if they hit anything. So he’d take the probable and be happy.

It was 1530, a half hour from the end of the duty day, when Wade snagged another document from the box and stared for a moment.

“Hey, check this out,” he said. He waved two sheets of unit stationery.

“Whatcha got?” Kyle asked.

“We are each getting an Arcom for ‘supporting the operation,’ per Wiesinger. ”

Both of the last missions had been Bronze Stars With Combat V for valor. For this one, they were credited with “support,” and getting an Army Commendation Medal, akin to that given to people who volunteered for deployments to Germany or Turkey to support the war.

Kyle was a professional. He didn’t really care about the medals save as markers to point to his record. The acts spoke for themselves. Nevertheless, to see Wade and himself credited with so little was a slap in the face.

“So what did Weaselface put himself in for?” Kyle asked.

“A Silver Star.”

“Shit.”

“It was downgraded to Bronze, but yeah. Asshole.” Wade’s usual relaxed demeanor was dark.

“Well, we’re still alive, the mission’s a success, and we saved some civilians including a little girl. I say we call it even.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“No. But Robash is healthy again and we’ll have things back to as normal as they ever get next time. Meanwhile, he might sort this out. You and I know what we did.”

“Right.” Wade sounded more than a bit disgruntled. Kyle knew it wasn’t the Arcom that bothered him. It was the Bronze Star for Wiesinger.

“Hey, buddy,” Kyle said, standing and coming to attention, facing Wade. Wade stood and faced him, looking curious.

“You’re the finest spotter and shooter I could ever be teamed with. Wiesinger may not say it, but I will. You rock.” And he raised his hand in salute.

Wade snapped to attention that would credit him on parade and popped his own arm up. “Means more from you than any medal he can ever award, buddy. Thanks.” The look in his eyes was probably a match for Kyle’s own.

They both dropped back to attention, then relaxed again. It was a close moment, but also an embarrassing one, with the circumstances behind it.

“Screw it. Let’s get my girlfriend and go watch civilian chicks dance without any fear of being blown up.” He indicated the door.

“Sounds good. You’re buying,” Wade agreed, cheerful again.

“How come I always wind up buying?”

“If you don’t know . . .”

It turned to friendly shoves as they headed out the door.


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Framed