Close Protection - ebook

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

This is a work of fiction, and I took certain liberties in terms of the settings of a military base. I also apologize in advance for any inconsistencies, especially regarding military jargon.

In the time I spent overseas (as a civilian), I met many fantastic people who served or worked for the military. They are my friends forever, and I will always carry them in my heart. And while this story is personal on many levels, spoiler alert—none of my personal stories are portrayed here.

It’s all fiction, folks.

Except for the old Canadian who loved peculiar things, and the bunnies in the garden.

They were real, scout’s honor.

Happy reading.

~Agata

ps. Dear Civilian, I added a glossary of military terms and abbreviations at the end for your convenience.PLAYLIST

- “Irreplaceable” by Beyoncé
- “Love Is In The Air” by John Paul Young
- “Rock the Casbah” by the Clash
- “B.Y.O.B.” by System of a Down
- “Uptown Funk” by Mark Ronson ft. Bruno Mars
- “Mad World” by Tears for Fears
- “Play With Fire (feat. Valerie Broussard)” by AG
- “The Goonies ‘R’ Good Enough” by Cyndi Lauper
- “Happy” by Pharrell Williams’s
- “To Young To Die” by Jamiroquai
- “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler
- “Cocaine” by Eric Clapton
- “Just The Way You Are” by Bruno Mars
- “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins
- “Epic” by Faith No More
- “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga
- “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machine
- “Take Me to Church” by Hozier
- “Indestructible” by Disturbed
- “If I Ain’t Got You” by Alicia Keys
- “Bahama Mama” by Boney M.ONE

“The storm’s coming.”

I look up at the woman who just entered the breakroom. “Pardon me?”

“I said the storm is coming. The weather alert just came in.”

“No way, another one?”

“Yep.” Maureen drops into the chair next to mine. “Whatcha having?”

“Just yogurt. Want one? I have an extra,” I offer.

“Nah, I don’t have a two-sizes-too-small wedding dress to fit into. I need something substantial.” She gets up and walks to the fridge. “How do you think Billy would taste?” she says, smiling coquettishly and shaking a sandwich wrapped in paper with _Billy_ written in big red letters.

“You know Billy, he’s⁠—”

“Yummy,” she singsongs.

Married, I wanted to say. And a colonel high in our chain of command, which makes him especially off-limits.

“Oh, Rebekah, I’d take a bite of him anytime. Mwah.” Maureen smooches the wrapper and returns Billy’s lunch to the fridge. “Any big plans for tonight?”

“Nah, Jay’s working late.”

“Again?” Maureen grabs a mug from the rack and sets it on the coffee machine.

I sigh. “Honeymoons of your dreams don’t pay for themselves.” Oh, wow. We’re not even married yet and I already sound like him.

“I guess not,” she says, pressing the power button. “At least have some crazy Valentine’s sex when he finally comes home.”

I blush. “Maureen!” My protest is drowned out by the loud whir of the coffee maker. Maureen’s one of those people who rarely holds back a comment, which lands her in trouble more often than not. Regardless, she’s my closest work friend, if not the only one.

After the machine silences, she sits down across from me and blows on the hot liquid in her mug. “I simply adore you, Rebekah, do you know that?”

“Whatever.” I clear my throat. “How’s the pre-deployment training going?”

“Boring,” she says, rolling her eyes and setting the cup on the table. “I’ve learned nothing that I didn’t already know. Cultural advisers, my ass. Talking about honor and hospitality instead of explaining political inclinations or their fucked-up history.” She gestures vigorously and shakes her head, clearly upset. “This mission has been going on for almost two decades already, with no end in sight. As of today, it’s the third longest war in our history. And let’s not forget that they endured centuries of conflict before that. Centuries. I can’t wait to get there and, you know, meet the real locals. Oh, I’m so excited.”

“One more month, huh?”

“Yep. Can’t wait!” Her phone beeps and she taps the screen. “Yes! The email just came. We’re dismissed.” She gets up and dumps her coffee into the sink. “Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. See you tomorrow or whenever the storm clears.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” I wave at her as she disappears.

I’m wiping the table clean when Maureen sticks her head back through the crack in the door. “And _Captain_? Congrats on the promotion.”

I open my mouth to say that it will be weeks before I get to wear the extra bar so she shouldn’t be calling me captain just yet, but before I can correct her, she’s gone, and the door to the breakroom shuts behind her.

Walking back to my office, I look out the window. The day is unusually sunny. It doesn’t look like a storm at all.

Sitting in traffic, the car warm, I watch the first snowflakes dance in the air. If the reports are accurate, it’s going to be a long night. The last time a storm of such magnitude passed through, we lost power for hours.

Jay was right after all. I chuckle. For weeks, I was upset about how he wouldn’t commit to making a restaurant reservation for Valentine’s Day, blaming it on his hectic work schedule, but now I’m glad—we would’ve had to cancel anyway. Exactly as he predicted.

But with the storm approaching, maybe Jay will be able to leave his office early too? I smile and flick on my turn signal. A little detour won’t hurt, I’m still ahead of the storm. Snow or no snow, people have to eat, so I might as well celebrate our love with a nice homemade meal. Something Jay likes. And if the power goes out, we’ll have the perfect setting for a romantic Valentine’s dinner. And maybe something more, not that I’ll be telling Maureen about it.

The fancy grocery store is strangely busy at this early hour. A distorted electronic cover of Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable” plays on the speakers and sends shivers up my spine. Not the pleasant kind. Tuning out the music, I hurry between aisles and focus on reading labels.

I grab a package of homemade pasta, a cluster of ripe red tomatoes that still smell like summer in the middle of February, fresh parmesan, and a pound of fresh shrimp to make Jay’s favorite dinner. With my military salary, I can rarely afford any luxuries, but it’s a special day, so I grab a bottle of expensive Merlot, also Jay’s favorite.

Excitement builds in my chest, little sparks of anticipation erupting and lifting the corners of my mouth.

There’s a gigantic candle display by the cashier, and I pick five different-sized spheres, all red—a lovely red-wine color, not some cheap pinkish red—and carefully search for any scratches or discolorations.

I add the five perfect candles to my basket, the weight acting as a promise—tonight will be perfect.

Lonely flakes no more—thick, fat snow already covers my windshield when I emerge from the store, frost biting my nose and flushed cheeks.

I merge into thickening traffic. “Love Is In The Air” comes on the radio, and I can’t help but sing along, allowing myself to be drawn deeper into the Valentine’s Day spirit.

Our elderly neighbor holds the front door open for me.

“Mr. Herman, how are you doing today?”

“Oh, Miss Rebekah, how are you? They say there’s another storm coming, huh? We just had one last week. Such unusual weather these past few years.”

“I guess it is. Stay safe,” I say and hurry up the stairs.

“You too, darling, you too,” he shouts after me.

I maneuver the paper bag and wine bottle into one hand before pushing my key into the apartment door, already imagining how to arrange the candles into a centerpiece on the table. Not the kitchen table, no. I’ll set the dining room table, which rarely gets used. It’s reserved for special occasions. My thoughts make me smile.

I brush against a flashy red purse sitting on the console by the door when I drop my keys into the leather organizer next to Jay’s keys and wallet. My smile turns into a grin—I’ll have to pretend I haven’t seen it when he presents it to me later as my Valentine’s gift. Not that I have anything to wear it with, but it must have been expensive. It’s the thought that counts, after all.

I pass the living room doors and continue toward the kitchen, holding the grocery bag against my chest. A movement to the right catches my eye and forces me to stop. A woman sways on my bed—her red hair cascading over her naked back.

Red and juicy like the tomatoes I just bought.

I want to look away, but the connection between my brain and the rest of my body has been severed.

It takes me several seconds to associate her movements with what’s happening. I’m frozen in place, breathless as if someone punched me in the solar plexus.

I startle at the sound of glass shattering on the tile at my feet. The wine bottle must have slipped out of my hand. My lips part and my throat produces a feeble whimper.

It’s either that or the breaking glass that makes the woman turn around. I register her eyes—wide and smoky—and the red lipstick smudged on her cheek.

Her lips are moving now, I notice, but my ears seem filled with cotton balls all of a sudden, and I can’t distinguish the words.

She hastens to leave, her naked, perfectly oval breasts bouncing as she pulls a dress over her head.

“Becky?” Jay’s voice pierces the fog, and I finally look down, embarrassed. A pool of red liquid creeps into the bedroom, darkening the carpet. _Like indelible ink_.

“E-e-excuse me,” a female voice says.

Lifting my head, I move out of her way. She passes me and jerks the expensive red purse—her purse—from the console by the door, her other hand already on the door handle.

The contents of her bag spill out, among them a symbol of elegance—a distinctive square perfume bottle with a white square label and black letters. It hits the floor and bounces in slow motion, mesmerizing me, and comes to rest by the toe of my shoe. I back away. Dropping to her knees, the redhead gathers her belongings with chaotic movements and stuffs them into her bag.

She finally runs out the door, leaving behind the sickening scent of her perfume mixed with fermented grapes—the smell of betrayal, not elegance.

I dimly register the sight of round crimson candles rolling across the white floor.

Jay’s voice seems to come from a distance. “Baby⁠—”

“Good luck scrubbing off the wax stains. These tiles are hell to clean.” I grab my car keys and walk out the door.

Bile rises in my throat as I descend the stairs, and I leave the contents of my stomach on the sidewalk before climbing into my car and driving away into the thickening snow.

The storm has come.TWO

Looking at the screen of my phone, I swallow hard, my eyes achy from tears.

White letters glow against the dark wallpaper. _May Twelfth, Saturday_.

The day I’ve been planning for almost a year has come.

The dress—my parents’ expensive contribution to their only daughter’s big day—classy and tasteful, made from French corded lace with beige lining and a mermaid hem with a train.

The flowers, a simple bouquet of creamy spray roses, tied with beige ribbon. My best friend and only bridesmaid’s design.

An intimate exchange of _I Do_ at city hall. Just us, our families, and a handful of our closest friends.

Then my dream come true—ride in a powder blue classic cabriolet Cadillac. That’s how I planned for us to get to the dinner at the fancy country club, courtesy of Jay’s parents who were members.

Looking in the small mirror on the inside of my wardrobe door, I take a deep breath and press the name tag—_Fisher_—to the velcro above my right breast. The other patch, my captain bars, goes in the middle of my chest. “You’re going to be fine,” I whisper to my reflection, ignoring the red rings around my puffy eyes. I fix my patrol cap on my head and leave the barracks.

The sun blinds me and forces my eyes shut. I stand still, expecting to be hit with the usual sensory overload—the early morning sniff of the jasmine bush that blossoms by the sidewalk, the taste of fresh air, the sounds of kids playing on the playground around the corner.

But I get none of it.

Instead, I slowly open my eyes and breathe in the thick air, always buzzing and irritating my senses. The smell of fumes choking the city behind the wall, the taste of the acrid flour-like dust stuck on my palate, the wavering crowd of uniformed humans speaking different languages as if we’re inside some forsaken mythical Tower of Babel.

The pulsating whoosh of helicopter blades cuts through the air, and I move on.

The office is quiet and cool and smells like freshly made coffee. Finally, something familiar and comforting.

Only Corporal McClain sits at his desk. “Captain,” he greets me.

“Corporal.” I walk straight to the coffee maker in the corner and grab the decanter. “How are you?”

“Good, what about you?”

“I’m fine.” My lie stings the back of my throat, and I swallow, forcing the truth down.

As I’m placing the glass carafe back on the warming plate, McClain gets up, an empty mug in his hand. “Are you okay, Captain?” He leans in but stops at a respectable distance.

“Got some bad news from home, but I’m okay.” Another lie. I subconsciously rub the empty spot on my ring finger.

“If you ever wanna talk, I’m here.” He nods toward his desk, which is next to mine.

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I say truthfully.

He’s like a friendly bear, tall with short red hair and a round, kind face. I’d like nothing more than to hug him, bury my face against his broad shoulder and cry, but it’s not going to happen. Not here.

I look at his left hand. My throat closes, and I fight to gulp down the rising wave of grief. Of sadness. Self-pity.

He wears a silicone band that soldiers often wear as a replacement for their normal wedding rings during deployment.

Under his watchful gaze, I fight my internal battle for a few more seconds, but I end up losing. My eyes fill with tears. I flutter my eyelashes repeatedly to stop them from falling, but they spill down my cheeks unbidden. Hot, round, salty.

“I’m sorry.” I sob. “This is so unprofessional.”

“Screw unprofessional, what happened?” McClain steps closer and touches my arm. “Talk to me.” His warm, inviting hazel eyes match the friendly aura he always carries.

“It was supposed to be today,” I sniff. “I was supposed to get married.”

“Oh, and you deployed?”

“No, I caught my fiancé cheating.”

His eyes widen, and there’s a pause before he speaks again. “Damn, that’s tough. I’m so sorry. Do you need a hug?”

“Yes, please,” I whisper and let him embrace me.

Even though I shouldn’t.

But I’m in urgent need of human contact. Desperate times and all that.

We stand still for a while, McClain rubbing my back in a friendly gesture.

“Thank you.” I finally step back and wipe my eyes dry with the sleeve of my uniform.

“Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Shaking my head, I give him a sad smile. “No, but thanks.”

“Okay.” McClain nods. “Then we can work on the report from the meeting. Or would you rather take some time off?”

“The report, definitely. I need something to focus on other than obsessing over my failures.” That’s practically all I’ve done for the last twelve weeks. Work has been my only distraction—a very welcome distraction.

McClain takes a deep breath and seems to consider his thoughts carefully before speaking. “Listen, Captain, I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but that guy’s an idiot. He’s a failure, not you.”

I snort. “Thanks. And Fisher’s enough.” I extend my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Fisher.” He finally smiles back and we shake hands.

We’ve been working together every day since I arrived in the theater over a month ago, but the invisible barrier between officer and soldier was always in the way.

Until today.

“Nice to meet you too, McClain.” Maybe it will be a good day after all. The day I make my first friend on deployment. “Have you had a chance to look at the draft?” I ask.

“Mmhmm.” He nods and we walk toward our desks pushed against the opposite wall, steaming coffee cups in our hands. “It lacks atmospherics.”

“What do you mean?” The cogs in my analytical brain begin to turn, like an airplane’s engine before takeoff.

“For example, did you notice there were no women in the room?”

Now it’s my turn to nod.

“And the minister always looked at the old guy in the turban before speaking. Like he needed his assurance,” McClain says, placing his cup on my desk and pulling out his notebook.

“Yeah, you’re right. The old guy with a beard, the mullah?” Squinting, I try to remember more details of Wednesday’s meeting.

“Yes. And mullah’s a religious leader, right? Should the minister of health be consulting him? Then again, we are in an Islamic country …” McClain’s brows lift and he shrugs.

“Good point, Corporal. I mean McClain. Let’s add it in the comments for the general.”

Sitting side by side, we discuss the report, adding our collective insight, until lunch.

McClain invites me to join him, something no other member of our small team has done before, and I instinctively search for an excuse to refuse. I’m not much of a people person, and I either sit alone in the back of the dining hall, avoiding eye contact with people, or take meals back to my barracks.

But as he waits for my answer, his head tilted and eyes smiling, my chest fills with a warm realization that I haven’t thought about the events that were supposed to take place today for the last few hours. If I eat alone, I’ll undoubtedly tumble back into my dark thoughts. Putting on a brave smile, I accept his invitation.

Crying over my wasted life can wait until later.

I still feel uneasy when we walk to the dining facility together, and then even more awkward when McClain’s buddies join us at the table, but I successfully fight off the urge to excuse myself and return to the office.

I don’t contribute to the discussion; I rarely do when I’m around new people. Instead I focus on chewing the squares of ravioli that I, for unknown reasons, loaded my plate with. I usually get salad for lunch. Sighing, I bring another forkful of pasta stuffed with tasteless white pulp into my mouth.

DFAC is busy as usual, loud with chatter and music playing from the loudspeakers, and I reach out to the familiar sounds to help me relax.

And even though deep down, I still feel extremely out of place, I’m also glad I’m not alone today.

Especially today.

Today I enjoy the company of strangers in comfortable silence and push away my overwhelming sadness for as long as possible.

Looking down at the message from my best friend, I rub the tense spot between my brows.

LEAH: Are you okay? If you want to talk, I’m here. xo

Am I okay?

Not even remotely. Every waking moment, the ever-present gaping hole in my chest reminds me of the betrayal, the humiliation, all the broken promises.

How long will I choke on my breath every time I glimpse a face that bears even a remote resemblance to his?

For how long will even the slightest whiff of Chanel N°5 make me sick?

Will cascading fiery red locks forever send a knife into my heart?

I don’t know.

Sitting on my bunk, a thousand miles from our old apartment in Virginia—_is he living there with her now?_—the mere thoughts make my stomach turn.

ME: No thanks, I’m good.

Hopefully she drops it. I’m not ready for another vivisection, even if well meant. Instead, I curl up on the blanket and cry myself to sleep.

It’s the last time, I promise myself, already knowing it’s a lie.THREE

I catch myself staring blankly at my monitor. What am I still doing here? With a sigh, I lean back in my chair and stretch my stiff neck.

I’ve been in the office since seven this morning, and now the little numbers in the corner of the computer screen show 21:21. A lucky hour? A rather lonely hour, in my case. I’m sure Jay’s not lonely—unwanted images flash through my brain, and I clench my teeth.

“Enough!” I shout to the empty office, hit send on the email I was composing to my boss, and lock my computer screen.

It’s too late for dinner and too early to get the midnight meal, so on the way back to the barracks, I stop at one of the small subsidized shops on base. I choose the PX because it reminds me of the gas station on Central Ave, where I bought late-night snacks during my college years. Good memories that help me feel less lonely in this strange place.

The only difference is that the PX doesn’t smell of gasoline. And they don’t sell booze.

I meander between the shelves, but nothing feels like the right comfort food. Since they don’t carry ice cream, I treat myself to a few bars of milk chocolate. I’m still miserable, but at least I’ll get high on sugar.

A text message awaits on WhatsApp when I get back to my room.

LEAH: Call me, I’m worried!

I let out a long, cleansing sigh. I’m not in the mood to talk with her. Or anybody, really. All I want to do is stuff my face with chocolate and sleep.

Instead, I tear the wrapper open with one hand and tap the FaceTime icon with the other. “Hey Leah,” I say to the camera, a forced smile plastered on my face.

She’s driving, her phone mounted on the dashboard, so I only see the interior of her car and traffic though the back window.

“Rebekah, thank God, I was starting to worry. No news is good news, I know, but not when your best friend’s deployed to a war zone.”

“It’s not a war zone, Leah. No need to worry. I’m stationed at headquarters in the middle of Kabul, I told you already.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I attempt to chase my headache away.

“Maybe. But as far as I know, Kabul’s in Afghanistan, and I still worry, so don’t you drop off the face of the earth like that again. Not on me.” Leah’s voice rings loud in the empty room.

“Sorry. But really, there’s no need to worry.” My jaw clenches. “It’s not a combat mission anymore. It’s a train, advise, and assist mission for the local institutions. I don’t run around a battlefield in the desert. But I do work long days and⁠—”

“From what I see in the news,” she says, cutting me off. She listens but doesn’t hear—typical for Leah. “There’re still bombs exploding in Kabul, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s a war zone. Sorry, my mom’s on the other line, wait a sec.”

The screen goes blank, and I bite into the chocolate bar, savoring the sweetness that melts so nicely into my taste buds. When was the last time I spoke with my mom? I should definitely call her. Just not today.

Leah’s car reappears on my screen. “So, how’s life?”

“Nothing new. I’m bored most of the time. There’s nothing to do here. I can either work or work out,” I explain like I have a hundred times before, clenching my fists in frustration.

“Then go out. You’re in the city, right?”

“Downtown.” I chuckle sarcastically.

“Don’t they have any decent restaurants over there?” Leah continues talking, but I zone out and watch a blur of familiar streets pass by the back window of her car.

“It’s not so easy,” I say when she’s done planning my escapades into the city beyond the wall. “I can’t just walk out. We must be in armored vehicles every time we leave the base, and it’s only for official meetings and only within the green zone.”

Her voice raises a notch. “Yeah, and you’re not in a war zone, huh?”

“It’s not so bad, Leah. But I’ll check in with you more often, I promise.” Breathing slowly, I fight to keep my voice steady and shove my annoyance down. She worries—shouldn’t I be glad that there’s one person in the universe, other than my parents, who cares enough to worry?

“I know it’s hard, and I know you’re hurting, but I’m here for you, achot.”

_Achot_. Sister in Hebrew. I’ve known Leah since kindergarten, and although I left home when I joined the military, we remain best friends.

“It’s just … I feel lonely here.” I blurt the confession I didn’t think I was ready to make. “I’m the only woman on the team, and you know me, I’d rather die than strike up a conversation with a stranger. And I’m just so sad all the time.”

Leah pulls over and parks the car, and her gorgeous Black face with shiny eyes and a storm of black curls appears on the screen. “Then come back home. I’m sure there’s a way.”

“There probably is, but it wouldn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t matter where I am, it won’t change how I feel. I just need time,” I say, my voice trembling.

“You need a rebound, that’s what you need. The hotter the better.” Her face leaves the frame and the picture bounces, so she’s probably driving again.

“Leah, please, why can’t you be serious just this one time? I don’t need another man. I need time to heal.” I swallow against that damn bitter lump rising in my chest again. My constant companion. “You know what, it’s late here, and I’m tired. I’m gonna go to sleep, okay? Talk to you tomorrow?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I love you, achot.”

“I love you too. Drive carefully.”

Barely managing to hold it together until we disconnect, I toss the phone aside and let the tears run down, cleansing my aching heart.

_You’re lonely in a camp full of people._ Jay’s derisive voice rings in my ears. _Only you, Becky, could achieve this._

Oh, how I hated that nickname. And he knew it. He used it to make me feel small, like a nuisance.

Maybe I was, after all.

The thought rattles my chest, turning my gentle cries into ugly sobs.

When the tears dry up, I grab my shower caddy and walk to the ablution container. I’m alone, a rare occurrence. The place is usually bustling with female chatter, humid from the hot shower, smelling of fresh soap and sweet body lotions. I catch myself staring blankly at my face in the mirror.

Jay once told me that I never stand out, not in my looks, not at work. He was right, of course—I’m just so plain, with my sand-colored skin, dull brown eyes, and naturally stick-straight brown hair that even a curling iron won’t bend. The only distinctive feature is the loathsome dimple in my chin, a source of constant name-calling at school. I often wonder why he ever proposed to me.

Tears pricking again and an acrid taste rising in my throat, I trot back to my room, curl up on my bed, and cry myself to sleep.

Again.

I’m so pathetically heartbroken.FOUR

Our second-floor office looks exactly as I left it a couple of hours ago. Six computer desks are positioned along the walls, two TVs hang on opposite sides of the room, and one tiny barred window offers a view of the gray blast wall behind it, not even a speck of the sky visible.

As usual, I’m the first one in, so I forgo opening my emails in favor of coffee. A small square table in the corner holds a large drip coffee maker. I fill the reservoir with water and generously add ground coffee to the filter in the basket. Luckily we all take it strong.

When the room fills with the pleasant scent of a fresh pot, Corporal McClain arrives.

“Another day in paradise, huh?” He places his rifle on the stand and drops hard into his chair.

“Yeah,” I start, but before I can dwell on our hardships, my phone dings with a text from our commanding officer.

BOSS: One minute.

Thirty seconds later, I nod at McClain, announcing that the officer has entered the room. “Attention!”

He jumps to his feet.

“At ease.” Major Ritter appears pleased with the pomp and circumstance his rank demands. “Thank you, Captain. You can get back to work. I expect a briefing in thirty,” he commands, his face already turned toward his computer.

Of course he won’t indulge me by reading the report I sent him last night after a week of hard work. Grinding my teeth, I curse internally and prepare a list of bullet points containing the most important findings from the dispatch.

I wish he had his own office, but with HQ crammed between other compounds in the green zone, and the mission constantly expanding in both tasks and personnel, space is scarce. Thankfully our commanding officer spends as little time in the office as he can get away with, which means most of the time it’s just our relatively small team sharing the large room.

“And that’s all?” Ritter asks when I finish summarizing the notes from the meeting with the public health minister.

“Uh, yes sir.”

“What are we doing here, Captain?” he asks, grilling me with his dark eyes.

“Pardon me?” In consternation, I forget to breathe.

“We are CIMIC, right? What do you think our mission is here, huh?”

“We …” I clear my throat and recite the definition. “The Civil-Military Cooperation is a component in which the mission’s commander establishes relations with the local population, authorities, and NGOs within his Area of Responsibility.”

Leaning back in his chair, Ritter locks his arms behind his neck and spreads his legs. “And in your own words, Captain?”

I stand before him, fighting to keep myself from fidgeting. “I don’t think I understand the question, sir.”

“Because it wasn’t a question, Captain. But I will rephrase it for you. What do we do here?”

“We support the commander’s mission by creating favorable conditions in which the local population supports the military activities we undertake. Sir.”

He gets up with a frustrated sigh. “We are liaisons, Captain.” Ritter over-enunciates _liaisons_, accentuating each syllable, and I wince but, as usual, he doesn’t pay enough attention to me to notice. “Liaisons between the world out there,” he says, waving his hand toward the door, “and here.” He points at the floor. “Liaisons,” he repeats, and I bite back the witty retort right on the tip of my tongue—_will you spell that for me, sir?_

“I don’t see how this report’s going to support the mission of the commander or, to be frank, how it’s even relevant. Redo it. And quickly. Dismissed.” He waves me off, already striding out of the office.

I’m left standing in the middle of the room, feeling like a scolded child.

McClain nudges me with his shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you, Fisher. He’s just a shitbird. Every unit has one.”

“SD,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Nothing. I need a break.” Moving around him, I grab my hat off my desk.

“Heading to the gym?”

“That stinky place where all the men stare at me and creep me out? No, thank you very much.”

McClain snorts with laughter. “Yeah, that one.”

Gritting my teeth, I storm outside and hurry back to my barracks to change into a t-shirt and shorts.

With AirPods in my ears, I give my anger control and let it fuel my muscles as I sprint around the base, pumping my legs hard.

Lap after lap, mile after mile.

It’s pretty dull. Over and over again, I pass the same worn-out yellowish constructions made of containers, dirty concrete barriers, grimy volleyball and basketball courts enclosed in mesh cages, the gray gym building, a freshly painted dining facility, the main gate hidden behind guard towers, dusty helipad—all within the confines of barbed-wire blast walls. Still, with every lap, anger seeps out of me until I finally outrun my need to scream.

When the questionable lyrics of “Rock the Casbah” by The Clash start to play in my ears, I can’t hold back a chuckle. Maybe I should add System of a Down’s “B.Y.O.B.” to the playlist and run around the camp shouting _bring your own bombs_.

However silly, my thoughts manage to improve my mood. My head nodding along with the chorus, I accommodate the beat by slowing down to a trot, and finally, I’m ready to get back to the office.

To rock the office.

“Talk to me about normal stuff, okay?” I ask Leah during our FaceTime call. I’m done with work for the day, and she’s on her lunch break. “Normal boring life in the normal world, please.”

For a while, I forget about my misery and listen to her prattle about a barista who mixed her coffee order, the latest fight with her boyfriend over not being able to agree which movie to see in theaters, and work gossip.

What I’d give for problems like that today.

Simple, everyday life problems I suddenly miss so much.

On my end, there’s no news, nothing to share with her, except the same story of my asshole boss that I tell Leah almost every time we speak.

“Achot, he’s a typical SD. How would you say it in your fancy military language?” Leah doesn’t know Ritter personally but loathes him anyway. She’s a good friend like that.

I smile. “Sierra-Delta.”

“Sierra-Delta? Sounds too nice.” She chuckles. “Anyway, you can’t let him treat you like that. You should teach him a lesson. A laxative in his coffee? Whatcha say?”

I snicker. “Is that what you teach your students, Madam Professor?”

“Long road before you get to call me that, I’m still working on my doctorate. But maybe I should incorporate the topic of revenge into my research,” she says, laughing.

Leah’s my opposite. Where I have a tendency to be too serious and withdrawn, she’s outgoing and bubbly. And she has the gift of always being able to make me laugh, even on the most miserable day.

“I wish you were here, babe. You could distract him while I poisoned his drink,” I joke. As tempting as her advice may be, I would never act against a fellow officer. Not even the most enormous prick I’ve ever had the displeasure to know.

Leah’s always been mischievous, but I’m a total stickler for rules. I need them like I need oxygen. Structure is necessary for me to function. That’s how I’m wired, and I guess that’s what I was looking for when I joined the military. Not asshole bosses.

“Count on me,” she says, saluting. “But honestly, if I were there, I wouldn’t let you waste your time talking on the phone in the evenings. Not even with me. C’mon, darling, those military guys must be so hot, always exercising and all. And in those uniforms? My, oh my! I do love me a man in uniform. I refuse to believe there isn’t a single hot man for you to have a fling with. Or to at least chat with. How many people are there in this camp of yours?”

“Hundreds. It’s overcrowded. Hard to find a quiet place to yourself, really.” That’s why I’m usually hiding in my room.

She clicks her tongue. “Overcrowded, huh? And that’s the reason you haven’t met anyone yet?” There’s a touch of sarcasm in her words.

“I’m not ready.” I’m surprised by my solemn tone.

“It’s okay, darling, it’s okay.” Her sweet, supportive side returns. “You don’t have to meet anyone if you don’t want to. You can call me every day until you return home. You’re still coming back to Albany after your deployment, right?”

“Yeah. I have tons of leave days accumulated for, you know, the honeymoon I never went on,” I say, rolling my eyes. “So I’m definitely coming home before deciding what’s next. I’m not going back to Jay, I can assure you.”

“Maybe we should plan a vacation for when you get back? Just you and me?”

Before I can answer, there’s a loud knock on the door. “Are you decent?” My roommate yells.

“Yes! Come in!” Apologizing to Leah, I disconnect the call.

Estrid arrived at headquarters only a week after me, but I still don’t know much about her except that she’s a first lieutenant in the Danish Army. She travels extensively for work, but I’ve also been too busy wallowing in self-pity to make the effort to know her better.

“I need to go to eat. You want to go to eat?” She stashes her gear under the bed and gets ready to leave again.

I swallow. “No thank you, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, great. Farvel! Bye!” And she’s gone.

Looks like I’m spending another evening alone instead of making friends with a fellow female officer.

Sighing, I open my computer. If I’m going to invest in this relationship, I need to learn about Denmark. My current knowledge begins with the fact that there’s a queen and ends with those delicious cookies that come in the blue tin.FIVE

With First Lieutenant Meir and Corporal Ortner still on assignment at Bagram base, it’s only McClain and me in the office again.

I’ve rewritten the ministry meeting report, emailed it to Ritter, and also printed it out so I can hand it to him as soon as he shows up. Now I sit at my desk, anxiously awaiting the text from the major. Still, when it comes, my blood pressure spikes.

BOSS: One minute

“He’s coming,” I alert McClain, and we both stand up. “Attention!”

Ritter’s face lights up, his eyes shining like two brown coals. “At ease.”

“Sir, here’s the report,” I say, walking straight to him.

He settles into his chair, his eyes on his monitor instead of me. “I’ll read it later, I’m busy right now, Captain.”

“Of course, sir.”

He doesn’t reach for the papers I’m holding, so I place them on his desk and walk back to mine.

“And Captain?”

I stop and turn around. “Yes, sir?”

“Write the press release from the meeting.”

“The Ministry of Public Health meeting?”

Ritter doesn’t answer, he just rolls his eyes and turns away.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m an analyst, not a public affairs specialist. I’m sure when Lieutenant Meir comes back from⁠—”

He lets out a deep sigh and slowly turns around, clearly showing his annoyance. “Did you go to college, Captain?”

My heart speeds up. “Yes, sir.”

“Did they teach you writing there?” he demands, his voice filled with venom.

“Yes, sir.”

“So do it.” His words crack like a whip, and I wince. “And you, Corporal,” he says, waving at McClain, “start researching the education ministry. We’re going there next week. Dismissed.”

I sit at my desk and stare at the open document, the cursor blinking at me from an empty page while I conduct a seething internal monologue. I’m an analyst, for god’s sake. I’ve been writing reports my entire career in the Army. And that’s why I’m here—to collect and analyze data, not to write press releases. There are other people trained to do it. Why can’t it wait? And why is Ritter such an ass all the time? What did I do to make him hate me? I’m always here, I always work hard. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying.

The moment the door shuts behind Ritter, McClain rolls his chair over to mine. “Call Meir.”

I give him a blank stare. “He’s on a mission.”

“Still, worth a try.”

“I don’t know …” But I pick up my phone and dial. To my surprise and great relief, he not only answers, but he promises to write and email me a press release.

Letting out the breath I was holding, I thank him and hang up before turning to McClain. “Meir’s gonna help as soon as he finds a desk with a computer he can use. Now, let _me_ help _you_ with your task that’s more in my area of expertise.” I wink at him, and he chuckles.

“Be my guest. It looks like our predecessors already met with some local organizations, but not with the minister himself,” he says, pointing at his screen, and I roll my chair over.

“That’s a great start. Let’s see what they do, maybe we can match their programs with those run by the ministry. Or find some international NGOs that could fill the gaps.” The muscles in my neck begin to untangle. “And I remember reading somewhere that the Australian Army had some sort of vocational training going,” I add.

“Sounds like a plan,” McClain says, and we get to work bouncing ideas off one another.

By the time evening rolls around, we have several decent leads, and when Meir sends me the press release, I can’t help but jump for joy. Internally, of course.

McClain left to call his wife, and I’m gathering my belongings when Ritter returns to the office.

“Captain, may I have a word with you?” he asks, his voice tinged with its usual nastiness.

I turn to face him. _Again?_ “Yes, sir.”

He smiles, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “Do you know the Army’s anti-fraternization policy?”

My heart freezes in my chest. “Yes, sir.” My voice sounds weak, like I did something wrong, but I have no idea what he’s getting at.

He crosses his arms over his chest and spreads his feet far apart. “Good. Because while I’m glad to see that you work well with the corporals, you must draw a line. An uncrossable line,” he says, his expression now deadpan, eyes burning holes in my face.

My mind races along with my pounding heart, and I can’t find the right words. I didn’t do anything wrong. “Yes, sir.”

“Do I have to remind you that, as an officer, you’re prohibited from having a personal relationship with enlisted soldiers?” Ritter bows his head and looks at me through squinted eyes.

What’s he implying? “I’m not,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper.

“Good.” He relaxes, lifting the corner of his lip. “Discipline is crucial in our line of work, Captain. Do not forget that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He nods, gives me one more pointed look, and leaves.

I sit back in my chair, panic stealing my breath as I try to process what just happened.

Did he just come back to the office solely to lecture me?

But why?

I’m not breaking any rules, and if he’s referring to the one time I had lunch with McClain, it definitely wasn’t fraternization. It was lunch in the mess hall, for god’s sake.

A wave of nausea threatens to escape but I swallow repeatedly to push it down.

I’m walking down the dark, narrow street toward the accommodation containers, so immersed in my spiraling thoughts that I don’t notice Estrid until she’s in front of me, waving her hand. “Hello, earth to Rebekah.”

“Oh, hi, sorry. I was just …” I shrug.

“Thinking hard?”

“Yeah. I’m just coming back from the office, and my boss was an ass—” Shit, I can’t talk poorly about my commanding officer. “Sorry, never mind.”

“Talk to me, roomie. I won’t tell a soul.” Estrid mimes pulling a zipper closed across her lips.

I do want to talk to her, but there’s this internal force that stops me. One overriding quality that pulls the reins in my head, halting my social interactions and forcing me to overthink and overanalyze every word. Until it’s too late to even open my mouth. Socially awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Going back to the room?” I ask instead.

“Mmhmm,” she says, and we together walk in silence.

Blond locks escape her ponytail, and she’s not wearing a cap. “Are you allowed to leave the building without your head covered?” I internally facepalm myself. _Why would I say that?_

But Estrid only shrugs. “Why? Who cares?”

I let out a tiny laugh. “Military, I guess.”

“My military doesn’t. I don’t think. I might have to check, but no one told me I couldn’t.” Her expression turns serious, brows drawn together. “Especially during deployment, who cares about such bullshit?”

“Lucky you. I’m sure my boss would reprimand me if I tried it.”

“Sir,” we say in unison, saluting the passing general.

“I hope that wasn’t your boss,” Estrid says, laughing as we turn down the shortcut path between the barracks.

I snort. “No. But I’m glad you’re an officer. Maybe I won’t get a lecture for hanging out with you.” I wink, and she responds with a blank stare. I sigh. “He keeps lecturing me on Army policies. _You’re an officer, and you’re prohibited from having personal relations with the soldiers,_” I say in a pretend-male voice, swaying my arms like a monkey. Not at all officer-like.

“No.” Estrid’s blue eyes go round. “What’s he implying?”

“Yeah, that’s a good question. I don’t know.” I shrug. “I never break the rules. Never. I wonder if he’s lecturing the other officer on our team.”

“How many girls do you work with?” Estrid asks, pulling the front door open.

“Just me.”

“Boys’ club.”

I unlock the door to our room. “What?”

“The military’s like a giant boys’ club. In every country,” she says, throwing her jacket on the bed and fishing two cans of soda from the cargo pockets of her uniform pants. “Wanna drink? Stole ’em from dinner.”

“Thanks.” I tap the lid and open the can. Fizzy bubbles tickle my throat nicely with the first sip, and the familiar sweet taste calms my nerves. “So why did you join the boys’ club, Estrid?”

She snickers, spilling her drink all over her t-shirt. “Because of the boys.”

“What boys?” I hand her a tissue from the box on the shelf beside her bed, and she wipes her face and pats the fabric on her chest.

“My grandfather fought in the Second World War. My father and both my big brothers are in the Army. And on my mother’s side, everybody’s in academia. My mom teaches at the Royal Danish Defense College, so I had only two choices. This,” she says, patting her jacket, “or a PhD.” She snickers. “So I didn’t really have a choice, you see.”

“Yeah, I see.” I nod, although Estrid’s statement surprises me. I never would have guessed she’s a tomboy like me; she’s so feminine, with the delicate features of a porcelain doll. But who says you can’t climb trees wearing a dress? “Leah, my best friend back home, she’s doing a PhD, and it’s a lot of studying.”

“See, that’s not for me. Five years of learning at the military academy was more than enough. And look at me now, _teaching_ locals.” There’s levity to her voice, but then she adds seriously, “But I love my job.”

“Cheers to that.” I smile and bring my can up.

“Cheers.” Estrid clinks her drink to mine, and we both take a sip. “What about you, roomie? What’s your reason for being here?”

“That’s a good question. No family tradition, that’s for sure. My parents are lawyers, but I was never interested in studying law. Besides, even thinking of arguing in public gives me hives, so I’d be a really terrible lawyer. Dunno, maybe I was swapped at birth?”

Estrid chuckles. “You’re funny.”

“Yeah, no, I wasn’t. I look exactly like my savta Chava.” Her eyebrows go up. “Sorry, my grandma. Savta means ‘grandmother’ in Hebrew, and that’s what I always called her.”

“Cool. Was she a lawyer too?”

“No, she was a stay-at-home mom to eleven kids, one of them my dad.”

Her eyes widen. “Eleven? Wow!”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine it. I loved spending time with her. She had the best stories. But I was also terrified when we visited her in Brooklyn. There were always people at her house and not enough corners for me to hide. But she made the most amazing matzo ball chicken soup. I still think about her when I eat chicken soup.”

“Even the stuff they serve in the dining facility?”

“Yeah, even that awful stuff at DFAC.”

“Speaking of Dee-Fuck, let’s have lunch together one day?”

I chuckle. “Let’s do it. Why don’t we swap numbers?”

“Great. Hopefully they’ll have chicken soup.”

We exchange numbers and continue talking for a while, swapping stories from back home. The nostalgia makes me both happy and sad.

Curled under my blanket a little while later, I don’t feel the need to cry myself to sleep for the very first time in a very long time.

And I doze off with the memories of the people I love most keeping me company.