December
Iraq
"You should go home for the holidays, Marine."
I stand and go to attention when my commander comes into the command center for his walk through. Colonel Howard is lean and half a foot smaller than me with large blue eyes. I used to think he'd make a good Marine Corps promotional doll with those eyes.
Not that I'd ever tell him that.
"This is my home, sir," I reply.
"Leave it to the Marines to hold down the fort."
He's looking around at the empty center. He's been here every month to visit, the only one above the rank of captain to venture out here routinely. We're far enough away from Baghdad that even the brass who like to brag about being associated to spec-ops don't want the hassle of traveling to our base to hang out with us.
"At ease, Marine," he tells me.
I relax.
He motions to the chair at the computer where I was sitting and takes the rolling chair beside it.
"Fuck the food here," he grunts.
I smile. What tastes like shit to those stationed on bigger bases is gourmet compared to what we eat on operations and at the FOB.
"How's life?" he asks gruffly.
I know what he's asking. Even less of a warm, fuzzy type than I am, Colonel Howard rarely talks about anything aside from missions and duty.
"Maintaining mission readiness and taking care of the personal thing," I reply.
"Good. Dr. Gomez seems satisfied with your progress."
"It helps being able to stay active in command."
"She says the same. Routine and discipline make for a quiet mind."
"They do, sir."
"Whatever it takes to keep you out there. You make my life easier," he says with a rare smile. "You're always on target and ahead of schedule. Doesn't hurt that you can string a sentence together with proper grammar. I'm not embarrassed to send out your reports like those from some of my captains. Can't ask for more."
I snort. "Thank you, sir."
"Excuse me, gentlemen. Package, Captain Mathis."
I glance up at the Army specialist holding a few boxes in his arms. He sets them down on the desk nearest the door.
"Santa's late this year," Colonel Howard says. "Give that shit to Marines, and we'll make sure it's on time with a pretty fucking bow."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." The specialist tosses me a small box.
I catch it, not recognizing the return address. "Why the fuck does it take so long to get here?" The postmark is four weeks ago. I set it on the table and return my attention to the boss.