John Ringo: A Hymn Before Battle

“Be there, Mike. The SigInt building attached to FORCECOM.”

“Airborne, General, sir.” He paused for a moment, then continued dryly. “Sharon is going to go ballistic.”

Mike was cleaning broccoli when he heard the car pull up. He wiped his hands and opened the door to the carport so the kids could get in, waved and went back to the sink.

Cally, the four-year-old, made it through the door first and got a big, wet hug from daddy.

“Daddy! You got me all wet!”

“Big, wet daddy hugs! Arrrh!” He gestured at her with soapy hands as she went shrieking towards her room.

In the meantime Michelle, the two-year-old, had toddled in and handed him her latest creation from preschool. She got a big, wet daddy hug, too.

“And what is this masterpiece?” He looked at the scrawl of green, blue and red and flashed a quick helpless glance at his wife, just coming through the door.

“Cow!” she mouthed.

“Well, Michelle, that’s a very nice cow!”

“Mooo!”

“Yes, mooo!”

“Juice!”

“Okay, can my big girl say please?” Mike asked with a smile, already headed for the refrigerator.

“P’ease,” she answered, mildly.

“Okay,” he reached into the fridge and extracted the cup. “No spill.”

“Mess!” she countered, clutching the no-spill cup to her chest.

“No mess.”

She carried the cup into the living room for her afternoon video. “Pooh!”

“Cinderella!”

“ ’Rella!”

He heard the video player start, courtesy of the older girl as his wife walked back into the kitchen after a quick change. Slim and tall with long raven black hair and high, firm breasts, even after two pregnancies she still moved with the grace of the dancer she was when they first met. She’d joined the club he worked at to improve her muscle tone. He was the best in the club at muscle management schemes so he got assigned to her, naturally. One thing led to another and here they were eight years later. Sometimes Mike wondered what kept her around. On the other hand it would take a crowbar to separate him from her. Or, at least, the hand of duty.

“Your agent called me at work,” she said, “he said you weren’t in.”

“Oh?” he said, noncommittally he hoped. His stomach had already started to churn. He pulled a bottle of domestic Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and began hunting for the corkscrew.

“He says he needs another rewrite, but Dunn may be interested.” She leaned back against the counter, watching him carefully. He was giving off all the wrong vibes.

“Oh. Good.”

“You’re home early,” she continued, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong? You should be excited.”

“Umm.” He bought time by wrenching out the cork and pouring her a glass of wine.

“What?” She looked at the Chardonnay suspiciously, as if wondering if it were poisoned. After six years of marriage there was not much he could get past her. She might not know exactly what was coming, but she could tell it was nasty.

“Uh. It’s not bad, really,” he said, taking a pull of his own beer. The mellow home-brewed concoction dropped to his stomach like lead and started doing dances with the butterflies. Sharon was really going to hit the roof.

“Oh, shit, just spit it out,” she snapped. “What, did you get fired?”

“ No , no, I got called back up. Sort of.” He turned back to the stove, picking up the pot and dumping the al dente pasta into the colander.

“What? By the Army? You’ve been out, what? eight years?” The words were low but angry. They tried to never argue in front of the kids.

“Almost nine,” he agreed, head down and concentrating on getting the pasta just right. The smell of garlic permeated the air as he tossed the crushed cloves into the mix. “I’d been out nearly six months when we met.”

“You’re not reserve anymore!” She reached out and touched his arm to get him to turn around and look at her.

“I know, but Jack called Dave and twisted his arm into letting me go for a while.” He looked up into her blue eyes and wondered why he could not tell Jack, “No.” The hurt in her gaze was almost more than he could bear.

“Jack. You mean General Horner. The ‘Jack’ who wanted you to get a commission?” she asked with dark suspicion, setting the wine down. It was her way of clearing the decks and he took it for a bad sign.

“How many Jacks do you know?” he asked playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

“I don’t know him — you know him.” She had moved in close to him, crowding his space and more or less making him back up.

“You’ve talked to General Horner before.” He turned back to the pasta, running from the argument and he knew it.

“Once, and it was until you got to the phone.”

“Mmm.”

“And why the hell do they want you?” she asked, still crowding in. He could faintly feel the heat from her body, raised by a combination of the wine and the argument.

“I don’t know.” The fettuccine ready, he added the Alfredo sauce, covered and warming on the stove top. The heady smell of parmesan and spices filled the air.

“Well, call General Horner and tell him you’re not coming until we know why. And fettuccine Alfredo will not get you out of anything.” She crossed her arms again, then relented and picked up the wine for a sip.

“Honey, you know the drill. When they call, you go.” He portioned out the kids’ supper, readying trays for them to eat in front of the TV. Normally they tried to eat together, but tonight seemed like a good night to create a little distance from them.

“No. Not with me,” she retorted, gesturing sharply enough to slosh the Chardonnay. “Not that anybody has asked, but they’d get a little more argument if they tried to get me back in the Navy. The hell if I’m ever serving on another carrier.” She tossed her head to move an imaginary hair out of the way and waited for a response.

“Well, I guess I don’t know what to say,” he said softly.

She looked at him for a long moment. “You want to go back.” It was clearly an accusation. “You know, I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping up with both work and home if you’re gone!”

“Well…” The pause after that looked to go on forever.

“God, Mike, it’s been years! It’s not like you’re eighteen anymore.” With her mouth pursed into a frown, she looked like a little girl “saving up spit.”

“Honey,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking at the ceiling, “generals don’t recall you from civilian status, personally, to go run around in the boonies.” He dropped his eyes to meet hers and shook his head.

“Whatever it is, they’ll want me for my know-how, not my biceps. And sometimes, yeah, I wonder if being, maybe, by now, a company commander in the Eighty-Deuce wouldn’t be a little more… important, useful, I don’t know, something more than building a really boss web page for the country’s fourth largest bank!” He garnished the generous helping of fettuccine with a chicken breast in garlic and herbs and extended it to her.

She shook her head, understanding the argument intellectually, but still not happy. “Do you have to leave this evening?”

She took the plate and looked at it with the same suspicion as the wine. A little alcohol and complex carbohydrates to calm the hysterical wifey. Unfortunately she knew that was exactly how she was acting. He knew all about her knee-jerk reaction to the military and was trying to compensate. Trying hard.

“No, I have to be at McPherson on Monday morning. And that’s the other thing, I’m just going to McPherson. It’s not like it’s the back side of the moon.” He picked up a rag and wiped away an imaginary smear on the gray countertop. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel, but with Sharon on the warpath it could just as well be a train.