Paul Kirk - Devastation Point

“Nicole, we’re leaving for Toledo in less than two hours. Prepare for departure.”

“Sure, major.”

“‘Major’?”

“I mean, Mike. I’m sorry. It’s just that you sounded so… I don’t know… military that I forgot.”

“Well, you are now under new and specific orders to call me Mike. Do you understand, private ?”

“Is that private, first class?” she asked, playfully. She grinned and rose from the cot where she and CJ had rested for a late afternoon nap. The light sheet that covered her fell away from her body as she stood, revealing that she wore only a long T-shirt.

“That is correct,” answered the major, “private, first class. Absolutely.”

“Hmm,” she said huskily, “I’m okay with that.” She lifted the T-shirt off her body and tossed it to the floor. The supple upswell of her breasts nearly caused Major O’Malley to gasp. When she slid into his embrace, he slipped his hands onto her slim hips and pulled her to him.

“I would be happy to assist you in any way, major.”

“I’m on a tight timeline, private.”

“In that case, I suggest you let me handle this, major… Mike.”

“Mike, what kind of helicopter is that, anyway?”

Major O’Malley dressed near the stacked pallets in the storage area. He buttoned his pants and tightened his belt. CJ continued to sleep and the major lowered his voice considerately. This wasn’t easy for him—he felt like shouting at the top of his lungs. He tried to remember a happier time. “That’s a Sikorsky H-92 Superhawk.”

“And those things on the sides—are those missiles or bombs?”

“Those are Hellfire missiles, Nicole. We can thank GT and Scott for strapping those on the bird. For sure, they had to do some retro-fitting, but they made it work.”

“What can they do?”

“Blow stuff up—very accurately. They’re laser guided.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that we can guide them through a door and up someone’s ass if we want.”

“Do you think we’ll need them when we reach Cleveland?” she asked, approaching the major and pointing out his misaligned buttons. This quickly turned into an embrace with her encircling his broad chest and he sliding his hands to her firm, naked buttocks.

“I hope not.”

“Be careful, Mike,” she whispered.

“I will. I gotta go, now. Give CJ a hug for me.”

“That’s about the best I can do, Mr. McIntyre,” said Connor. Roger gently touched the fourteen stitches in his left forearm and the twenty-one across his chest. He was impressed by Connor’s skillful repair, but relieved that the medical attention was almost over. He swept the long reddish-brown hair from his eyes, watching Connor douse both wounds once more with whiskey before he wiped and covered each with small cloth bandages. As an added measure, Connor pulled white tape taken from a Ziploc bag buried deep in his backpack and deftly applied small strips.

“Please… call me Roger. That’s a very nice job,” he added, referring to Connor’s field dressing. Roger’s dark eyes studied Connor for a few seconds before he turned to check on his wife for the third time in as many minutes. Rhonda was covered in a threadbare blanket, resting on the couch. Roger stared directly at Connor and swallowed, gently wetting his busted lips. “Thanks again,” he said, nearly overcome with gratitude.

Connor was pleased with the behavior of this new stranger. Though he was pale and physically battered, he was nowhere near mentally beaten. He had refused a drink of whiskey, offered to help combat the pain of stitching his wounds. He chose instead to set his jaw in determination until the task was finished. Connor also liked the fact that Roger wasn’t a big talker. This was something he’d always associated with a man one might trust.

“Roger, you need to rest. And remember to keep an eye on those wounds—I’m afraid that the antibiotics I have are probably ineffective by now.”

“Okay.”

“You guys can take the master bedroom—there’s a serviceable blanket in there and the bed isn’t too bad. Take Rhonda with you. Marty put a five-gallon bucket of water in there and Amanda left a soft dish towel with it so you and your wife can clean up a little.”

“I don’t know how to thank you guys.”

“No need. Keep in mind that Amanda will expect the towel back tomorrow. And don’t forget the water’s not purified—it’s just for washing, okay?”

“Right… I don’t know if I can ever repay you,” said Roger, concerned with his debt.

“Roger, go on and clean up… help your wife… make her feel better. Let her know that it’s over. Keep telling her that it’s over.”

“But, there’s so much to say to you.”

“Not right now there’s not. Get some rest. We’ll eat dinner in about four hours. We’ll wake you if it seems right, but if not, we’ll let you sleep. You can eat in the morning—I’ll lay out a full spread for you at breakfast, I promise. But now, you need to be with your wife.”

“But—”

“No buts! I guessed you were a soldier by the way you handled yourself for the past few hours and the way you trained your son.”

“Yeah, I left in ninety-seven. I was an E-6. What about you?”

“Technically speaking, I’m still on active duty. My current rank is colonel.”

“Colonel? Really?”

“Yep. Full bird. And, as is my right, I’ve reactivated your military status and my orders are for you to tend to your wife and rest. We can talk more in the morning. Understood?”

“You can do that? Reactivate me?”

“I can,” answered Connor, matter-of-factly. “I did. You are hereby reactivated. At least for the evening.”

“Okay, sir.”

“My orders are for you to take care of your wife.”

“Yes, sir, colonel. Thank you.” Roger saluted.

“Go on. Dismissed,” said Connor, throwing the man an easy salute.

Roger retrieved Rhonda from the couch and they made their way to the back room. Marty entered the house, sat in a kitchen chair, and began removing his boots. He carefully tended his feet, switching socks as he did at the end of every day. While he put on his fresh socks, he watched Roger embrace his wife at the end of the hallway and enter the bedroom door. Clearly, she was still quite shaken, understandably so, despite the best efforts of Roger, Cody, and Amanda to calm her fears.

“That’s the last of the bodies, Mac. I put ’em all down in that wooden shed in the back yard. It should keep the rats and animals at bay for a while.”

“Thanks, Marty. Sorry I wasn’t able to help out—had to stitch Roger up before he bled to death.”

“Yeah, Mac, I figured as much. Cody’s out with Snuff, grabbing up some kindling for chow. He’s taken quite a shine to her.”

Connor nodded and Marty glanced to the back room.

“So, how’re they holding up, Mac?”

“They’re probably gonna sleep until tomorrow, but we’ll plan on having them at dinner, Surf Boy .” He was pleased with Marty’s angry look.

“Snuff wants that to stick, doesn’t she?”

“It fits, Marty.”

“Well, I admit that I’ve had a similar nickname before.”

“Go figure.”

“Yeah.”

“You a surfer?”

“No.”

“Should be. Get comfortable, Surf Boy. Grab Cody and get a fire going.”

“Copy that.”

“I’m gonna go locate a couple a geese. I saw ’em earlier near that pond across the street.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe I’ll grab some geese eggs for breakfast, if I can find ’em. I’m taking Snuff with me, so you’re on guard duty.”