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Province of Man

Jaime DiNote


Because your own strength is unequal to the task, do not assume that it is beyond the powers of man; but if anything is within the powers and province of man, believe that it is within your own compass also. —Marcus Aurelius


1.


Bullets whizzed through the thick, yellowing underbrush, striking the trees with loud cracks. United Nations Peacekeeping Forces Lieutenant Sam Overstreet bounded between the ancient wooden pillars, making his way to a wounded comrade. While traversing the sparsely populated Saorsa Valley was slow under the best of circumstances, the bulky and bloodied first aid bag strapped to his chest made movement especially treacherous. Sam made the final sprint to his objective, taking advantage of a short lull while the rebels reloaded. He threw the aid bag to Captain Talia Jackson as he shouldered his rifle to return fire, panting from exertion and heat, “Who the fuck thought blue helmets were a good idea out here?”

Sam fought to control his breathing through the adrenaline and exertion of the sprint, the extra gravity taxing him more than it should have. He took aim and shot into the last area he’d noted as a firing position. He quipped to the injured company executive officer between bursts, “You know, this could be such a beautiful planet.”

Captain Jackson winced as she slapped a clotting agent on her wound and wrapped a tight bandage around her upper arm. “There’s something wrong with you, man. Keep shooting!” she ordered.

“What?” Sam pressed, firing another volley toward the enemy. “Just look at that sunset! Magical.”

Having staunched the blood flow, Jackson pushed herself up to retake her firing position, the rifle’s low recoil and the discarded autoinjector lying next to her allowing her to stay in the fight. With a pained grunt she barked, “Shut the fuck up, Street!”

Some people just don’t appreciate nature, Sam wisely took the cue that discretion was the better part of valor and toned it down.

Within minutes, the exchange tapered off and Sam hollered, “Cease fire!” The command echoed throughout the unit, and an uneasy silence followed.

Each platoon immediately dispersed to fulfill post-engagement duties. First platoon established and secured the perimeter, tended to the wounded, and documented the dead. Second platoon moved into the brush to collect intelligence and take any wounded combatants into custody.

The NCOs consolidated the remaining ammunition, redistributing it as needed. While lethal force was strictly prohibited, even the UN admitted that their Peacekeepers would need to defend themselves in such an openly hostile environment. Thus, in its infinite wisdom, the UNPF had deployed them to the field with a basic rifle and minimum combat load, one fifty-round magazine per soldier, along with a full complement of nonlethal munitions.

Sam stood next to Captain Jackson as First Sergeant Rachel Goodwin handed her a reloaded magazine and reported the casualties. “Ma’am, five wounded this time, four are ambulatory. Two dead.”

“Who?” asked Jackson, inserting the magazine into her rifle.

“Nuwayver and Hughes.”

“Shit,” Jackson swore. “No wonder Street had the aid bag. Hughes was a good medic, too. How many did we get?”

“Third squad’s checking that now, ma’am,” 1st Sgt Goodwin replied.

Jackson checked the counter on her rifle. “Whoa, First Sergeant, there’s only eight rounds in here.”

“What did you expect? We haven’t been resupplied in a month,” Goodwin reminded her. “That nonlethal shit is useless and it’s not like we were swimming in ammo when we got here. How long did you think one full mag apiece was going to last?”

Jackson threw up a hand to the First Sergeant, indicating her point was made. She was right—they had tried the nonlethal approach, per UN law and regulation. When the webs snared more trees than rebels, and the stunners accomplished nothing more than pissing off a nest of feral cats, the commander gave the order to abandon nonlethal altogether.

The three walked to the casualty collection point. Jackson spoke to the acting squad leader, Sergeant Second Class Palacio, gathering information for her report and checking in with her men. Sam took the opportunity to help to keep their spirits up through the pain.

“Halt!” They heard the security team shout at an approaching person. “Who is it?”

“Lieutenant Ansbach and second platoon,” came the reply.

“Blackbeard!” the soldier shouted, issuing the challenge.

“Pirate!” Lieutenant Second Class Jennifer Ansbach responded with the password, annoyed.

“Approach slowly and be identified.”

“Fuck you, it’s me!” She flipped off the smirking Peacekeeper pulling security as she passed him.

Once Lt. Ansbach was through the perimeter, she took off at a sprint toward the XO. “Captain Jackson! You need to come with me.”

“What is it, LT?”

“Prisoners, ma’am.”

“Street,” Jackson called, “let’s go.”

They followed Lt. Ansbach to their prisoner collection point inside the company perimeter as she quickly briefed them on the most promising intelligence prospect they had found yet.

“Two males, one approximately mid-forties, the other about twenty. One female, looks maybe fifteen. We found them making their way back to their base, probably going for reinforcements. All wounded to some degree, we’re offering what medical aid we can, but it doesn’t look good for the elder male. Figured you’d want to question him while you can.”

“Good work, Jen.”

As they approached the casualty collection point, they saw the older man lying on the ground, blood turning his light blue shirt a deep crimson. The young girl held his hand, allowing the ground forces to render aid under her suspicious watch, her blond hair held back by the long braid running down her back. The younger man sat a few meters from them, receiving a splint on a broken tibia and a bandage on the bullet wound that caused it, trading insults with the Peacekeeper working on him. He was a handsome man, obviously strong, with short, dark hair and the kind of build that one develops after years of hard physical labor. If he’d been smaller or weaker, he might have lost the leg.

“I got this. Street, you go talk to the young guy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam veered off toward the young man, instinctively putting on his kindest, most disarming smile.

The young man was still arguing with the acting medic.

Oh, an ornery colonial. Who could have seen that coming? Sam thought sarcastically. He could see the Peacekeeper guarding the young man tighten his grip on his rifle, and Sam took this as his cue to intervene.

He placed a calm hand on the Peacekeeper’s shoulder and said, “Stand down, Sergeant Price. I think I’d be pretty riled up too in his place, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant snarled, never breaking eye contact with the young colonial. He reluctantly removed his finger from the trigger guard and placed it alongside the receiver.

Sam slapped the sergeant on the back, “There we go!” He turned to the injured colonial, “Now that we’re all calm, tell me, what’s your name?”

The young man spat at him, “Eat shit, aardvark!”

Sam repeated the phrase aloud slowly, thoughtfully, “‘Eatshit Aardvark.’ I’ve never heard that name before. What is that? Lithuanian?”

The young man stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What do you people want from us?”

Sam stepped toward him and squatted down to look him in the eye, still flashing his friendliest smile. “Well, Eatshit, I’m Lieutenant Sam Overstreet from the United Nations 429th Peacekeeping Civil Affairs Regiment. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. Our mission here is to meet with local civic leaders to discuss exactly how our people can help your people. We’re here to have a dialogue; try to get us all on the same page so we can work together for a better Grainne.”

“We don’t need your help. We don’t want your help. We were doing just fine until you assholes stormed our farm!”

“Everyone needs a little help now and then, Eatshit. We have reports of Colonial Ground Forces hiding out in this area and we’d hate for you to get caught up in all that.”

The young man gritted his teeth and inhaled deeply, “Name’s Jeremiah and we are obviously not FMF! The only people on my property were my parents and siblings; just the seven of us.” His eyes shimmered with tears as he forced words through a tightened throat. “And now, thanks to you, my mother, two brothers, and my baby sister are all dead.”

“I’m sorry—” Sam started, having lost his friendly smile. Now all he could feel was shame and pain for this young man.

“Don’t!” Jeremiah shouted at him. “Don’t even try it. Since when is an unarmed six-year-old girl an enemy soldier? You slaughtered my family! I hope the resistance sends you all home in bags. Now get the hell away from me so I can say goodbye to my father.”

Sam said nothing, simply nodded to the others to give Jeremiah some room. He offered the young colonial help to stand, knowing he’d refuse it. Instead, Jeremiah chose to crawl the few meters to his only surviving family. He held his father’s hand, saying a tearful goodbye, and then cried with his remaining sister once the man’s final, ragged breath left him.

Jackson approached Sam, “You get anything?”

He paused, still reeling from the sight of the decimated civilian family in front of him, then shook his head, “No, ma’am. He says they’re just farmers.”

Jackson’s voice dripped with skepticism, “They’re all ‘just farmers.’”

“Maybe that’s because this is a farming community? When was the last time we encountered an actual Colonial soldier?”

“Even if they are civilians, that doesn’t mean they don’t funnel information and supplies to the resistance. Come on, we’re losing daylight. We’ll question them back at base. Wildlife will be out soon.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think they’re inclined to answer many questions.” Sam knew he was being borderline insubordinate, but he silently implored her to show this family some compassion.

Jackson looked him dead in the eye, “They never are.”

She turned away and made a wide swooping motion above her head like a vertol’s main rotors, giver her soldiers a focal point as she called to them, “Bring it in!”

Sam continued watching the family while Jackson gave the company their marching orders. The girl, whose name he still didn’t know, was trying to help her hefty brother to his feet as the POW escort team pulled her away to restrain her hands.

“For your safety, ma’am,” they said without a shred of emotion or patience, pushing her roughly toward the formation.

Jeremiah lost his balance on the uneven terrain and fell bodily on his injured leg, screaming out at the sudden sharp pain.

Sam moved forward to secure his bloody, loosened bandage. Jeremiah gritted his teeth through obvious pain as Sam tried to keep him calm. “It’s alright, Jeremiah. You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you back to our base and fix you up. Let me see if I can find you some pain meds, okay? I’ll be right back.”

No sooner had he stood up to find the aid bag than he saw Sergeant Second Class Jeffrey Price level his rifle at Jeremiah. Without a word or hesitation, Sergeant Price fired a single round through Jeremiah’s forehead.

Sam stood in shock, unable to breathe. His vision narrowed at the sight of unmitigated gore splayed on the ground before him. He barely registered the distant sound of the young woman screaming for her brother before his world widened once again.

“What the fuck was that?!” he screamed and lunged for Sergeant Price.

Jackson was by his side in an instant, holding him back. Price spoke calmly, emotionlessly, as though he’d just squashed a spider. “He moved to attack you, sir. You’re welcome.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“Stand down, Overstreet!” Captain Jackson ordered him. “Look, there’s nothing we could do for him anyway. It’s getting dark and we still have to climb a fucking mountain. Pretty tough to navigate these woods after nightfall and we still have our wounded to carry. We got to move, and we don’t need another casualty slowing us down even more. We’ll deal with Price back at base.”

She let go of him and motioned for the specialists to search the body for intel before moving him next to his father.

“Stick a few grenades under the bodies,” 1st Sgt Goodwin called to her troops. Sam tried to protest, but she continued with a smirk that never reached her dead, gray eyes, “For the wildlife, of course.”

Sam still stared at the body, sick to his stomach at the carnage he’d witnessed. He tried weakly to speak, “Ma’am . . . ”

Jackson shouldered her rifle and surveyed her company, looking once more at him before walking away, “Shit ain’t so fucking funny now, is it, Lieutenant?”


2


Sam spent the next day alone in his quarters, the recycled air blasting him with the smell of sixty other inadequately washed asses. At least it was cool. Well, cooler than the sweltering outside. He stared out his small window. The usually breathtaking mountainside view seemed dusty and dingy through the emotional tempest raging in his mind.

The ersatz outpost was securely nestled into a rocky plateau in the upper foothills above the Saorsa Valley. It was small and sturdy enough for brief exercises, but was never intended for long-term missions. After some field expedient modifications, the unit managed to turn the Standard Pop-Up Rigid Shelter System, or “SPURSS,” into a one-hundred-meter compound, complete with housing, office space, supply room, infirmary, and detention cells.

Sam’s mind raced, reviewing and processing the previous day’s events. He’d seen death, even killing, but never had he so closely witnessed cold, calculated murder, and he admitted to himself that he was ill-equipped to handle it. What the hell am I doing here? I’m not supposed to be patrolling villages. I’m a legal assistant, for God’s sake!

Confused and angry, he let his thoughts wander back over the month they’d been stranded on an inhospitable mountainside and how far his once respectable unit had fallen in that time.

This was not at all what he’d imagined when he volunteered for this deployment. His job was simply to shadow his law school mentor and fellow reservist, Lieutenant Major Darin Cantrell, in keeping the unit’s legal paperwork in order and the commander out of trouble. Sam was good at his job, but he knew there was more to being a good soldier than simple administrative busywork. During Sam’s previous two years at Vanderbilt Law, he’d taken every possible class Darin offered and came to regard the prior enlisted special operator-turned-JAG as both a warrior and a scholar. Sam desperately wanted to follow in his footsteps.

Sam thought he’d hit the deployment jackpot when Darin told him about the commander. Major Beau Lemaire was one of Darin’s oldest friends and a direct disciple of General Huff, often lauded as one of his “High-potential Officers.” This made him practically a shoo-in for stars someday, and Lemaire got there by being among the most “by-the-book” officers in the UNPF.

Sam learned quickly, however, that the greatest lessons are often borne of adversity.

He thought back to his first command meeting on the ground.


Four Weeks Earlier


The senior leaders and legal team gathered in Maj. Lemaire’s office. It was a small room with too few chairs and far too much dust. Normally a stickler for uniform dress and appearance, Lemaire looked rumpled and dirty, with worry lines creasing his forehead. The uncertainty was palpable as the commander cleared his throat to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, an electrical storm hit our outpost three days ago, destroying our primary powercell and damaging the backup in the process. The strike caused a power surge and fire in the equipment room which fried, literally, our communications equipment, and killed Privates Yates and Dixon. As such, we currently have no way to contact MOB Unity, the TOC, or anyone else.”

Lemaire looked to Lt. Maj. Cantrell and took a breath before continuing. “What you may not know is that early this morning, fire watch sentries reported distant, high altitude flashes in the general direction of MOB Unity,” he paused to read from his notes, “accompanied by a reentry streak and a large, rope-like object falling to the surface.”

“Skywheel?” Capt. Jackson ventured a guess.

“That’s what it sounds like, Captain.”

Lt. Ansbach spoke up, “What does this mean, sir?”

“It means that Unity is probably going to have their hands full cleaning up wherever that filament landed, and it may be a while before they can get to us. Once they realize we haven’t checked in, they should send a crew to check our last known position. Might take a week or so. In the meantime, we’re on our own. We can repair our backup powercell, we have supplies. We’re going to be fine. We are going to continue working to reestablish contact, but we also have a job to do. We can’t get home, so let’s do what we came here to do and meet with these locals. Understood?”

The tiny room resonated with a strong “Yes, sir!”

“Captain Jackson, get your team together. You move out in two days. Lt. Maj. Cantrell, you’re going with her.”

“The JAG?” Jackson asked, confused. “Why?”

“You’re an excellent soldier, Captain, but Lt. Maj. Cantrell is an expert at interpersonal relations and diplomacy, and quite frankly, you’re not. Learn from him. Dismissed.”

* * *

That first patrol set the tone for their time in the Saorsa Valley. Like most encounters, it started out tense and cold, with the locals giving just enough lip service to get the UN to move on. No one knew who fired the first round, but that rarely matters when bullets are flying. One Peacekeeper fell almost immediately, and Lt. Maj. Cantrell insisted they break contact. It was over in less than a minute as both sides retreated to safety.

The first combat loss was a sucker punch to the entire company. Everyone knew it would happen eventually but seeing it on the first patrol was hard for them all. The most devastating blow came later that night.

Lt. Maj. Cantrell’s injuries, like everyone else who made it out, were minor, mostly cuts and scrapes. He never even mentioned them. However, without the ability to monitor him properly, they were unable to detect the impending heart attack brought on by the stress of battle. His peaceful death in his cot that same evening truly brought home the reality of their predicament.

They were alone.

As the weeks came and went without contact beyond the valley, isolation affected everyone differently. Captain Jackson focused on physical fitness. Several of the enlisted relieved their stress in an unauthorized bare-knuckle fight club, courtesy of 1st Sgt. Goodwin, who ensured the chain of command tacitly ignored its existence. Others turned to sex for human contact. For his part, Sam simply socialized with the troops; “smokin’ and jokin’” as the old saying went.

It seemed to affect Maj. Lemaire the most, though. After Cantrell’s death, Lemaire’s staunch adherence to regulations started to fray. He let go of little things at first; grooming standards and fraternization rules grew laxer. His normally meticulous attention to detail when documenting personnel actions slipped. He even participated in some interrogations personally. It was unlike the commander, but this was uncharted territory for everyone, so Sam and the other officers shrugged it off; some behavioral changes were bound to happen.

The Peacekeepers avoided killing whenever possible, but they detained as many as they could for questioning. Maj. Lemaire was convinced the next interrogation would reveal the hidden insurgent assets. The interrogators were simply being too soft in their methods. He therefore pushed them to get answers by any means necessary.

Sam even got in on the action sometimes, as he was present at every interrogation to ensure they followed procedure. The first time he smacked a POW upside the head for some particularly vulgar threats toward a female specialist, he was surprised at his actions and horrified at his enjoyment.

Another prisoner received a closed fist punch to the gut after a tense exchange. Emboldened by the lack of discipline and a growing storehouse of anger at the death of his friends, Sam waterboarded a POW.

Once.

Sam was scowling, mid-pour, when the gravity of his actions finally struck him. He dropped the bucket to the ground, snatched the filthy, piss-soaked rag off the man’s face, and marched straight to Maj. Lemaire’s office to surrender himself for disciplinary action.

Maj. Lemaire’s words echoed in Sam’s head, “He give you anything?”

Sam was astounded at his reaction. He barely stuttered out, “N-No, sir.”

Lemaire looked back at the pad on his desk. “Damn. Well, keep trying.”

“Sir, we’ve questioned every man, woman, and child we’ve come across. No one has known anything about Colonial military units or resistance cells. I think it’s time to reconsider our approach out here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Overstreet,” Lemaire said dismissively. “They’re out there, and we’re going to find them. Now get back to work.”

That was the breaking point for Sam. He returned to his bunk angry and disappointed. He’d committed a war crime; he’d tortured a POW. He sat at his desk with a stack of legal pads and wrote down every detail he could about every interaction the unit had with the locals. No more, he thought. I can’t stop it, but I can document it.


3


The day after the encounter at the farm, Sam forced himself, yet again, to press pen to paper and record the actions that he and his unit had taken within the cloisters of that unassuming valley. The combat deaths, while tragic and painful, didn’t bother him nearly as much as seeing a civilian executed in cold blood. He’d had enough. Price deserved a bullet, but a cell would suffice, and Sam was determined to see Lemaire put him in one.

Sam was reading back through all his notes when he heard a sharp knock on his door, breaking his concentration.

“Street!” Captain Jackson’s voice boomed from outside the thin door.

He flung the door open, angry at the interruption.

“Boss wants to see you.” Jackson stared at his flushed face and bloodshot eyes but didn’t acknowledge them. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. He took a deep breath, grabbed his notebook and weapon, and set off for the commander’s office. It was late, but Lemaire’s work hours had become as erratic as his behavior.

Sam was mentally rehearsing what he planned to say to the commander when he rounded a corner in the POW holding area. He approached the detention cells and saw Sergeant Price exit a room, adjusting his belt.

Immediately suspicious, Sam listened closely, and heard faint crying from within the cell. It was the colonial girl that they’d taken into custody the previous day. He stopped Price, and already knowing the answer, asked, “What the hell is going on here? You know no one is to be alone with a detainee. What were you doing in there?”

Price said nothing but flashed a self-satisfied smirk, drew a blood-streaked finger under his nose, and pointed at Sam, winking.

Sam saw red. Without thinking, he grabbed his rifle and smashed the butt of it into Price’s smiling face. Price’s nose gushed blood and he staggered back. Sam attacked again, swinging his rifle like a club into Price’s stomach. Price lurched over, spitting blood on the dirty floor. Sam grabbed his collar and threw him headfirst into the wall. Price fell to the ground, dazed, and Sam landed a couple of solid kicks to Price’s torso.

He lifted Price’s head by his uniform collar and snarled in his ear, “Get up, shitbag.”

Price unsteadily got to his knees and Sam pulled him to his feet, keeping a hand on Price’s collar and the muzzle of his rifle in his back. He half dragged the disoriented NCO the last twenty meters to Maj. Lemaire’s door, fighting the temptation to pull the trigger the entire way.

Ignoring all customs and courtesies, Sam opened the door and dropped Price at the incredulous commander’s feet. Without waiting for permission, he spoke simply and harshly, “Sir, this man goes into a cell. Now. And he does not come out.”

Lemaire, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit surprised or shocked. He slowly rose to his feet and crossed his arms. “What’s his crime, Lieutenant?”

“Murder, torture, and sexual battery of a minor.” Sam let himself get a good top-to-bottom look at the major. Lemaire hadn’t shaved in at least a week, and a splotchy, salt-and-pepper beard hid his lips. Once pressed and sharp as an arrowhead, Lemaire’s camo jacket looked like he’d just picked it up off the floor, like a drunk college kid who had finally run out of clean clothes.

Lemaire stared at Price for a moment, without a hint of warmth in his eyes. “Those are very serious charges, Lieutenant. Wait outside for a minute, please.”

Sam stepped into the hallway. Mere moments after shutting the door, he heard muffled voices, rising in volume and cheap furniture smashing against other solid objects. He couldn’t understand the words being spoken, but “wall-to-wall counseling” is a pretty universal language.

It lasted several minutes. When the two men emerged from the office, Price sported a few new injuries and was missing a tooth he’d definitely had before going into that room. Lemaire’s rumpled uniform was smeared with blood where he’d wiped his knuckles on a pant leg. The commander was panting when he called after the junior NCO, “And you’re on latrine duty the rest of the week. Clean yourself up, I don’t want any more blood on my floors.” He cleared his throat and addressed Sam. “LT, come on in.”

Sam watched Price limp down the hallway, flabbergasted that he was walking free. “Sir, where is he going?”

“The med tent for a bandage and then to his bunk. He’s got a long, early day tomorrow.” At Sam’s incredulity, he continued, waving a dismissive hand, “Don’t worry, we’ll have a guard at his door.”

“Wait a minute. That piece of shit murdered a man in cold blood—”

“He protected an officer from an enemy combatant,” Lemaire corrected.

“He’s permanently injured detainees with unauthorized, unwarranted use of force—”

“He used enhanced interrogation techniques,” Lemaire excused.

“And he just now raped an underage civilian in our detention cell!”

“That’s why he’s on extra duty for the foreseeable future. Look, he’s a sick fuck, but the reality is we don’t have the manpower to cover down if I lock him up. It hurts us more than it hurts him. It’s hard enough to keep an effective force in the field when we lose someone in combat. I simply cannot justify locking someone up when I could just work him like a dog.” Lemaire straightened some folders on his desk and threw out, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll have First Sgt. Goodwin keep him away from the prisoner areas. There, feel better?”

Sam tried to respond. He tried to scream that this was nowhere near sufficient. No words would escape his lips. Goodwin? Sam laughed internally. That psychopath?

“That’s not why I wanted to see you anyway,” Lemaire continued. He sat heavily in his chair and took a long swig of something in his coffee cup, wincing as he set it clumsily on the desk. “Do you know why we’re out here, LT?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam started, hesitating in order to collect his thoughts after the sudden subject change. “We’re here to bridge the civil-military divide. Win hearts and minds, provide humanitarian assistance—”

“Yeah, if possible,” Lemaire interrupted. He sipped from his cup again. “You’ve read about Operation Midnight Kestrel. The larger UN mission is to pacify this planet. If we can get these colonials on our side, great, but one way or another they’re going to fall in line. To do that, we need information about these people; information they’ve been reluctant to provide.”

“There are ways to go about that without violating LOAC.”

“How? You’ve made direct contact with the locals, spoken to them. How much do you think we’re going to get by asking nicely and offering bandages?”

Sam stared at his commander, concerned where he was going with this.

“You know that we’re completely cut off out here. The commo section thinks they’re close to creating a beacon, but we’ve got nothing so far. MOB Unity still hasn’t attempted to find us. There hasn’t even been a fly-by. Not one air recon sortie. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?”

He remained silent, afraid to speak.

“I’m saying no one is coming for us. Regimental HQ was on Base Unity, and it’s probably gone. Wiped out, I bet. There is no backup. If we show an ounce of weakness, these rebels will roll up here and slaughter every one of us. If we want to make it out alive, we must depend on each other. It’s important we’re all on the same page.”

“I agree with that, but a lot of the actions and behaviors here ever since we lost Lt. Maj. Cantrell have been wholly unacceptable even by the most lenient of standards.”

“You’re still relatively new here, and I know you’ll be graduating from law school soon. Darin, Lt. Maj. Cantrell, always spoke highly of you. Said you were a good kid, real smart.” His voice came out tight, just above a whisper. “Said you were a lot like him.”

“I miss him too, sir. He was a good man.”

They shared a moment of mournful silence while Lemaire poured Sam a mug of whiskey from a bottle Sam was positive he’d seen confiscated from an elderly man two weeks ago.

“Do you know how I met Darin?” Lemaire asked before Sam could refuse the offer or ask where he’d got it. Sam shook his head.

“We were on M’tali together, back with the 83rd Special Observation Group. I was a cherry lieutenant, just like you; didn’t know my ass from a crater, not that I understood that. Before he went to law school, he was my platoon sergeant. One day, out on patrol, he got a bad feeling. He told me to hang back. I didn’t listen. I stepped around a corner right as the bomb went off. He must have heard something because before I felt the heat from the blast, he’d already yanked me back and covered me up. Took a bunch of shrapnel in the process. Later on, after the medics released him, I asked him why he did it. You know what he said? He said, ‘You’re a thick-headed son of a bitch, sir, but being a hard learner shouldn’t have to be a death sentence. Stick with me, kid, I’ll never steer you wrong.’ And he never did. Not once.”

“That sounds like him.” Sam laughed and toasted his friend’s memory.

“I understand that you may find some of our investigative techniques distasteful.”

“Not distasteful. Illegal. We have to get information where we can, I get that, but—”

“Do you think they wouldn’t do the same to you? Because I assure you, these rebels are sadistic monsters who will not hesitate to slice you open and jump rope with your entrails while you watch.”

Sam deadpanned, “That’s awfully specific, sir.”

“Well, let me show you why.” Lemaire pulled out a hard copy file and handed it to Sam.

Confused, he took the folder and perused the contents, feeling more nauseated with every page.

“Long story short, what you’re looking at is what’s left of my cousin’s legs.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Right before we left, I got a message from him. He’s pretty well squirreled away in Emotional Health, but he managed to get this to me. I made a hard copy before the UN could intercept and delete it. Take a good, long look, LT. You’re looking at what happens when hammer meets bone, from toe to knee.”

Sam’s eyes widened. He hadn’t planned on drinking the whiskey, but that was an image he’d drink away under the best of circumstances.

“That’s just one example of what these people are capable of. Make no mistake, we are at war. We may not have vertols and artillery, we don’t even have crew-served weapons, but we are in the shit. And this,” he shook the folder, “is what we’re fighting against.”

“I understand, sir, but there are still limits. You keep saying we have a job to do. Well, so do I, whether you think I’m qualified for it or not, and that job is to keep you out of prison. The Geneva Convention, Mars Accords, law of armed conflict clearly state—”

“I know the laws!” Lemaire shouted. Mugs rattled and pens fell as his large fist hammered the desk like a gavel. “Here’s what you need to understand: those laws don’t apply right now! We don’t have the luxury of locking ourselves in that tiny box of approved rules of engagement. Out here, we follow the law of Four Point Three Millimeter. We engage, detain, and question these rebels under the law of Four Point Three. And, if necessary, we shoot them under it!”

As he shouted each numeral, Lemaire drove a finger into the wood of his desk, harder with each repetition. After a brief silence, Lemaire ran a frazzled hand through his growing hair, trying to regain his composure. “I’m not unreasonable and I’m not a monster, Sam. I’m not asking you to kill anyone, I won’t even ask you to question anyone. I understand not everyone has the stomach for this line of work, and that’s okay. You never have to set foot in an interrogation room again. I need to know you’re a member of our team, though, so I have one simple assignment for you.”

Knowing he wouldn’t like it, Sam asked anyway, “What is it?”

“That farm your team raided yesterday is now, supposedly, empty. The rebels have probably been using the buildings to stash weapons, medical supplies, food, equipment; all things we need here. You will go with Captain Jackson’s team and recover everything you possibly can. If they have a vehicle, use that to transport it all back, and then burn those buildings.”

“Sir, that property belongs to the girl in our detention cell. Where is she supposed to go when she’s released?”

“That’s not your problem. Our supplies are all but gone and no more are coming. I doubt we have a spare cryo pack for Price’s face right now. That house is our only shot.”

“I understand we need supplies, but there has to be another way. Some of the junior enlisted have already managed to barter a deck of cards for some vegetables. We could do the same.”

“I’m not begging for a goddamn thing.”

Sam took a deep breath. “Sir, as your legal advisor, I can defend gathering supplies. It’s still looting, but there are mitigating factors in play. However, destroying her home is completely indefensible. Why not just occupy it until we get out of here? The UN has been doing that since we arrived.”

“I considered it. However, we can’t leave this place unsecured and we don’t have the people to guard two locations. A full third of our people wouldn’t survive the movement over there. No, we can’t occupy it, and we can’t leave it available to the insurgents to turn into a stronghold.”

Sam hesitated before speaking, “I can’t go along with that. You know as well as I do, there is no enemy military operating in this area. Our post hasn’t been attacked once and we haven’t encountered anyone in a uniform of any kind. We haven’t had an intel update in over a month and everything we’ve learned on the ground here contradicts our pre-deployment briefings. Have you considered that the intel we have is just wrong?”

“Do you really think a bunch of damn farmers could take out this many of us? We’re the goddamn UN! No, if they’re not insurgents, they’re linked to them, and we’re going to find out how. You’re either going to help us do that, or you’re a liability.”

Sam didn’t like that word. “What do you mean ‘liability’?”

“All we have is us, and we cannot afford to have anyone on our team that we can’t trust when shit hits the fan. Rumor even has it that you’ve got some of the junior enlisted questioning orders and second-guessing our intelligence. I can’t have an incipient mutiny, Sam.”

“What are you getting at?”

It suddenly got very quiet. Lemaire stared stone-faced at the young lieutenant and slid a handwritten note across his cheap field desk. “Go ahead, read it. Aloud.”

Sam took the paper warily and read his commander’s words:


Dear Mr. and Mrs. Overstreet,

It is with profound sadness that I must inform you of Sam’s passing. His platoon was ambushed during a routine patrol. Several men were critically wounded and Sam, without regard to his own safety, bravely reentered the fight to pull as many as he could to safety. Regrettably, he succumbed to his injuries before the medics could reach him.

Sir, ma’am, Sam sacrificed himself to save nearly a dozen of his men. His loss is a terrible one, but his heroism will live on. I only hope you feel the same pride in his memory that I do.

I am so very sorry for your loss.

Respectfully,

Maj. Beau Lemaire

Company C/429th Peacekeeping Civil Affairs Regiment, Commander


A chill came over Sam as he stared at the handwritten letter. He looked at his commander, his eyes betraying his terror and indignation. “What the hell is this?”

“Loyalty, Sam. The most important quality in a tactical unit is trust, and right now, you don’t have that. These soldiers need to know that you have their back, that you’ll support them when we do get home. I can’t have anyone here that won’t. So, you’ve got two choices: you can fall in line, however distasteful you may find that, or,” he tapped the paper, “you can go home a hero. Dismissed.”

Sam stood, staring at his commander through narrowed eyes. “You know Darin would never have stood for this.”

“Darin’s not here anymore, son. I’ll give you a few days to think about it.”

“Thanks for the drink.” Sam downed the last of his whiskey, unceremoniously dropped the mug on the desk, and walked straight back to his bunk.


4


As his head hit the black duffle bag he used as a pillow, Sam’s predicament fully sank in. Sam was grateful for the drink he’d received, but he could use three or four more to help process the decision in front of him. He’d figured out pretty quickly that he wouldn’t survive this deployment unscathed. If the unit had the resources handy, Sam would have already made an appointment with Mental Health. Now, however, the odds of him surviving this deployment at all were shrinking by the hour.

Truthfully, he had no love for the Grainneans. Sure, waterboarding was technically torture, but he’d just seen with his own eyes the unspeakable things they did to their prisoners. Rebel depravity was legendary. All Lemaire wanted him to do was torch a few buildings. He could easily do exactly that, with zero repercussions. It wasn’t as if Sam was innocent anyway. If he reported the violations going on at the OP, he’d have to report himself too, and his career would be over before it even began. His commander was offering him protection. It was a conspiracy, but protection nonetheless, if he could bring himself to go along with it.

A gentle knock broke Sam from his reverie. He opened the door to see Captain Jackson. “Ma’am?”

She was still in uniform, but with an unbuttoned blouse, barely concealing an object between it and her black t-shirt. Her battle-worn expression never changed as she pulled the unlabeled bottle from inside her blouse just enough to show him. “Let’s talk.”

He stepped aside to allow her in. “Ma’am, what’s—?”

“First off, cut that ‘ma’am’ shit out. We’re off the record. For this conversation only, it’s ‘Talia.’ Second, I talked to Lemaire. I know what you got in front of you. I thought you could use a friend to help you figure it out.”

“Friend?” Sam said, surprised.

“Yeah, a friend. You know, someone who’s not actively trying to kill you. Ever heard of one?” she shot back handing him the bottle.

He looked at the clear liquid a moment before pouring two small glasses, “So, friend, where’d you get this?”

“Tactical acquisition.”

“You stole it from the property room.”

She took her glass from him, “You gonna report me?”

“Seeing as how I’m soon to be a war criminal or a dead man, I think I can let this one slide. Cheers.” He took a large sip, coughed, and nearly spat it across the room. Sucking air only made it burn worse as he choked out, “Holy shit! Is this fucking paint thinner? How do you drink this stuff?”

“Grainnean moonshine. Seems they do everything a bit bigger here, like the fucked-up wildlife.” She actually let a smile show as she took a long swallow, “You want me to find you some juice to cut it with, junior?”

“Could you?” he said, still coughing. “Shit.”

They laughed a moment, letting their nerves calm.

“You know what your problem is?” Talia said, her arm draping over the pile of body armor next to her on his cot.

“A shitty career counselor?” Sam joked, wondering if the moonshine would eat through his glass before he could drink it.

“Shut the fuck up, Street.” She shook her head at him and continued, “There’s no gray in your life. You live in world of black and white, absolute good or absolute evil. Life doesn’t work like that.”

“You’re saying some of this stuff going on here is excusable?”

“I’m saying you need more information before you can decide to excuse it or not. You know why I joined the UN?”

Sam shook his head and steeled himself before taking another small sip.

“I grew up, what you might call, ‘hood-rat adjacent.’ There are still some rough neighborhoods in the greater Philadelphia-Baltimore megaplex, and I had friends, even family, get sucked into the life. Drugs, guns, running from man to man, just trying to get by. Some did, a whole lot of them didn’t. I spent too much time visiting jails and cemeteries, and all for dumb shit. Hundreds of years of this shit. I was not going out like that.”

Talia took another swig. “My best friend growing up, Sheena, got into the party scene pretty deep and never left. Last time I saw her was about ten years ago, right before I left for the academy. We were at this bullshit party and they were passing something around, I don’t even know what it was. A pipe came out and I left the room.”

She stared into her glass, swirling the noxious liquid within it, “Next thing I know, cops bust in, half the people are restrained. A couple guys were on the ground twitching from the tasers. Sheena and me hid in a back room, waiting for the adrenaline to die down. When they searched the house, this older fat-fuck cop found us. We were just waiting for them, on our knees, facing the door, hands up. I was clean, but just getting arrested would have cost me my slot. I was freaking out, but Sheena had been around enough to know all the dirtbags. She ended up negotiating an exchange with him: if he let us go, no record of us being there, she’d make sure he went home a happy man.”

Talia shrugged her shoulders and made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but not quite a “humph” either. “Long story short, he came out about five minutes later, panting like a dog, bright red, wiping sweat off his neck. He ushered us outside, gave us some fakeass directions as a cover, and sent us on our way. Said two nice girls like us should be more careful, it’s easy to get lost around there.”

“So, let me get this straight, your friend traded sexual favors to get out of jail, and that inspired you to join the UN?” Sam said, confused.

“No, man, pay attention! She didn’t give a shit about jail! That girl could do a month in lockup standing on her head. She did that for me, because she knew I actually had a ticket out. You understand what I’m telling you?”

“That Bos-Philly-Balmo continues its ancient tradition of dirty cops?”

“Motherf—!” She threw a kneepad at his head, exasperated. “Such a damn smartass. I told you this because sometimes, a situation requires you to make sacrifices you normally wouldn’t, including your dignity on occasion. Sheena made some bad choices, a lot of bad choices, that don’t make her a bad person.”

She let him think about that for a minute while she sipped her drink.

“There are a lot of good people in this unit. We’re all just trying to make it to the next day.”

“Good people like 1st Sgt. Goodwin who boobytrapped a civilian casualty? Like Price who murdered a man and then raped his sister?”

“I’m not arguing about them. Price is a piece of shit; always has been. I tried getting him kicked off the mission, but Goodwin wasn’t having that.” Talia paused, “To be honest with you, Goodwin scares the hell out of me. She’s also the reason these soldiers are ready and able to do this job. She’s been in this unit longer than anyone and trained almost everyone here, me included. She’s smart and resourceful, and these people will follow her straight into hell.”

“So, they should get a pass on things the goddamn system commander has specifically forbidden? I should ignore things that have been illegal for centuries?”

“I’m saying you can’t report one person without reporting everyone. You’ll never make it stick. No one is going to say a goddamn word and there are no recordings to prove anything. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done here, I know you’re not either, but we can’t deal with that right now.”

Talia paused, and Sam instinctively knew that whatever she said next would be the complete and honest truth. Her voice grew low. “I don’t know about you, but I want to go the fuck home, and I promise you I am going home. I’ll do whatever I have to. I like you. I think you’re a good kid with a bright future. I want to see you make it too. You got to pull your head out of your ass first. Pick your battles. No matter how much you hate it, you can’t win this one.”

Sam contemplated her words for a moment as she stood to button her uniform blouse. “Do you think he’ll do it? Would he really send me home in a box?”

She sat back down on his rickety field chair. “If you asked me that question two months ago, I’d have said ‘Hell no, you’re crazy for even thinking it.’ There used to be a lot of complaints about that coldhearted bitch Goodwin. She was rough—borderline abusive—but effective enough and no one was willing to take the political risk of firing a lesbian. That’s why Lemaire got this assignment in the first place; to balance her out and keep her in check. He was good at it, too! Something with them just clicked as a team and it was great. He hasn’t been right since Cantrell died, though. I don’t know if it was that or the isolation or something else, but he’s different now. I’ve been with him for a couple of years and I never would have thought this part of him existed. I don’t know the Lemaire we got now, but I’d say he’s capable of damn near anything.”

She stood again and walked to his door.

He spoke as she reached for the knob. “Thanks, Talia. I guess I have some thinking to do.”

“Don’t take too long. He won’t wait forever.” She left him to consider his very few options.


5


Sleep didn’t come to Sam that night. He paced around his room, even flipped a coin to decide his fate. Logically, he knew there wasn’t much to decide. He was a brand-new officer, barely out of training, not even a licensed attorney yet. He was a nobody, and he’d be taking on one of the most well-respected officers in the UNPF without a shred of evidence beyond his own notebook. He knew Talia was right, all he had to do was convince his conscience.

Sam lay down in his bunk, exhausted, wired, and still working off a buzz from the moonshine. He doubted that stuff wasn’t pure rocket fuel, but he was grateful nonetheless.

He heard something fall to the ground next to his bed and reached down blindly to retrieve it. Sam knew the moment he touched the leather binding that it was Darin’s journal. Sam had collected it and some other personal effects from his mentor’s room after his death, intending to keep them safe until he could return them to Darin’s wife.

He flipped the book open, skimming the pages, hoping for some kernel of wisdom from beyond the grave. The journal was mostly personal stories about Cantrell’s family, but he included information about several clients as well.

Darin Cantrell had been a highly sought-after defense attorney, enormously successful, and as such had many clients at any given time. Darin did, however, document the ones who served to teach a greater lesson than their simple case file might suggest. One example involved an extraordinarily wealthy local businessman-turned-politician, a long-time client, accused of taking indecent liberties with his children’s underage babysitter.

Sam remembered the case vividly, as it was one of the first to cross his desk during his internship at Darin’s law firm. It was a slam-dunk case; the evidence was mostly circumstantial, and anything incriminating via forensics had been so thoroughly botched that Darin could have easily challenged it. The legal fees alone would have let Darin retire. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have taken the case, but something just didn’t feel right.

Darin refused to take it.

At great professional risk to himself, he not only “fired” the man and threw him loudly from the office, but also publicly disavowed his client, sending a message to other attorneys that they should avoid the case as well. The average private attorney’s nature being what it always has been, Darin mainly succeeded in chumming the waters. The man quickly found himself a less scrupulous attorney and beat the charges.

Sam remembered sitting in Darin’s office after the acquittal, his curiosity eating at him.

* * *

“I have to ask,” Sam started, unable to contain himself another minute, “Why? He beat the charges, he’s still in office. The only thing firing him accomplished was getting someone else paid. What gives?”

“You completely missed the point. This outcome was a foregone conclusion from the beginning. Never any chance of it going another way,” Darin explained.

“Then why not just take the case?”

“Just because it was inevitable doesn’t make it right. I represented that guy for years. I considered him a friend. He was always a little slimy; you don’t get where he is without bending some ethical rules, but he’d never done anything so blatantly criminal before. I really wanted this to be another false accusation, Sam. I was hoping that her parents were just trying to shake him down for money, like the others, but you saw the case file. You saw the photos and read the medical reports. Did any of that look consensual to you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve known some pretty freaky chicks,” Sam offered.

“Were any of them fourteen years old? Because last I checked, a child can’t consent to being ‘freaky.’ As soon as he tried that tired ‘she seduced me’ bullshit, I was done with him. I’ll burn this place to the ground before I go to court for someone who fucks kids, consensual or not, and I’m damn sure not going to further traumatize a child for a fucking payday. There’s plenty of scumbag lawyers in this town, they can have him. I may not be able to retire right now, but at least I can sleep just fine.”

“But she was traumatized anyway.”

“Can’t be helped. Just because I can’t make it right, doesn’t mean I have to be a part of it.”

Sam silently absorbed his words.

“Remember, kid, it’s easy to do the right thing when you benefit from it. It’s when doing the right thing costs you that you learn what kind of person you are.”

* * *

Sam closed the book and lay back down, staring at the blackness outside his window. So, what kind of man am I?

He thought about his parents, his girlfriend, and his dog back on Earth. He wanted to see them again. He wanted to settle down, get married, and have a bunch of smartass, brown-haired kids just like him. In order to do that, he had to live, and he’d have to look himself in the mirror every day, knowing what horror he had allowed to continue.

Sam spent the next few hours finishing his documentation of the goings on in the Saorsa Valley and writing letters to his family. Knowing they’d likely never read them, he begged for their forgiveness anyway.

When he was finally spent, he watched the first rays of sun break the horizon. He dragged himself, too stiff and sore for his twenty-six years, out of his chair and back to Lemaire’s office, the light and humor drained from his eyes, replaced with resignation.

He banged his fist on Lemaire’s locked office door. He pounded the door hard enough he thought he might break through it. Sam didn’t care what was going on in there. He had to do this before he could talk himself out of it.

He raised his hand to pound again when he heard shuffling from inside.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Lemaire’s voice came weakly.

When the door cracked open, he noticed Lemaire’s bloodshot eyes and the smell of stale whiskey wafting from his dirty clothes. Sam fought a sneer as the last vestiges of the respect he once held for this broken man faded away.

Officially dispensing with all formalities, Sam rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw, “I’m in.”

Lemaire’s expression never changed. “Glad to hear it. Report to Captain Jackson. She’ll get you spun up.”

Without a word of acknowledgement, Sam spun on his heels and walked away.

The next three days were some of the most intense Sam had ever experienced. Commissioning into the Judge Advocate General corps, he intellectually understood that his combat training was inadequate, but training for an actual mission with Captain Jackson and her team showed him just how badly the UN prepared support personnel like himself.

As a last minute “tag along” on the mission to Jeremiah’s farm, he simply fell back on his basic training skills. Sam had some natural athletic ability and could hold his own with a rifle. Jackson and Goodwin taught him to clear a room and not flag his teammates with the muzzle of his weapon. His skills improved dramatically, but it was perfectly clear to everyone that Sam would never be first in the stack.

The morning of the mission, Sam felt completely nauseated from nerves. He hadn’t crossed the line yet, but in a few hours, he’d be face-to-face with his point of no return. He packed his necessary gear and stashed anything sensitive or private into a hidden compartment in his footlocker, including the journal. Gripping the small book one last time, he willed the worn leather to give him some of Darin’s courage and strength of conviction. With one last steadying breath, he hid the book and replaced the false panel.

Time to go, he thought. He grabbed his pack and rifle, then set off to form up at the gate.

As usual, the trek down the steep mountain slope was treacherous and slow, the loose rocks threatening to give way at the slightest misstep. The wet, fallen foliage made the journey even more dangerous.

On one particularly bad step in the high gravity, Sgt. Palacio slipped on a large, dewy boulder and tumbled several meters down the slope, grunting as he bounced and rolled. He only stopped upon colliding with a well-placed tree.

“I’m good!” Palacio called up to the squad, giving a wobbly thumbs up.

“Just sit, Palacio,” Jackson yelled back. “We’ll make our way down to you.”

“Papa was a rolling stone,” sang Sam, invoking his ancient Temptations collection. “Wherever he laid his hat was his home.”

“Shut the fuck up, Street!” Jackson chastised.

After regaining Palacio, they proceeded down the mountain unobstructed by man or nature, though the heat, god, it never ceased. The squad was mostly silent, save for a few comments here and there as the soldiers egged each other on. Sam tried to crack more jokes; it was the only way he could calm his rapidly fraying nerves. Jackson, however, quickly quashed unnecessary conversation, making it clear to all of them that she was in no mood for frivolity.

Sam swallowed hard as they approached the outer perimeter of the farmland. Even here in the mountains, the hot air did nothing to cool the nervous sweat on his neck. While much had happened since then, the sight of young Jeremiah’s murder remained fresh in Sam’s memory. He tried to push it down and instead took in every detail around him. He searched for any indication of insurgent involvement, hoping to find something.

The teams dispersed around the property. Some gathered food from the fields, others ransacked the main house for weapons and medical supplies. A third team searched the barn and other outer buildings for vehicles and other useful items.

Sam supervised the team inside the house. He tested wall panels, floorboards, and checked under beds for rebel caches, praying something would turn up to justify their mission.

All he found were keepsakes and gut-wrenching family pictures. He saw bright, happy blue eyes and smiling faces. He saw two loving parents playing with their children and cooing over babies. Grainne was a harsh, unforgiving planet, and this family had found their little slice of heaven.

Sam ran outside and retched into a flower bed. He heaved until Captain Jackson came to check on him.

“Street, what’s up?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Sam wouldn’t make eye contact, tears welling in his eyes. “Ma’am, I can’t do this. Everything we were told about this farm is wrong. These people were never a threat. There is no military presence here.”

“They killed two of our people. We have every reason to believe they’re hiding military resources out here,” Jackson responded, her head on a constant swivel. Even through Sam’s emotional distress, he noticed that she seemed more interested in making sure the troops heard her than watching for an enemy.

“And we gunned down a child in her mother’s arms!”

“Every war has casualties.”

“Face it, ma’am, Lemaire lied to us!” Sam finally fixed her with his gaze. “There’s absolutely zero evidence that anyone from the colonial military or any rebel resistance cell has ever been in this house, much less staged anything here. There’s nothing of military value anywhere, no hidden compartments, no cache of munitions or supplies. This was just a family.”

She sounded impatient as she said, “All we can do is press on with our mission. They’re already dead. We can’t help them.”

Sam turned and placed his hands on the smooth wooden railing surrounding the porch on which they stood. He imagined Jeremiah and his father sanding the wood by hand while the younger children played. His chest ached in sorrow and he squeezed the fine wood with all his might. “Fine, take the food, take whatever supplies you can find. But I’m not torching every single tangible memory an innocent girl has of her family. I won’t destroy her home. I won’t be a part of this.”

Jackson threw her hands up, exasperated. “Why do you care so much? What’s so damn special about this girl?”

Sam’s voice was calm and peaceful, “It’s not about her. Sometimes the line between right and wrong can blur, but this isn’t blurry. This is definitely wrong. I’ve decided what kind of man I am, and I will not go along with this.”

Jackson noticed 2LT Ansbach and two of her troops standing to the side, waiting to update the captain on their progress in the barn.

Jackson’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper as she moved in close to Sam. Her eyes boring into his. “You know you can’t win this.”

Sam nodded, “I know.”

Jackson sighed and dropped her gaze. “I understand.”

* * *

Jackson signaled Lt. Ansbach to approach. She’d be available in just a minute. Turning back to Overstreet, she gestured behind him, “Go on and help the guys inside load up supplies. We’re about done here.”

Sam met her eyes one last time, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Jackson didn’t respond, just nodded in the direction he should go.

He placed a hand on the door handle and Jackson pulled her sidearm. She pointed it directly at the back of Sam’s head. Her hand shook as she took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The report was deafening, and she watched through blurred eyes as Sam slumped to the ground.

She bit her lip to fight down her emotions as she turned to face her troops. She looked Lt. Ansbach in the eye, almost daring her to say something. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she forced her voice to project a confidence and disinterest she did not feel.

“Let’s get to work.”


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Framed