Laura Acton

Aircraft En Route to Afghanistan

     FURY and frustration built as Master Chief Jake Marshall glared beyond his second-in-command at the blond, curly mop of his rookie, who now swung in his hammock. “What the hell am I gonna do with him? Did I not clearly outline my expectations and rule four?”

     “You did.” Dave Katz agreed, disappointed their new teammate ignored rules set forth less than ten hours ago.

     “Yes, I did. He blatantly ignored me, and that shit doesn’t fly on my team.” Jake’s gut twisted as he wondered yet again if he erred by selecting Stirling for his team.

     Attempting to defuse his best friend and team leader before he did something he might regret, Dave said, “To be fair, he was celebrating, and we didn’t expect to be spun-up so soon. Let him sleep it off. He’ll be sober enough by the time we land.”

     Jake turned steel-blue eyes on his friend. “Not good enough. If he doesn’t possess the maturity level to cut himself off and abide by my rules, he doesn’t deserve to be on our team. Not only did Stirling break rule number four, he deliberately tried to hide the fact he arrived stinking drunk from me. That is breaking rule one too—don’t lie to me.”

     Returning his gaze to Stirling, Jake declared, “He’s a liability in his current state.”

     “Perhaps we can leave him on base,” Dave suggested.

     Desire to teach the impudent kid a life-lesson grew as Jake bit out, “No. I got a much better idea.” He rose and sought out the source of his anger.      Crossing the distance in six strides, Jake flipped the hammock, dumping Stirling to the aircraft’s floor. “Rise and shine, cupcake. Time to sweat out the alcohol. You do NOT show up drunk off your ass.”

     Max blinked after smacking the ground. His headache from before increased after he whacked the metal grating. His stomach rolled, and he fought the need to hurl as saliva filled his mouth. The world around him swam as Marshall yanked him to his feet. Max barely managed to focus on the face of his pissed-off boss before he lost the battle.

     The gagging sound gave Jake only a brief second to react. He spun Stirling around and shoved the kid’s head towards a box of something—he didn’t care what, only that it would catch whatever Max spewed out.

     Roused by the commotion, Finn eyed Jake as he manhandled Stirling. “Glad I’m not him right about now.”

     “Who? Boss or Max?” Zach asked as he petted Rocketeer, who had hopped up in his hammock.

     “Both.” Finn yawned and closed his eyes. None of them expected to be called for this mission, and wouldn’t have been if Charlie Team had not ended up with some version of the flu. That would be the only defense their rookie would be able to offer for reporting while three sheets to the wind.

     Grant shook his head. “Kid can’t hold his liquor.”

     On his knees, Max upchucked his stomach’s contents, the fine dinner he enjoyed with Cali making an unappetizing return. The abdominal cramping and hurling intensified the headache, which began on the drive to base. If Max could form words, he would tell Marshall he was not drunk. He didn’t consume alcohol at dinner and drank only half a beer with his Sierra buddies before Babcox bathed him in rum and beer when he tripped while carrying the tray of drinks to their table.

     Max didn’t have time to go home to shower and change since the text told him to report directly to the airfield, and Draper packed his gear for him. Upon reaching the tarmac and overhearing Lockwood inform Marshall the team would be briefed after they arrived Afghanistan, Max hurried to the head to take an urgent leak.

     By the time he finished peeing, the pilots were ready to take off, and he sat in the first available seat, far from the rest of the team. When airborne, Max hung his hammock and crawled in, hoping sleep would rid him of his pounding headache.

     Not wanting to let Marshall down, Max managed to rise after regurgitating his last meal. He swayed and opened his mouth to explain, but Marshall cut him off with a tirade. Every time he attempted to speak, his team leader became louder and more irate.  Reasoning with the man at this point would be futile.

     So Max sucked up his pain, dropped to the ground, and began doing pushups per Marshall’s orders. When he reached one hundred, Max flipped over and did an equal number of crunches before being instructed to run laps around the plane. Disappointed and disgusted eyes tracked him on his journey. Lockwood, Farris, Draper, Dave, Finn, Grant, Zach, the support staff, even Rocketeer, the team dog, scowled at him.

     After an hour of back and forth, soaked in sweat, smelling like a distillery from the spilled alcohol, he was finally allowed to stop running. Marshall shoved a bottle of water into his hands and told to drink it all. Max downed the entire contents in several gulps … wrong thing to do. He pivoted and bent over the same revolting box as his body rejected the liquid.

     “Get in your hammock and sleep,” Jake directed after the kid finished puking. He strode to the rear, as far from Stirling as possible so he wouldn’t wring his neck. Plopping down in a seat, Jake blew out a breath as he eyed his rookie crawling back into the swinging bed. He had done all he could for now. Keeping his men safe was hard enough with them all sober. He didn’t need the added weight of dealing with a hungover newbie.

     Lieutenant Nicole Farris, Zulu’s primary intelligence officer, shifted her position to face Jake. “You think he’ll be up for the op when we arrive?”

     “He better be. Why the hell were we tagged for this mission? Alpha or Bravo could’ve covered for Charlie.”

     Nicole sighed. “They don’t have anyone who speaks Nazeri’s dialect. Stirling does, so his language skills are necessary.”

     “Could’ve sent a terp with them,” Jake challenged, ticked off they were throwing the kid right into the fire without the two weeks for integration training Kendrick allotted them.

     “Not enough time to locate one. As it is, you’ll scarcely arrive in time to execute the mission as Carlson planned.”

     Jake eyed Nicole. She tended to keep her distance from them, but he developed a working rapport with her in the two years she’d been assigned to Zulu. “How well do you know the spook?”

     Nicole exhaled heavily. “Carlson’s brought actionable intel to my office one or two times. Other than that, I haven’t had any interactions with the CIA agent. But we’ve been after Sina Nazeri for years and missing this opportunity isn’t an option. You should grab some shuteye, Jake.”

     Crossing his arms and slumping in the seat, still not certain he wouldn’t wring Stirling’s neck for disobeying the rules, Jake settled back trying hard to sleep. However, his mind wouldn’t shut off as thoughts of Stirling mixed with his son.

     His new teammate was only six years older than Jamie, and Jake realized he was old enough to be Stirling’s father. That notion kicked up a strange feeling.

     Jake stared at Stirling as he made a trip to the head. Perhaps I should’ve given more weight to Finn’s point about Stirling being too young. Ignoring rules and arriving drunk is an indicator he needs time to mature. Did I make a mistake in selecting him as Zulu Six?

     At the front of the aircraft, Max returned to his hammock after peeing. As he lay back, he clamped his eye shut, swiped sweat from his forehead, and fought the renewed nausea as his head throbbed. I’m not drunk, but what the hell is wrong with me?