It's Not What You Think

Chapter 01

It's two days after the explosion, and I'm in an evac ride to Germany. A little background is in order. Maybe somebody I don't know is gonna read this someday, so I'll watch what I say.

Officially, I was part of what we euphemistically called Operation Sandbox. Oh it had an official name or three, but it was just the U.S. Army's way of making things more complicated than they had to be. I was running a small squad of drones out of a rented space in Abu Dhabi. That's me over in the corner desk, Captain James Monroe Dreyfus: 'Captain' or 'Sir' to the unit, 'Cap'n Jim' when I was out drinking with some pals, and 'Jim' to civilians, and 'Hey you' to those higher ups in the Army. I was 6'2" of (semi-) solid muscle (and adipose tissue, to be fair), with a moderately good build. The Army would only let senior officers and non-coms get seriously out of shape. I had sandy hair that was buzzed off at regular intervals by an Army butcher ... er, I mean, barber. I liked my blue eyes and had developed a mustache while I was in ROTC, trying to look older.

We were unofficially on loan to the CIA, and shooting our missiles at evil-doers in Yemen and Somalia. We were pretty good and only killed some innocents if they happened to be very close to our target. The drones carried a laser-sighted missile and we never missed the target that was painted by a high-flyer, also loaned to the CIA from the Air Force. We never got involved with the selection of targets; it was a target, painted with a laser at coordinates xx,yy, and we'd hit it.

Me and my small troop of six Sergeants -- actually five Sergeants and a Staff Sergeant, my second in command -- were doing quite nicely until some asshole decided we needed additional supervision. We were already a screwy unit: one Captain, no Lieutenants and only Sergeants, who reported to a civilian in the CIA with a dotted line to some staff flunky on the Theater Commandant's staff. Well, the Theater Commandant was senior Admiral J. Fuckwad Ass Hole -- if I used his real name my journal would just get redacted. I didn't think he was an asshole until he decided I needed some supervision.

So, Adm. Hole, sent someone from Naval Intelligence to be my superior officer. According to the orders I received, SHE was a Lieutenant Commander C.J. Johnson. In the first five minutes after I told my guys about the change, she got the moniker of 'Circle Jerk Johnson.'

"Look guys," I was pretty informal in the only room we had assigned to us, "a Lt. Cmdr. is the equivalent of a Major. She's going to be my superior officer. So there's some things I want to make clear. First, she's THE senior officer here, so you'll all address her as Ma'am -- or Commander. I don't want to hear 'The Old Lady' and certainly not 'Circle Jerk' mentioned even in passing -- even if she's out of the country. If she get's a whiff of any of that, you'll probably get a sighting laser pointed at you. Second, I don't want to see or hear that you are second guessing her decisions about what to do, here. If she gives you an order, that's it. You don't need to be looking at me to see if it's ok. You'll still get your operational orders from me. The chain of command is the same: the Staff Sergeant, then me. It's only a little blip above me, and then the same ol' same ol'. Is that clear?"

I got six nods and things settled down quickly.

"Our Fearless Leader, Adm. Hole, has put her in charge. Period."

Three days later, the aforementioned Lt. Cmdr. Johnson came into our room, at about 0930 local, unannounced -- except by her Warrant Officer, a still wet-behind-the-ears boy who looked like he was about twelve. Okay, maybe he was a young looking twenty.

The W.O. opened the door and shouted, "Ten-HUT!"

Part way through his 'Ten-Hut', I snapped a louder: "Belay that." I had made an effort to learn some Navy lingo. "As you were." Then I turned to her, getting to my feet -- at attention -- and said, "Excuse me, Ma'am but these men are in combat right now." She got my best salute. I completely ignored the W.O., who was busy turning a bright shade of red at his gaffe.

The men didn't even look up.

C.J. Johnson, according to the papers she gave me as part of the taking command procedures, was Cynthia Jeowhal Johnson, a Lt. Cmdr. from the Admiral's personal staff and had spent six years in Naval Intelligence. I didn't have any idea if she knew a battleship from a PT Boat, but the Admiral certainly had a good taste in women.

The old joke went, a blonde, a brunette, a red-head and two men all applied for the same job. All had nearly the same skills and qualifications. With no other information, which do you hire? Answer: You hire the woman with the biggest tits.

So... I'm an old school Army chauvinist.

Well, Cmdr. Johnson didn't have the biggest tits. But if you combined the strong angular face, with wide set gray/green eyes, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the auburn hair (the sign of Irish ancestry, I guessed) pulled back in a military bun under her officer's cap, the sharply tapered jacket that accented the difference between her ample bosom and her tiny waist, all tied together with very shapely tanned legs that seemed to go on forever (actually they only reached the ground, but...) -- combine all that, and one couldn't fault the Admiral's judgment in decorating his Intel unit with her. She was single, as befitting the only woman on the Admiral's staff -- proving nothing, except that maybe she was his 'personal' staff, if you know what I mean. Now, if she was only competent.

"Captain, ..." she said to me in a tight alto voice, returning my salute.

I interrupted her with an upraised finger, then pointed it out to the hall. "Rosie, I'll be outside the door, if you need me." And then I stepped out pulling the door closed behind me.

"I need to keep it quiet when there's a mission going. No distractions that way. Certainly not a change of command, now," I explained.

"Captain," she said again, "I apologize for interrupting. You are quite right about the mission."

I refrained from saying 'You're damn right, I am.'

She turned to the young Warrant Officer. "You're dismissed. Back to the Staff pool with you." She got a snappy salute from the young man, and he put her briefcase and laptop bag against the wall.

"That's why we have the sign, Ma'am." I pointed to the 'Do Not Enter when Flashing' sign over the door. It was flashing.

"Hmm. Didn't even see it, Captain. Sorry. Maybe we can put a lockout on the door or something," she said. "I assumed they'd call you from Security."

"We've never had a visitor before this, Ma'am, but we can enhance our warning system if you feel it's necessary." I looked down the corridor to the security station at the end. There were about ten doors in this corridor, all had similar signs over the doors. I had no idea what was going on behind the other nine doors. "Phones are turned off when we're hunting. That's what we call it when we're on a mission."

"How long is this mission scheduled for?" she asked.

"It'll end two and a half hours from now. Let's go in, you can sit at my station and watch."

"What are your duties, during a mission like this?"

"I'm available if there's a problem. I can jump in and override any workstation."

"Then, I won't take your spot," she said, showing some good sense. "I'll sit alongside you."

I handed her the briefcase, picked up the laptop case, and opened the door. Nobody lifted a head. These guys were the best.

She set up her laptop and pulled a chair over from the empty desk. On my over-sized screen I could see all six drones flying to their targets. We rarely had a six-drone mission, but today we were going to take out a terrorist staging area in Somalia.

Forty-seven minutes later, all six lit off at nearly the same time. All six targets were painted and all six were dead-on hits. They turned for home, in the Saudi desert, and one by one the 'Clear' light went on on their screens. They still had some flying to do to get home, but the mission was essentially done.

I tapped a warning light on #4. "Any problems?" I asked the group.

Sgt. Martinez, flying the #4 drone, said, "I got a warning light on fuel consumption that shouldn't have been there. No problem reaching the nest, but we should check it out, ASAP."

"How about you, Walton? This is your first mission flying with other drones. Any issues?"

"No, sir. It's all nominal."

"All right. The interruption before was Lt. Commander Johnson. She's our new C.O. Take a moment to introduce yourselves after you get home."

She spoke up. "Congratulations on another successful mission. I don't want to interfere with anything in this unit. You've got a 100% success rate going and I sure don't want to tip any cows or get in Captain Dreyfus' way. I want to see how you do it, interface with the Intel people, and generally try to learn as much as I can, and pass it on to other units."

She turned out to be an okay boss, and I eventually had to rescind my insinuations about her and the Admiral. Maybe.

*****

Over the next thirteen months, she was present for every team meeting, every drone launch, every return to nest, and every training mission we held, when she was in country. She also took over the meetings with the CIA Intel gooks, which was a great relief to me.

Staff Sergeant Roosevelt 'Rosie' Harcourt got himself a brevet promotion to Lieutenant and was given C.O. status of a just-forming drone unit, also to be under the guidance of Lt. Cmdr. Johnson. He was a son-of-a bitch drill sergeant of a commander, but his boys (and one girl) took the training missions and began flying missions like ours.

She got promotions for Florio and Martinez, both to Staff Sergeant, and everything was looking rosy.

Abu, as we called it, was a lonely and very expensive post. I was single and unattached, and damned if I could find one woman who wasn't a professional. Five dollar cokes and fifteen dollar hamburgers in town, and the expensive female company, meant that my men and I spent our time on base, mostly.

I spent a lot of time with Cynthia. I came to call her that at her insistence, one night, after watching a movie and walking her back to her room. We got very friendly and I began to think that there might be something there -- except that she was my commanding officer. I wasn't going to go there. Especially since she kept going to the Admiral's staff meetings also. They were always an overnight trip.

Then, one day, Cynthia -- Lt. Cmdr. Johnson, to you -- and I were sitting in a street-side café. The old Mercedes parked at the curb decided to pick that time to explode. The explosion shook pieces of the building loose. I threw Cynthia to the ground pulled a table over us -- not that that did much good -- and waited for the dust to settle.

A large chunk of building decided to land on my legs and I was pinned like a bug. It occurred to me that it was ironic: I was in charge of a unit that was virtually danger-proof, since we never saw any real combat, and now I was going to die from an exploding Mercedes.

That was the last thing I remembered, until three days later. I was in the local Army hospital, there were tubes and wires coming out of me and going into me through every vein they could find. I was half out of it, feeling no pain at all. The told me they would keep me on pain killers and did I want to call anybody? I asked about the unit and Cynthia, but they said not to worry about that. That worried me, but I couldn't do anything about it.

I could, however, and did, begin my journal, like the shrink suggested. And that brings us up to date.

Chapter 02

Five weeks later

I'm not very good at this journal business. I know I'm 'supposed' to do it daily, and the counselors at the hospital encouraged me to do it, but the plain fact is it's too intense for me. It had been over a month; I guess I hadn't been writing very much lately. Too depressed.

My mom had tried to cheer me up with emails and stuffed animals and flowers and such, but it hadn't helped much. She wasn't able to come 'cause she needed to keep her job -- she was the manager at three Quik-Stop convenience stores on the highway outside Waxahachie, Texas, and just couldn't get to Germany. Where I was.

Dad, as usual, was in parts unknown. He'd disappeared when I was sixteen -- thirteen years ago -- and hadn't been heard of since.

On my second day here, the doctors told me and mom (via a laptop hookup) that they were going to have to take both my legs. The damage was just too extensive. I'd almost died four times in the aftermath of the explosion and it was only Lt. Cmdr. Johnson's actions that had kept me alive.

She'd opened a vein in her arm and somehow managed to transfuse blood into me through a drinking straw, a couple of ball-point pens, and a pocket knife. She was type O negative, universal donor. Who does that? Who knows how to do that?

She did, apparently.

It seems that she kept me alive until the medics got me out from under the rubble and to a hospital. Then she passed out, from blood loss, but she recovered quickly enough.

Now I was in Germany and they were going to cut off my left leg above the knee and my right leg below the knee. My mother was crying. I was just numb.

Of course, I wouldn't be in the Army any more. No. I was going to be one of those Vets in a wheelchair you see on the sidewalk of major cities, wearing an old Army jacket and begging for money. I wondered if Fort Worth or Dallas residents would give more. I guess I'd wear the Purple Heart on the outside of my jacket. Should increase the take a little bit.

It was either that or let the flesh-rot continue to eat away at me until I was dead. Those were my choices. Be a homeless bum, begging for handouts, or be dead. It was a close call.

My mom was trying to cheer me up the next day, but I wouldn't be cheered up. Should I be dead and alive -- or just dead and dead?

It was in between my drug shots to keep the pain down that I got an email from Cynthia.

James,

I am so happy to hear that you are alive, but devastated at your injuries.

There were 17 dead and 41 injured in the explosion. Thanks to you, I was not hurt. I owe you my life, so I guess that makes you responsible for me from now on. Do not be down about how you'll come out of this. You are a strong person and you have marketable computer skills. And you are a wonderful man.

Rosie is now in charge of the combined units and is still working at his same old job. And I'm being transferred. I can't say where or what it is, or I'd have to kill you. LOL

I'm going to be in Germany soon, though and I'll be coming to see you.

Be well.

Love, Cynthia.

'Love, Cynthia'?? What was that about? We were friendly, sure. I had fantasies that it was something more, sure. She was hot looking, sure. In her two inch Navy heels she came up to my eyebrows, an almost perfect height. Well, now, I guess I'd come up to her navel, not so perfect any more. That was for sure. She'd never give me a second glance now.

She was coming to visit. Okay. So I wouldn't leave a corpse for her to visit. Wouldn't be polite.

I signed the consent forms, and the operation to remove my legs was scheduled for the next day. Yay. I sent an email to my mom telling her I'd agreed to the operation, and not to worry. Now all I had to do was not worry, myself.

*****

When I woke up I discovered several things. It was Friday, and the last thing I remembered was on Tuesday morning counting backwards from one hundred. And, of course, I had stumps instead of legs. So, if I could have stood at all, I'd have been about two feet short. That's a unit of measure, not an anatomical description -- although that was true too.

Talk about depressing. I couldn't dance -- not that I knew how before, but... I'd never be able to look a man in the eye and shake his hand. I'd be looking up from my wheelchair. They got me up and sitting in a wheelchair soon enough, and I even learned how to use the toilet. I had to have a mirror and sink cut down to my size, so I could brush my teeth and shave. After a while, I was allowed to take showers. That was a joke. I could barely reach the hot/cold controls. Move the shower head? Forget it.

Life was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.

Then, several weeks later, Cynthia Johnson showed up. She arrived just after the nurse had placed my lunch on the table at the other end of the room. It was my job to haul myself out of bed, into the accursed wheelchair and push the entire contraption over to the table. Guaranteed to take about forty-minutes and leave the mystery meat cold. Nothing more appetizing than cold mystery meat covered in thick brown liquid that could charitably be called the leavings of a dysentery patient -- though the Army called it gravy.

"Captain, can I help?" she said in her soft alto.

I'm sure it was a well-intentioned question, but I was pissed off. I had neglected to set the wheel brake when I hauled myself into bed after the morning's torture session -- or in Army lingo, 'therapy.' So the chair was now out of reach.

"Goddamn it. Fucking thing is always moving when I don't want it to," I grumped. I'd reached for the IV pole (now empty of bags of medical stuff) that was near the bed. I shifted and reached and barely nabbed it. When I turned around, she was standing behind the chair and the chair was bedside.

I almost clocked her on the head with the IV pole, before I noticed. Now I had a clumsy pole that could double as a lance, and couldn't really get into the wheelchair. She fumbled with the wheel brakes, got them set and took the lance from my hands. I was shaking, from anger and embarrassment.

"Let me..." she said. She set the IV pole back out of the way and left me to my own devices. She wasn't in uniform, which was strange, I thought. I couldn't complain much about her skin tight jeans and blouse. The blouse had buttons going up the front, and I thought it too bad that more of them weren't undone.

It only took me five minutes to get into the chair and get a blanket around the lower part of my 'shorty' pajamas. By that time, she was settled in at the table, on the non-eating side. At least I wouldn't have to have an adjustment to eat at a table with somebody else: the chair provided me with seating like a normal person.

"Sorry. Fucking mess getting moved around," I said.

"Nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "James, it is so good to see you alive. I didn't know for the longest time what happened to you." She reached a hand across the table and took mine.

I withdrew from the contact, and picked up my fork. I didn't want any pity. Yummy mystery meat and tepid string beans awaited! Pity was less appealing than that.

"I'm glad you made it out alive and intact," I said around the meal. "It'd be a shame to lose a pair of legs like yours." She looked surprised at the comment. "Oh yeah... I can say it now, 'cause I'm not going to be in the Army long. What're they going to do ... kick me out for making a pass at a superior officer?"

"No," she said with a little laugh, "I don't think they'll do that. I know what you must be thinking and going through and..."

"BULLSHIT!" I erupted, talking fast. "You don't know a goddamn thing about it. You've got your own legs. You can stand and walk around. You didn't have to have someone give you training on how to use a toilet, or explain about using a shower, or how to sit in a chair, or anything else... I don't want your fucking' pity, so you can just go and shove that stuff."

She was taken aback by my outburst. "I'm so sorry, James. I didn't think... I'll leave if you want."