Not so much.
* * *
“Jesus, save some beer for the rest of us.”
Geo paused in the act of refilling his glass. “What?”
“We all pitched in for that pony keg, and you’ve already had half of it.” The guy met Geo’s stare challengingly. “When did you become such a lush?”
“Ever since I started working with you, Lennox.” A chorus of “ooohs” broke out from the other guys as Geo deliberately filled his glass to the brim. “Fuck off.”
The man bristled and drew himself up to his full height, which Geo had to admit was impressive. “It’s not ‘Lennox’ to you anymore, Monteverdi, it’s ‘sir.’”
Geo rolled his eyes. “Okay. Fuck off...sir.” He finished pulling his beer, and just for shits and giggles let a goodly amount spill on the floor of the bar before he shut off the tap. Aiming a mocking salute at Lennox, he strolled away, only to be intercepted by Alex.
“Hey, George,” Alex said, lips twitching a bit. “You shouldn’t bait the good ensign like that.”
“Why? He’s a prick.”
“Agreed.” Alex’s lips twitched even more. “But he’s already put a letter of reprimand in your service record over that arrest. Another one might hurt your chances at making Chief.”
That gave Geo pause. Moving from E-6 to E-7 in the Navy was a huge accomplishment, one that only ten percent of servicemembers achieved. He’d been eligible for Chief the last two promotion cycles, been passed over, and was pinning his hopes on this go-round.
“Chief’s board is in four months,” Alex went on, “so you gotta keep your nose clean at least till then, okay?”
He clapped Geo on the shoulder and headed over to join the boisterous group next to the pool table.
Sipping his beer, Geo leaned against the bar top, brooding. Making Chief meant a small bump in pay and a huge jump in status. It meant a deeper layer of brotherhood, one that could never be broken. It meant more responsibility, more respect—a respect that was far-reaching, even into the officer ranks. “Ask the Chief” was a well-known maxim, and one that any smart officer would adhere to.
Geo grimaced, his gaze tracking Lennox from across the room. Present company excepted, of course.
“What’s your beef with that guy?” Matt appeared at his elbow, his fresh club soda fizzing and popping. “Who is he?”
Swallowing a gulp of beer, Geo grunted, “Lennox Parnell is everything that’s wrong with the system.” As Matt’s brow furrowed, Geo clarified, “He’s a mustang.”
A mustang was a former enlisted guy who’d applied and been commissioned as an officer. The good ones took that experience and used it to make themselves better leaders. The bad ones...
“Pretty hung up on who calls him ‘sir,’” Matt observed, and Geo tapped his own nose as if to say “bingo.”
“Exactly. I knew him two platoons ago when he was a fuck-up E-5. How they gave him a commission...” Shaking his head in disgust, Geo drained his beer. “I wouldn’t follow that guy to the shitter, much less to war. Good ol’ No-Mag.”
Matt choked on his sip of club soda. “Was that his nickname?”
“Yep. He was part of my fire squad during a long night of house-clearing with some Marines. When it was over, it turned out he’d accidentally ejected his magazine while breaching the first house.” Remembered anger tightened Geo’s fingers around his glass. “He didn’t even notice, one of our interpreters did—when he found it on the ground.”
“Jesus.” Matt’s gaze shot to Lennox. “The whole time he only had a single bullet in the chamber?”
“Yeah. The worst part? He didn’t own it, but tried to blame everyone from the gun manufacturer on down to the terp.” Geo grit his teeth. “I don’t care if he puts on Admiral someday, he’ll always be fuckin’ No-Mag to me.”
“Unfortunately he’s also our AOIC,” Matt said drily. “Not much we can do about that.”
The thought made Geo shudder. As assistant officer-in-charge, Lennox would be responsible for planning some of the missions they’d conduct while on deployment.
“Just watch your back, brother,” he cautioned. “Dude’s gonna get someone killed someday through sheer arrogance and incompetence.”
“Noted. And thanks.” After bumping knuckles, Matt wandered off, while Geo continued to glare at Lennox.
Fuck, he hated that guy. Lennox knew it, too, which was why he delighted in forcing Geo to call him “sir” at every opportunity. One of these days, that asshole was gonna push him too far, and then all bets were off.
Bring it.
By midnight, the keg was empty and the rowdy pool game had finally burned itself out. Inebriated team guys sprawled around several tables pushed together, talking shop, talking trash, until someone raised his glass and slurred, “Hey! Did you know it’s five fuckin’ years today since Loomis bought it? Miss you, man.”
“Shit, five years? ’til Valhalla, brother.”
“Rest easy, Loomy.”
After the initial mutters died down, someone else made a different memorial toast, and soon they were going down the line, everyone taking turns. It made Geo’s gut churn, how many names there were.
“To Jon Robinson,” Lennox called out. “Helluva SEAL, helluva friend.”
Next to Geo, Matt stiffened, his knuckles whitening around his glass. A muscle ticked in his jaw, nostrils flaring.
Geo stared at him. Jesus. What was the story there?
Matt’s stony face didn’t invite any questions, so Geo glanced away, his chest hollowing out as he realized it was almost his turn to toast.
Myriad names and faces flashed before his mind’s eye—guys taken too soon. They’d been men he’d looked up to, men he’d loved, men he’d gladly trade places with if he could. They were heroes, every single one of them, and Geo would miss them for the rest of his life.
But none as much as Cade.
Geo’s mouth dried up, his pulse throbbing behind his eyes, all the alcohol he’d drunk sloshing its way through his veins. Why shouldn’t he toast Cade? Cade was as deserving as anyone, his exploits legendary in the special operations medics community. Geo had seen him run through a hail of gunfire to reach the wounded, cover shattered bodies with his own as the enemy closed in...
That’s what he should be remembered for, goddammit! Nothing else, and damn if Geo wasn’t going to try to keep his memory alive.