Love Makes Way Chapter 1

I'm so excited that the release date is so close for Love Makes Way!

Note: I did have to move the date to October 24th. Know that it is completely written. It is just being edited and we were hitting a deadline we didn't want to miss. 

Here is Chapter 1 - Meet Jerry McBride and Olive Duncan. 

(so excited!!)

Preorder your copy today!

https://halleebridgeman.com/pages/love-makes-way

LOVE MAKES WAY

BOOK 5 IN THE LOVE AND HONOR SERIES

CHAPTER 1

Undisclosed Location in Northern Africa

August

Gerald “Jerry Maguire” McBride could smell cinnamon. Which didn’t make sense because—strapped to the hanger seats in the MH-47 Chinook flying over the dunes of the Sahara Desert—he should smell JP-8 exhaust, hydraulic fluid, gunpowder, sweaty men in 115 degrees close quarters with no air conditioning. He closed his eyes, wondering about the smell, trying to place it, and suddenly found himself in his parents’ living room, the Christmas tree in the corner where a chess table usually sat. Wind beat snow against the windows in the way only a South Dakota storm could.

He heard his mother’s voice, and it drew him to the kitchen. There, at the sink, her gingerbread apron covering her too-thin body and the silly snowman handkerchief covering her bald head.

“Mom?” he whispered.

She turned, hazel eyes lighting up. “Jerry! We didn’t expect you home!”

He shook his head. “But I didn’t make it home in time.”

She held her arms out. “Oh, it’s okay, son. I understood.”

He opened his mouth to tell her how much he missed her, how much he wished he’d made it home before she died, but a slap on his shoulder whisked away the cinnamon, bringing the sharp bite of JP-8 exhaust back into his olfactory processes.

Captain Rick “Daddy” Norton stood in front of him, hanging onto the strap above his head. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey,” he said. “Six minutes.”

Everyone in the helicopter then yelled, “Six minutes!”

Jerry nodded and unbuckled, joining his team in the center aisle of the helicopter. They would fast-rope out of the bird from each side of the rear ramp.

As he bent his knees to the motion of the bird, he tried to reclaim the dream, the look on his mother’s face, the joy he felt at being in her presence again, but it eluded him. He shook his head to clear it and focused on the mission.

Jerry stood at the rear of the starboard stick right behind Lieutenant Phil “Ozzy” Osbourne, the team’s medic and Jerry’s spotter. Sergeant Calvin “Hobbes” Brock, one of the team’s weapons specialists, loomed in front of Ozzy, his helmet nearly touching the top deck of the Chinook. Lieutenant Jorge “Piña Colada” Peña led their stick.

On the port side stick, Captain Rick “Daddy” Norton, the team commander, would grab the fast rope first upon arrival at the LZ. Behind him and nearly attached to his hip stood Staff Sergeant Travis “Trout” Fisher, the team’s 18 Charlie, their signal NCO. Behind him stood Sergeant Daniel “Pot Pie” Swanson, carrying a whole lot of ammunition and the team’s only M249 machine gun. Behind Swanson and beside Jerry at the end of the other stick stood Sergeant Bill “Drumstick” Sanders.

The crew chief shouted something none of them could hear as the nose of the 160th SOAR MH-47 rose to a nearly 40-degree angle. The crew chief activated the rear ramp and then manned his mini-gun. The MH-47 had twin miniguns in the rear of the aircraft and a 20mm cannon in the nose. All of them now actively scanned for any kind of enemy presence on their LZ.

The ramp fully lowered, filling the compartment with heat, JP-8 exhaust, noise, and a whole lot of rotor wash.  Peña and Norton kicked the coiled and very heavy fast ropes down the ramp until they hung free like brass poles in a fire station, only made of OD green nylon. The eight men would slide down these ropes exactly the same way firemen of old would slide down the brass pole. The aircraft beneath their feet never budged despite the change to the center of gravity. Special Operations Aviation Regiment pilots were the best of the best in the US Army.

Norton made his hand signal, and he and Peña departed at nearly the same time. One long second later, the second man in each stick followed, and so on, until Jerry grabbed the rope and slid down to the desert floor. The first six men out of the bird had already formed a circular perimeter around the LZ and had their weapons up and ready for use.

The Chinook departed rapidly and without ceremony. Each man in the team held up two fingers as they cleared their lanes of fire, assuring that they could not detect any enemy combatant activity. Over their team’s comms, Norton used NATO designated number call signs and phonetic pronunciation to announce, “Objective is wun klick to my tree o’clock. Bounding formation. Move out.”

A chorus of clicks acknowledged his orders and they moved out tactically toward the objective. Four men would set overwatch while the other four men moved forward past them toward the objective. Then they would hold in place, weapons ready, covering the movement of the four men behind them who then overtook them as they bounded forward.

Twenty minutes later, the tang of cordite burned Jerry’s nose as he pressed his back against the sun-scorched mud wall. The heat from the sun bounced off the dirt to burn his neck and the underside of his jaw. Sweat soaked his jacket and headband. A heartbeat later, a bullet chipped the edge of the wall above his head, showering him with grit.

Jerry ducked and moved—surprisingly fast considering his bulky gear and the long rifle he carried—and crouched behind the front tire of a rusting Land Rover Defender, a relic left over from when Algeria had provided them to Sahrawi Polisario Front insurgents during the Western Sahara conflict. He kept the engine block between himself and the shooter.

Carefully, he shifted the strap of his M110A1 Compact Semi-Automatic Sniper System, or CSASS, which he had affectionately named “Cassie,” and examined the area around him. He needed to make that umbrella thorn tree ten yards to his left.

“Three? Status?” Captain Norton’s voice crackled through comms, calm but with a nearly undetectable edge.

Jerry keyed his mic, voice low. “Six, this is three. Pinned by the wall behind the Land Rover. One hostile, three-zero meters north. Need covering fire to make the tree to my 10 o’clock, over.”

“Roger,” Norton replied. “Pot Pie. Show Jerry Maguire the money. Lay down cover fire on my mark—short bursts until directed to cease. North. Three, move on burst, break.” After a two-second pause, Norton transmitted, “Mark.”

A breath later, Daniel “Pot Pie” Swanson’s M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW, rattled off short bursts after short high-volume bursts of deadly fire, stitching the alley with suppressive fire.

Jerry bolted, boots pounding the dry earth. With practiced ease, despite the sixty pounds of gear weighing him down, he grabbed the lowest branch and swung up into the tree. Bark and spiny thorns bit his palms as he scrambled higher, making him regret not taking a second to pull on his gloves. They hindered his work, so he usually didn’t wear them. Once high enough, he pulled Cassie forward, checking the scope, zeroing in on the target. “On objective,” he confirmed into the microphone.

Commands barked in his ear as the team stormed the thatch-roofed adobe building. He scanned the building by peering down Cassie’s left side. Normally, his spotter, Ozzy, would handle calling out targets for him. However, Phil had stayed with Peña’s group leaving Jerry alone in the tree. He saw a flicker of movement and instantly acquired the target through the powerful optics atop his rifle.

Years ago, Jerry had reconciled the lethal facts and results of his occupation with his Christian faith. Throughout the Bible, scripture makes many references to Godly men who take the lives of their enemies in combat, ranging from Gideon to Joshua to Samson to King David. God created all men with an intended purpose. Sometimes, God’s intended purpose meant he created warriors. Like his father, and his grandfather before him, Gerald Adam McBride knew that God had always intended him to lead the life of a warrior. Keeping the men of his team alive was his mission, and he knew that one day he could hold himself blameless before the God of the universe.

That certainty did not stop nightmares from visiting him occasionally. He would have worried much more about his spiritual and mental health if he never experienced a drop of remorse over the lives he took. But the math worked in his favor. He could remove one evil life from this world, and perhaps that act would save a dozen, or a hundred, or a thousand innocent lives.

Through the powerful scope, he caught an insurgent popping up from behind a rusted Toyota Hilux, deadly AKMS rifle poised to fire on his team. Jerry calmly squeezed the trigger—smooth, precise, like making a slow fist—and the man dropped before he could fire his first shot. “Strike times one,” Jerry announced over comms, a bowling analogy meaning he had not left any pins standing.

Norton responded with two clicks, meaning “good work.”

 Another hostile leaned out a window, but Swanson’s burst cut him down before Jerry could fully line up the shot. “I had him, Pie,” Jerry broadcast.

“Too slow,” Swanson replied.

As the team claimed the building, a HUMVEE crested the hill. Irritation crawled up Jerry’s neck. DHS had pitched this op as a quick snatch-and-grab. Nab a known Al-Shabaab informant, get in and out. No muss. No fuss. At no time did they suggest a firefight in a nowhere village northwest of Djibouti. At least his team had come prepared and knew how to respond.

The men below began to yell, “Clear!” as they cleared the structure. Finally, Norton broadcast, “All clear. But stay frosty.”

Jerry carefully laid Cassie on her side, mindful of the optics, and visually scanned the area, hypervigilant against any unforeseen opposition. He would not put it past them to use women and children as human shields or walking IEDs.

“Pie, Jerry, Daddy requests the pleasure of your company,” Sanders drawled over the radio.

“Roger,” Jerry said. He picked Cassie up and tucked her into the pit of his shoulder. One last sweep through the scope—clear—then he shifted, slung Cassie, pulled his gloves on this time, and started climbing down.

Suddenly, shocking pain tore through his left biceps, a searing punch that stole his grip. He heard the echo of the shot only after the bullet tore through his flesh. He crashed to the ground, dust exploding around him. Blood soaked his sleeve fast—too fast. The bullet must have hit the brachial artery. “I’m hit!” he barked, clamping his right hand over it as bullets shredded the tree trunk above him.

“Identify hostile! Identify hostile!” Norton ordered over their comms, the sound very loud in Jerry’s ear.

“Probing fire,” Swanson broadcast, then his M249 roared, but he had no target, and no enemy appeared. Blood oozed between Jerry’s fingers as Ozzy slid in beside him, ripping open his kit. “Not like you to go running into bullets,” Ozzy quipped, a wry grin flashing.

“You know me. Attention seeker,” Jerry muttered, but his voice sounded weak, strange to his ears.

“Always that one diva in every crowd,” Ozzy shot back, gray-green eyes focused, hands steady.

Norton’s voice came over the comms. “Hobbes. Shut that idiot down. Now!”

Ozzy raised an eyebrow. “Artery’s nicked—I need to clamp it.” He paused. “It’s gonna hurt.”

“Expect so,” Jerry said, spots dancing in his vision, nausea churning his gut. Shock dulled the pain—he didn’t feel Ozzy’s clamp, just a vague, uncomfortable pressure. Orders crackled from Norton, but it all came through his earpiece as if from a hazy distance.

“Are you kidding me? Come here!” Calvin “Hobbes” Brock screamed over the comms. Jerry looked up in time to see Brock rip the M16 rifle out of the hands of the DHS “observer” who stood in front of the recently arrived HUMMVEE, then grapple the man to the ground.

“Oh, man. That is not going to end well,” Ozzy said. Jerry and Ozzy watched Hobbes calmly punch the downed man in the face with his armored gloves with a timed precision that echoed his boxing days. “Oh, that will definitely leave a mark.”

Jerry said, “You cannot be serious. Did that 511 tactical model actually fire his weapon? And hit me? I got shot by a brown shirt?”

“Just inter-service rivalry.” Ozzy keyed his microphone. “Daddy? I do believe Hobbes found the shooter. Want me to call him off?”

After a brief pause, Norton replied, “I have no idea what you mean, Ozzy. I don’t see a thing.”

“Roger that, Six,” Ozzy grinned. “I will render aid once our highly skilled and properly trained DHS partner finishes accidentally falling out of his vehicle multiple times—onto his face.”

“Negative. Stay with Jerry. They can clean up their own mess,” Norton replied. Then he ordered, “Hobbes, get his ID before you kill him.”

That stopped Brock, and he began to rifle through the unconscious man’s pockets. “Roger, Six. I suspect his ID card will read ‘big dummy’.”

Norton transmitted again, “Doc. What’s the sitrep?”

Ozzy replied, “Hit an artery. Gonna need medevac.”

After a brief moment of silence during which Jerry felt certain Captain Norton had just verbally expressed his true feelings on the matter, he transmitted, “Roger. Stay on Jerry. I’ll call it in.”

Through blurring eyes, he saw Ozzy rip the cap off a hypodermic needle, felt the cool swab to his right arm just before a tiny prick. “Bird’s on the way. Stay conscious.”

“Shot by DHS about 8,000 miles from their nearest legitimate jurisdiction,” Jerry said. “Imagine that.”

Ozzy said, “Stranger things have happened.”

“I’m sure,” Jerry quipped. “Just not to me and not today.”

Warmth spread from the morphine, flooding his veins, easing the fight in his chest. “Maybe tell me a joke to keep me entertained while I wait.”

Ozzy chuckled. “What do you call a sniper who gets himself sniped?”

Jerry grinned. “A liability?”

Ozzy mocked disappointment. “Aw. You heard this one already.”

Jerry closed his eyes, a silent prayer that he would open them again flickering in the back of his mind.

#

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center,

Landstuhl Army Base, Germany

As she scrubbed out at the big metal sink, First Lieutenant Olivia “Olive” Duncan bopped her head in time to the music coming from her earbuds. She’d just assisted on a chest wound. Shrapnel from an IED lodged into the chest of a barely twenty-year-old private while fighting in an undisclosed location. They’d had to work fast, combating the loss of blood in the field and the time it took to get him to Germany.

She smiled, thinking of the private lying in recovery. He would have some scars to show off and a story or two to tell if he were permitted and felt so inclined.

For two years, she’d worked as a surgical nurse in Landstuhl, catching patients from Europe and Asia’s hotspots. She couldn’t have imagined this life back in her Auburn University ROTC days. Living in Germany gave her easy access to so much of Europe, and she spent every single day off traveling to the next place on her bucket list. She would miss living here when her time ended.

She dried her hands, glancing at the clock—1400 hours, aka 2:00 PM Central European Time. She had two hours left on her shift. Through the glass window, she could see the surgical board and scanned it as she tossed the paper towels into the trash. She could spare five minutes for a vending machine sandwich.

She tugged off her surgical cap and unwound her long braid, letting the red plait fall down her back. She tossed the soiled linens into the hamper. Hand on the door, she paused as Captain Nathan Adams called from behind her, “Good work in there, Lieutenant.”

She popped her earbuds out, and he repeated himself. “Thanks,” she said, half-turning. “You too.”

He nodded at the clock. “Took a little longer than expected. We missed lunch. Want to grab something with me?”

Captain Adams, ROTC at the University of Oregon, Olympic silver medalist in track, medical school graduate from Johns Hopkins, tall and dark-haired—he had set the nursing ranks buzzing since his arrival. His attention straightened her shoulders, a faint flush warming her face, but she shook her head. She had a very iron-clad no fraternization rule. Even for charming, tall, dark, and handsome docs. Oh, but was that temptation she had to push aside?

“No, thanks,” she said with a smile. “Have my heart set on a special meal right now.”

Her stomach rumbled, loud enough to mock her, and she prayed he hadn’t heard. Before she could slip out, the trauma bay’s alert buzzer blared, announcing an incoming critical. She grabbed her stethoscope from the sink shelf and jogged after Adams, his long stride forcing her to half-run.

#

As Ozzy rolled him off the bird at Landstuhl, Jerry had some rare moments of introspection. He knew his wound could kill him. The look in Ozzy’s eyes every time he checked his vitals belied the outward confidence the medic projected.

“Hey, Ozzy,” Jerry said, his tongue thick with morphine, “You think that DHS guy is gonna make it?”

Ozzy nodded. “Might need a new face.”

“I’m kinda fond of my arm, Oz. Think I can take it home with me?”

Ozzy stared down at him, and something in Jerry’s eyes made his false grin fade. “It’s bad, Jerry. Not gonna lie. But we’re here and we made good time. Odds are better than not.”

Jerry wondered what he would do if he lost his left arm. No matter what scenario he imagined, his career as a sniper would come to a proverbial screeching halt. His team days would be over. That was a given. What would he do? Where would he go? Even if he passed a medical board and they let him stay in, they would want him to do something else, and the team was his home. It was the only life he knew, the only life that mattered.

Maybe he could drive a forklift or take up supply or ordinance. Or he could pack parachutes. He was already Airborne qualified, and if he reclassified as a parachute rigger, he could wear that cool-looking red baseball cap.

Probably not. Hard to pack parachutes with one arm. He would have to go. But where? He couldn’t go home, not forever anyway.

For whatever reason, he suddenly missed his mother. Throughout all the moves and permanent changes of station he experienced in his childhood, all his friends and neighbors and chaplains had changed, his schools had changed, and even the weather and landscapes had changed. The only constant in his entire childhood had been his mother. His father, a legend among Green Berets, had either been in the field, on TDY, or serving in undisclosed locations for nearly his entire life. He barely knew the man until the day he retired.

Mom and his sister, though. He had known them. Mom had loved him. Would he end up like his father? Or worse? Would he end up completely alone? Without even a wife, or a child, or an ARM?

Doors banged open, and they rolled him into trauma. Ozzy never left his side.

#

In the trauma room, Olive yanked sterile trays from the carts while Adams scrubbed at the corner sink. She slotted her CAC into the computer’s card reader, logging in as the curtain parted. A bearded medic wearing dirty ACUs, whom she did not recognize, shoved the gurney through, voice clipped. “Staff Sergeant McBride, Gerald A., twenty-seven years old. GSW, left biceps, brachial artery nick. Clamped in Djibouti. Tourniquet in flight. Morphine times two. Last dose 40 minutes ago. Type O-Positive. One unit onboard.”

Adams said, “We got him from here.” He looked the medic up and down. “Go get cleaned up. Grab some food. We’ll find you when there’s news.”

Without a word, the medic ducked out, letting them work in their familiar arena without getting in their way.

Blood stained the field dressing, but McBride was awake, jaw clenched, full chestnut beard screaming Special Forces even before she could see that he wore no patches, no identifying anything on his uniform. Olive stepped forward with Adams to slide him onto the bed, then brushed her hand over his dust-streaked forehead. His hazel eyes, half-lidded under the heavy morphine doses, locked on hers—hard, searching. “Welcome to Landstuhl,” she said softly. “You’re in good hands.”

Adams sliced off the dressing, eyes narrowing. “Clamped for hours. It’s mush. We’ll have to graft. Tourniquet’s held, but we need the OR stat to save the arm. Fluids, cefazolin IV, prep for vascular repair.”

As Olive turned to the computer, McBride’s right hand snagged her wrist. He had a strong grip, despite the circumstances. The fingers of his hand felt burning hot. She froze, bending closer. His gaze dropped to her cross necklace that had slipped free from her scrubs, then lifted, intense. “Do you pray?”

She smiled, twisting her wrist until their hands clasped briefly. “Continually.”

He nodded, grip firm despite the drug haze clouding his eyes. “Please do that. And maybe pray for the guy that shot me.”

Wow. She had never heard such a selfless request. Pray for your enemies? She patted his hand until he let go of her wrist. “I will. Promise. And I’ll see you in recovery,” she said, slipping free. “You’ve got this, soldier.”

She typed Adams’ orders as an orderly wheeled him out. Logging off by snatching her CAC out of the reader, she headed to the scrub room, a prayer flickering for Staff Sergeant McBride, Gerald A.—Special Forces, O-positive, 27 years old, with hard eyes she suddenly wanted to know more about.

She could not bring herself to pray for the man who shot him.

#

Jerry floated in a haze, the recovery room’s white walls blurring like a rifle scope lens caked with dust. His left arm throbbed under a fresh dressing, the biceps stitched tight. He fought the fog, then suddenly felt a burst of adrenaline as he recognized the fight or flight feeling welling up in him. He remembered the story his dad told him of clipping him in the jaw when he came out of anesthesia after his wisdom teeth surgery.

Taking deep, slow breaths, he silently recited the soldier’s Psalm—Psalm 91—making sure to mentally form every word as his muscles gradually released their tension and his heart rhythm slowed.

The smell of this room annoyed him. It smelled like iodine mixed with Pine-Sol mixed with alcohol and a hint of ammonia. His white blanket and linens smelled overwhelmingly of bleach. Nausea swirled in his stomach. He knew he was having a bad reaction to the anesthesia.

He drifted off, or maybe not. Couldn’t be sure. Everything smelled the same, and he still felt like he might lose yesterday’s lunch.

Anesthesia fogged his brain, softening the sharp edges into a fuzzy dream—coffee steaming, a porch beneath a vast sky, a smile he couldn’t place. The monitor’s beep drilled into his skull, and he squinted, his eyes fighting to focus. His mom’s voice echoed in his mind, but he could not make out the words. Maybe that she loved him?

 Had he dozed off again?

She stepped into view—copper red hair with highlights of gold spilling over her shoulder in a braid, green eyes bright like summer pines, freckles dusting her cheeks like a star map. He had briefly wondered if he had dreamed her before, but apparently not. “Hey there, soldier,” her southern drawl purred, soft as a hymn, “back with us, I see.”

Jerry grinned, lopsided and slow, the drugs prying his tongue loose. “You look like an angel.” His voice slurred, sweet and flirty, miles away from his usual dry clip. He tried to sit up, but the room tilted hard, and he flopped back, chuckling. His arm felt like it weighed as much as a car. “You smell… really nice. Like strawberries.”

She laughed, quick and warm, like she’d dodged worse than his mushy charm. “Anesthesia’s talkin’, soldier. Men come out of it throwing punches or proposals. You’re the sweet kind—lucky me.” Her touch grazed his wrist, cool as she checked his pulse, the IV, steady as stone.

When he opened his eyes again, she had her back to him and appeared to be leaving. Must have dozed off.

“Hey, don’t leave on my account,” he said, but his voice sounded weak and contorted in his own ears.

“Hey, welcome back again,” she said, her voice low.

“What’s your name?” he managed.

“Nurse Duncan.”

“Dunkin. Like Dunkin Donuts.”

She chuckled. “Close enough.”

“Coffee,” he mumbled, blinking slow, her face doubling then steadying.

She drew nearer. “You can’t have coffee just yet. Water for now.”

“Oh, I’d love some water.”

She held a straw to his dry lips. He tried to gulp it down. The cool ice water soothed his throat. The icy liquid trickling into his belly gave him something to focus on besides the antiseptic smell of the room.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’ll be back soon and give you some more. Try not to move too much.”

“Coffee, though.”

She shook her head. “I told you, hon. You can’t have coffee.”

He shook his head. “No. No. Listen. Like to buy you a coffee. Two. Whole pot. Get to know you.” His head lolled, words spilling with a goofy sincerity he’d never claim sober, half-cognizant and half-lost in her green eyes.

The nurse’s smile softened, crinkling those eyes as if she found him more amusing than pitiful. “I do love my coffee. It’s a tempting deal, I’ll admit. Best offer I’ve had all day.”

“You smell soooo good,” he slurred.

She patted his hand, stepping back, and he drifted, her braid a red blur in his fading sight. His mind slid back to that warm porch, the coffee cup steaming, only now green eyes danced with mirth, and a dusting of freckles joined the scene.

Until the smell of cinnamon lured him inside, and his heart ached again with the memory.

#

Olive slipped her hat on her head before she got out of the car, then grabbed her coffee cup and backpack that contained her scrubs. The early morning held a quiet stillness, as if taking a moment in preparation for the day. Once she crossed the parking lot, she looked up at the sky, savoring the view of the bright blue and purple sunrise. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the morning, saying a silent prayer for her day.

“Most people look at the sunrise with their eyes open.” Startled, she turned and spotted Staff Sergeant Gerald McBride, the gunshot wound to the left biceps from yesterday. He sat on a bench, wearing an Army PT uniform. His left arm rested in a sling.

“Sometimes things are better when your eyes are closed,” she said. “Smells, tastes, you know. Vision tends to dominate your other senses.” She crossed over to the bench and gestured at the seat next to him. “May I?”

“Oh, by all means.”

She set her backpack on the ground and sat next to him, turning sideways to face him.

When she took a sip of coffee, he said, “I’d still like to buy you that coffee.”

With a smile, she said, “Ah, so you remember that do you?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, you left an impression.”

Flirtatious soldiers were part of her day. She didn’t even get embarrassed anymore. “Are you headed home?”

He nodded. “Just waiting on my medic. He’s finalizing some paperwork.”

“Where is home?”

“Fort Bragg for the time being. Center of the universe in case you didn’t know.”

Memories of the two years she spent in North Carolina flew through her mind. “Oh, I know. I was stationed there right after school.”

“Not my favorite place,” he said. “But I have a good team, so that makes it palatable.”

“Why not a good place?”

He shrugged. “Bragg itself is fine. But in my experience, North Carolina sucks.”

She gestured at his arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Kind of like I got shot in the arm.”

“Really? Get shot often?”

He turned to meet her eyes, clearly wondering what he was allowed to say. “Maybe.”

“Is that so?” She giggled. “Why get shot so much?”

“To tell the truth, I thought it would be a good way to meet hot chicks. Turns out I was right,” He scrubbed his beard. “Still, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She chuckled. “So, I’m a hot chick, am I?”

“Hotter than a jalapeno pepper in a sauna,” he said with absolutely no irony.

“Well, Staff Sergeant, I am also a commissioned officer.”

All dry humor, now, he replied, “Oh, ma’am, yes ma’am, I am aware. But I will never hold that against you, ma’am.”

The doors to their right swished open and a man in ACUs came out. As he walked, he effortlessly donned his green beret and straightened it. She recognized him as part of the crew who brought Sergeant McBride in. She stood and said, “Good morning, Lieutenant Osbourne.” She found it curious that a medic had officer’s rank and wondered about that story.

He glanced at her nametag. “Good morning to you too, Lieutenant Duncan.” He stopped in front of Jerry. “Ready to roll, Jerry Maguire?”

“Maguire?” she asked. “I thought it was McBride?”

He grinned, a twinkle in his eye, “You had me at hello, ma’am.”

Relentless flirt!

Lieutenant Osbourne asked, “Oh, did I come at a bad time?”

“Not at all. He’s just enjoying the narcotics,” she explained.

Lieutenant Osbourne scoffed. “Should have flown here with him. He was all over me. I am not just a piece of meat, loverboy.”

Gerald said, “You know what I think? I think my spotter should have been up in that tree with me. That’s right. Right there by my side, tucked in right beside me, right where you belong, Oz.”

Olive rarely saw an interchange like this between a Staff Sergeant and a First Lieutenant. Clearly, Special Forces had its own culture of respect that did not necessarily always conform to the norms and standards of the regular Army.

“Well, I would have been. But then that clown might have shot both of us.”

“Fair.” Jerry conceded. “What’s all that?”

Ozzy looked surprised as he held up the folders and boxes he carried. “This? Oh, you don’t want any part of this.”

“Is that a medal?” Jerry’s voice sounded suspicious.

“No,” Ozzy said firmly.

“Oh, thank you Lord, thank you Jesus!” Jerry declared.

“It’s actually two medals,” Ozzy said with malicious delight.

“Oh, then no. And also no,” Jerry said.

“Come on, now, hero. Somehow, the President of these United States—well, we’re in Germany, but you know what I mean—our Commander-in-Chief has decided you rate a Purple Heart.”

Jerry shook his head. “Not again.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Ozzy said with barely contained glee. “You, my friend, have been honored with the Homeland Security Distinguished Service Medal from our wonderful friends and fellow patriots at the Department of Homeland Security.”

Jerry gave him a look of unabashed astonishment. “You, sir, are a liar and a scoundrel.”

Ozzy couldn’t contain his laughter now. “You can’t make this up, Jerry. Look. Look here. This is the highest DHS honor for exceptional meritorious service or achievement in a duty of great responsibility, and it can be given to any member of the Armed Forces—across all branches—for actions supporting homeland security missions,” Ozzy had to stop and chuckle, “such as joint operations, or disaster response. Or, you know, when some DHS knucklehead shoots you.”

Olive could not believe what she had just heard. Friendly fire? How could that even happen? Should she have heard that?

Jerry sat back further on the bench. “Ozzy? I hate you. I really do. You know that, don’t you?”

Ozzy slid the medals into his kit bag. “Well, I love you, brother. And I am so thankful to our heavenly father that you still have that arm. Now, let’s make tracks. Whatta ya say?”

“Yeah.” Jerry slowly rose to his feet.

Olive could tell the movement hurt despite the painkillers. “Take it easy, Sergeant. Give that arm time to heal.”

He studied her for a moment before he said, “Keep those eyes closed, ma’am. Never know what life might show you with your eyes closed.”

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