Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to Cindy, the Green-eyed Woman, for her birthday. She requested something about Luke and George, and since she knows what it's like to send her babies off to war, a story about soldiers seems an appropriate gift for her. I don’t know that I can do it justice, but will do my best as the story goes on to keep inaccuracies to a minimum; they are unintentional and no disrespect is intended. My goal is to convey the spirit of the times while a romance unfolds, rather than craft a treatise on training methods during the first Gulf War. With that in mind, I hope readers who enjoyed meeting these characters in “Better Friends and Lovers” enjoy meeting them again. And to Cindy...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

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(Setting: A Farmhouse somewhere in Great Britain; October 2006; POV/Peter George Ashford, Earl of Linton, Viscount of Mainwaring, (and assorted other lesser titles of which his now deceased father’s butler and valet were the only ones who ever bothered to keep track.)

I opened my eyes slowly, keeping them half closed against the bright light of the sunny room, and took stock of my condition. This was something I’d been doing as far back in the recent past as I could remember, but each time, before my personal inventory got much beyond “alive”, I’d have to close them again and give in to the darkness of oblivion. Today, the pain that had been with me for what seemed like forever was appreciably less. I took a tentatively deeper breath, my eyes still squinted against the too bright light, and while it hurt like hell, I didn’t pass out.

That was an improvement, I guessed. Patient can maintain consciousness in the presence of severe pain. Now to see if there was anyone around attending to me, as I was thirsty as hell.

“Waaa...” I tried to pick up my hand; I had too much sense to even think about sitting up, but limb movement was as far beyond my capability as forming words, I decided. Or turning my head, I added to the mental chart I was making, as a movement to my right got my attention but I wasn’t able to turn to see what it was.

“Ack, the poor man, he must be dying of thirst, let me pour him a cup, I think we have some of those good bendy straws right over there...Colonel, it’s a good day, that you chose for coming to see your friend, I’m thinking, what with him waking up, and even trying to talk! Look at the dear man. Thank goodness that cousin of yours wasn’t the sight to greet him, no offense, I’m sure, but tha’ man is not a sight for sick eyes.”

A deep, familiar sounding chuckle was the only answer to that comment at first, which had been delivered in a thick Scots accent, then a male voice with a lighter Scottish burr to it replied, “Ah, no offense taken. What can we expect from an Irishman, after all? Even the best families have their black sheep, Mrs. MacTavish, and you’ve discovered mine, I fear. But please, don’t let me delay you in attending to your patient.”

The rustling drew nearer and a white gabardine garbed battle-cruiser came into view, armed with the aforementioned “bendy” straw. God save him. He was in hell and being attended by the epitome of every annoyingly cheerful nurse he’d ever worked with instead of pitchfork wielding imps. All things considered, he’d rather have the imps, he decided, as the straw was pressed past his parched lips but the angle was such that his weak sucking wasn’t enough to reward him with any water. He gave up in frustration, releasing the straw, as his tormentor in gabardine chirped, “Now, wasn’t that little drinkee refreshing, Major Silver?”

The deep amused voice, which still seemed familiar but for that burr, answered the woman. “I don’t think my friend can answer you, Mrs. MacTavish. Perhaps you could leave the water there and I could try and tempt him in a wee bit? Why don’t you nip down to the kitchen and have a spot of lunch with Cook and I’ll sit with your patient? You’ve done a fine job of nursing him, you have, and 'tis grateful I am. But I don’t think he’ll be up to much talking for quite a spell. I suspect if I darken the room a bit he will get some more sleep. Poor man was quite badly wounded in that skirmish, you know and will need many more weeks of healing.”

Yes, I thought, get rid of the old battle-ax and close those damn blinds. Let me see what you look like. Clearly the head devil was a thoughtful chap...with a voice that sounded familiar despite his effort to disguise it. I tried to think of what Scots I might know in Hell.

The nurse, MacTavish, put up a bit of an argument, clearly wanting to stay with her dear Colonel, but he was a smooth one and had her out the door in no time. I “rested” my eyes while he did his work, conserving my energy for whatever he had planned. I wasn’t so out of it still that I thought he was merely going to let me rest. In my experience, officers did not show up to let you rest. But if this unknown man were a Colonel and I were believed to be back in the British military and a “Major Silver,” as opposed to George Main, potentially wanted for the murder of American billionaire Edward Simon, then I fell down one hell of a rabbit hole at some point or the devil had a bloody bad sense of humor.

As the Colonel ushered the nurse out of the room, I tried to think back to the night I’d been injured. I’d had plenty of nightmares about the main events, the knife fight where the Martinez boy was so badly hurt and I’d killed Per defending Martinez and two of the O’Keefe brothers. There was also the climatic moment when I finally took Edward down, sinking my knife into him as his bullet struck me–the bullet he’d intended for Danny O’Keefe–the boy I’d come to think of as a son. For years I had done everything I could to protect Danny from Edward’s machinations I’d finally confronted Edward, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. All I could do was throw my body in front his bullet and hope it would be enough to save the young, beautiful man that Edward had been obsessed with for years. It was a long, ugly story, and my own part in it was something I would forever regret, but I gladly would have given my life to protect Danny. When I took that bullet, I thought that I would get that chance. But I obviously didn’t die, despite my present thoughts on gabardine clothed imps. But that moment, when I dove to block the bullet while desperately trying to knife Edward, was on my nightmare most often played list.

I was fairly sure the knife wound I gave Edward would prove fatal. I’d learned how to do that a long time ago. Taught it to countless others too. One of the men I taught it to showed up that night; I would swear he did. Either that, or his ghost returned to exact vengeance. That was part two of my nightmare and I wasn’t sure if this part really happened or not. I’d lost a lot of blood by that point. But when I was on a stretcher, awaiting transport via helicopter to a hospital, I swear I saw a giant of a man walk up to the stretcher next to me, where Edward’s unconscious body was strapped, and I know that I heard the unmistakable sound of a human neck being snapped. Like how to inflict a fatal knife wound in one swipe, there are some things you learn when you are a young man that you never forget.

When the tall man bent next to me, I fully expected to feel large hands close around my neck. Instead, I felt my body being gently lifted. I recall now that I had looked up into bright green eyes, which were almost hidden in a face obscured by a long beard and straggly hair. I almost cried out in surprise but he shook his head just the slightest bit.

“Shhh, Linton...don’t tell me you didn’t recognize your Cuchulain come to you after all this time? Hush now, we have to be quiet as we go...the boys must be off with your bastard cousin and will catch up with us later. I must get you to a doctor or your ‘death’ won’t be so faked after all, I’m thinking. So you just be sleeping now, I’ve got you safe....You did well, my Peter.”

I slept then, as my Cuchulain suggested and was only now waking up. But was that a dream? Or was I indeed saved by a dead Irish lover? And if so, how did I end up in Scotland?

“I swear I can see those wheels spinning a mile a minute in there, Linton. Shall I answer your questions first or give you some water since I’m thinking that ‘wee fine bendy straw’ didn’t give you a drop of water in that idiot’s hands...no, don’t try answering, it’s decided, I’m giving you the water. I do outrank you now, I’ll have you know.”

The Scot’s accent was gone from the voice and it was now American with a strong hint of Irish brogue. I felt the tension ease away, taking some of the pain with it, as my shoulders were lifted by strong but gentle arms and I was able to take a long sip from the cup of cool water.

The blinds had been closed and I looked up into those familiar green eyes, a bit lined at the corners now, but still remarkably young looking for a man of...could it be twenty years since I first saw that mischievous light looking down at me from a twenty-four year old Special Forces Captain? A Captain with legs that went on for miles and who had just challenged me, the so-called expert from Great Britain, to a jujitsu match since I was there to show the Yanks special techniques in, among other things, hand to hand combat. The “boys” all found it hilarious when the British specialist, red-faced and stuttering, accepted the challenge to fight a man who, at 6'9", was almost a full foot taller. Little did they know, it wasn’t his phenomenal reach or presumed strength that had me flustered as I stood opposite him, it was that the bloody man was wearing nothing but a smirk and a pair of cotton shorts that barely covered his impressive bits. In 1987, homosexuality was not yet accepted in the British army, much less the American, and I was as far in the closet as it was possible to be. I wasn’t concerned about losing a sparring match; I was scared witless about becoming aroused in front of all of the watching men while grappling with the most attractive man I’d ever seen. As I looked at the young American, I felt as though he knew my deepest secret, and with a lift of his eyebrow, he seemed to be saying, well, won’t that make the match interesting?

That same smirk was leveled at me now. And indeed, once again, I felt as though this great bloody boy had taken all the wind out of my sails and left me breathless.
 

“Luke...” Damn, I felt my eyes tearing up. Instantly, the humor was gone from his eyes and the concerned man replaced the mischievous boy.

“Ssshh, Peter, sshh, I know it’s been hard, but it’s over now, it’s all over. I shouldn’t have teased you...I’m a bastard, but I couldn’t resist. I’m just so fucking happy to see you awake and looking so grumpy. God, man, if you only knew how worried I’ve been.” The dark curly head rested gently against my shoulder for a moment and a hand briefly brushed my cheek, a calloused thumb rubbing away my tears. “I’ve had to hide us away from the world...Mrs. MacTavish and my staff here believe you to be one of my officers who was injured in a skirmish in Iraq...I’ll give you more information for your cover later. I’ve used this property for years when I’ve needed to recuperate and just get away. Then, when I.... ‘died’... well, it seemed the best place to go in between missions. I’ll tell you more about that later. I had Steve send you that letter last year. I figured you’d need a way to reach help from the old gang if you ever needed help for Danny or for yourself. I’m thankful you used the contact and we were able to get there...barely in time, but we did arrive. After all, Cuchulain is supposed to be able to return from the dead in times of great need.”

He laughed sheepishly. “One of my little brothers gave me hell, though, for not getting there sooner and saving everyone a lot of pain and trouble. I can’t help but think he had a point, although you got the worst of it, I’m thinking.” He was quiet for a moment then cleared his throat. “Anyway, to the folks here I’ve been both my own disreputable Irish cousin, that’s who you saw that night, by the way...it’s been three weeks since then. You’ve been unconscious pretty much the whole time and gave us quite a scare more than once, you know, but the local doctor is pretty good. Well, other than being my own cousin when I have to explain away some odd comings and goings, I pretty much have been known as the upright Scot, Colonel MacNeill, for some time in this County. It suits my purposes since the good Colonel is a pleasant fellow, but keeps himself to himself, like a good Scot should.” Luke was rambling, as he always did when he was nervous.

I managed to get my hand up to his head. “Let me...see you.” I placed my hand to his face, and he held it there as he lifted his head back up. I had an IV in my left hand but my right palm was pressed against lips and kissed as my fingers caressed his smooth shaven cheek. Gone was the long beard he’d sported that terrible night, along with the long, gray streaked hair. His own short dark curly hair topped his head, with no trace of gray. His face was perhaps leaner than when he was young, but then he’d always had a leaner face than most of his brothers. The same high cheekbones seen on Danny and John were more prominent on him, as were the winged eyebrows and strong nose. He could almost pass for Native American. His best friend in the Green Berets had been Steve Redraven, a part Navaho, part Lenape, part French, part Georgian. Steve was the only other man in the Fifth Group who had been close to Luke’s height and the two of them looked like brothers. But where Luke was easy going and quick to laugh, Steve had a fiery temper that constantly got him into trouble. Luke’s Irish gift of a golden tongue frequently had to get him out of difficulties...or jail.

Luke smiled his crooked smile. “Your mind is drifting again...do I pass inspection or not?”

“You stayed young... and beautiful,” I whispered. “While I got old.” I regretted the words as soon as I spoke them. I hated the pathetic whine I heard in my voice, but worse were the tears I could feel slipping from my eyes again. I was so bloody weak.

“Linton...Peter...what’s this? If you’ll feel better, I can slip on my gray wig and not shave a few days. I’ll confess, the beard does come in gray...and on you, that silver looks sexy as hell...that’s why Steve named you Major Silver. I think he’s jealous. His hair is all ugly gray, not that pure silver that your blond faded to. Listen to me, pandering to your English poncy pride. I haven’t seen you in how many years, your psychopath cousin almost kills you and you’re worrying about which of us is prettier. You’re such a fag, Linton.”

I smiled faintly. “I can’t be a fag...I am a member of the British Nobility....”

Those gorgeous green eyes lit in delight. “You mean you can’t be anything but a fag, then...isn’t that what they teach you in all those fancy prep schools? ...God, I’ve missed you, Linton...you’ve no idea how much.” Suddenly, it was Luke biting his lip and blinking back tears. He placed his head back on my shoulder and the big man shook with his repressed tears. This time, I was the one comforting him.

“It’s okay, my Cuchulain, it’s okay...you can cry now....no one’s here but Peter...”

“He almost killed you...the fucking bastard almost killed you...and Danny...I should have killed him years ago when I had the chance but I couldn’t do it...I should have done it then...but I gave him a chance, Peter...for you...I thought you would want me to...to be a good man...”

“I did want you to, you were right not to kill him then, Luke...you’re not God, but I think you were right to be sure he was dead that night, as Danny couldn’t have survived a trial, he’d been through too much. You protected him as best you could then as well as the rest of them from whatever small evil Edward could have done. You did the right thing and I thank you.”

“I killed him, Peter. With my bare hands. I just did it...in cold blood....”

I held him as he cried, my pain forgotten as I thought back to a night many years before when I held him the same way, on what I believed was the only other time in his life that Luke O’Keefe cried.
 

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(Setting: Ft. Campbell, KY; 1987; POV/ Luke O’Keefe)

“What I want to do is get some more sleep without you clowns dogging my steps, so why is it that you are still bothering me?” I tried to glare at the men who were jogging to keep up with me. I’d finished my morning run and was planning on hitting the showers and then hitting my bunk. End of story. I’d been on duty through the night and it had been one problem after another, capped off with yet another Redraven escapade in town that I’d had to smooth over to keep that crazy Indian out of solitary...or hitting the JAG’s list.

I needed sleep. What I didn’t need was to attend some demonstration by some fancy assed British specialist sent over in the “spirit of cooperation” to teach us some more skills like how to recognize the edible forms of bugs...like there are any bugs I’m ever going to eat and how the hell I’m ever going to be able to catch enough to make the calories I spend hauling this six foot nine inch carcass around trying to catch the little devils worth the trouble is beyond me. It’s bound to be a net loss situation, the way I figure it. The army brass are just trying to kiss and make up with the Brits since they had the falling out over Panama so we’re all to sit and pretend we’re still good little Colonists. Fuck that. I said as much to the puppies chasing after me.

“But that’s just it, Luke, this little guy isn’t just a specialist in medicinal plants and stuff...though he is going to be teaching us all about what kinds of plants we should be able to find indig,.inggi, local to places like Iran and Iraq, but he is some kind of karate expert too, so Colonel Harris says he can beat anyone we put up against him. And he’s a little guy!” Hank was practically sputtering he was so excited.

Doug was calmer. “He isn’t little, Hank. He’s around 5'10" or so, and he’s quite good. Apparently he took out some of the guys in the 7th when he was at Ft. Bragg last summer and had no trouble with the 10th when he was in Stuttgart, either. The Colonel was pretty cocky that he was some kind of super soldier that we’d be learning all these special moves from...James Bond himself. But we know you could take him, Luke.”

I had to grin at the thought. I’d always had a weakness for beating a Brit, being Irish born myself, for all that I’d been a naturalized American for years now, and it was the United States to which I now gave my allegiance.

I heaved a long suffering sigh...for show...and told the boys I’d join them as soon as I rinsed off.

“I wouldn’t want the man to think I was trying to beat him merely by virtue of my post run stench. Let me grab a quick rinse and I’ll meet up with you in the gym.”

Of course, they wouldn’t agree to that, thinking I’d bug out on them once I had a chance to relax under the steamy water...a very real possibility. They tossed a clean pair of shorts at me...a pair of Hank’s, no less, which barely covered the vital areas, and laughingly pulled me into the back of the crowded room where Colonel Harris was just finishing one of his interminable speeches introducing the new instructor. As a Captain, I wouldn’t be required to attend all of the lectures, but it would be appreciated if I would set a good example and sit in on some of them. Joy.

I slumped against the back wall, still able to see the man standing at ease by Harris’ side. He wasn’t tall, but he certainly had presence, I noted. His blond hair was slightly longer than we tended to wear ours and shone almost white in the morning light that came in through the high windows. His face was...hard to do justice to in a description. Nice lips, a small, straight nose and that perfect English complexion, but saved from being too pretty for a man by this firm, decisive chin that tilted up as cool gray eyes surveyed the room, weighing his potential challengers. His body wasn’t large, it looked compact and hard. Very nice, in fact. Perfectly proportioned. I grinned again. I wouldn’t mind wrestling him. Very controlled people amused me and this Brit looked to be extremely controlled.

I waited until he stripped down to a pair of standard karate pants, displaying a nice firm set of abs and hairless chest with well developed pecs shining with only the lightest sheen of sweat as he easily bested the first two contenders. I was a third degree black belt in Tai Kwon Do but this wasn’t karate that he was using, he explained in his dry English accent as he wiped the floor with his opponents. It was jujitsu, where size was no advantage when one had skill and knew enough moves. I suspected this man, Major Linton, knew quite a few moves. It was a good thing none of the men he was humiliating were my men, or I would be tempted to whip his ass. As it was, I just wanted to beat him. Watching him carefully, I was beginning to get an inkling as to what might give me an advantage with Major Cool.

Hank came up with a pair of my own sparring pants to pull on over the too small shorts. I shook my head as I swaggered towards the front.

“No thanks,” I told him. “I’m feeling a bit warm...so many people in here, you know?”

A laugh went around the room as my name was announced as the third and final challenger. I flashed the Major a smirk. I watched as a deep blush moved over that perfect English rose complexion. I cocked an eyebrow at him. Eton, I bet, and I tried to imagine that serious face above a schoolboy uniform. Damn I was developing some serious kink; I’d better go visit Brenda next time I got a leave weekend. I flashed him the O’Keefe dimples, which I knew came as a bit of a surprise on a face like mine, and that chin came up. Ah, feisty little bugger...thought I was mocking him. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“We don’t have to fight now, Major Linton, sir. I’m sure and the boys have been quite taken with your skills.” I made sure to thicken the brogue I never quite lost. I was perfectly capable of speaking without any accent at all, or of speaking in several different accents that were not my own, including six foreign languages, fluently, but I wanted to let the Englishman know it was an Irishman he was going to be fighting. There was a spark of acknowledgment in those gray eyes and small smile tilted the left side of his mouth up. Amused was he? Time to up the ante. I glanced pointedly at his crotch, where a slight, tell-tale bulge could be seen.

“Shall we take our positions?” I asked innocently. “Do you want top or bottom or shall we begin standing?” I was referring to standard jujitsu opening positions for demonstrations but the double entendre didn’t go unnoticed by my little Englishman.

“Standing is what we’ve been doing to start, Captain,” he replied in his clipped voice, perfectly calmly, but his hands were clenched, nails digging into his palms. Not so calm after all, are you, boyo?

I crouched low, holding my arms in a standard defensive position. I was curious to see how he intended to attack, actually, and waited, rather than trying to make the first offensive move myself. At six foot nine, I don’t think I ever made the first move in a fight, but all the same, it was the rare night out that a fight didn’t come to me. Short men were attracted to big men like flies to shit, and that goes double for drunk short men. They all seem to feel a need to prove their dicks are bigger or something by trying to fight us. More power to them. I’m willing to ignore the law of proportions and many a night would cheerfully concede that the good Lord no doubt gave the biggest cocks to short men. Of course, Steve would invariably ruin the gesture by adding that God must’ve felt he had to do something to make up for the fact that he didn’t give them any brains to speak of...and we’d be off. The two of us back to back against a roomful of angry munchkins.

Sometimes it would remind me of pissing off a half dozen of the rug rats at home and having them all swarming around me. Craziest thing, I’d be in a bar in Kentucky or Turkey...didn’t matter where, short men are the same the world over, bashing in heads with a crazy half Navaho, half Cajun Georgian and I’d be hit with the worst case of homesickness ever. Nothing is worse than a drunken, morose Irishman. Doug, who, along with Hank, would be taking care of the strays on the edge of the brawl, would take one look at me and give Steve the sign to finish off the fight so they could drag me off to a phone somewhere and call my home back in Pittsburgh. Then, depending on what time of day or night it was back home, I’d talk to all the little brats, or my older brothers, Matt and Mark, married men with rugrats of their own. Sometimes I’d get my littlest brother, Danny, and that was best for my moods, because the boy could chatter for hours about anything and everything under the sun. My father flipped but I got the boy his own phone line so I could talk to him anytime, day or night, without waking the rest of the family. Danny loved it. Eight years old and he had his own phone. Spoiled brat, I chuckled at the thought.

Being distracted was not a good idea. Not taking an opponent seriously was not a good idea. I told my men that all the time. I found myself looking up into dark gray eyes, not quite sure how I’d been flipped. Mental note: it was true that the bigger you were, the harder you fall. Fuck, that hurt. Second mental note: see about getting thicker mats.

“Do you yield, Captain O’Keefe?” a smooth, silky voice whispered in my ear. That hard torso was pressed against mine, the pale skin such a contrast against my dark tanned skin, with the light smattering of black curly chest hair. The smaller man shouldn’t have been able to keep me pinned, I knew I was far stronger, I had to be, with my far larger muscle mass, yet I couldn’t for the life of me break his hold. I struggled for a minute, trying to get some leverage, twisting my long, soccer toned legs around in the hope of dislodging him. Or breaking him in half between them.

“Do you yield?” he asked again, slightly more breathless. The men around us were yelling out encouragement to me. I had to break this damn hold. My honor was at stake, damn it.

I angled my head around, careful to keep my face obscured by his arm, as I positioned my lips near his ear. “Ireland will never yield to England, love,” I whispered back, my voice as low and sexy as I could make it, then I stuck my tongue in his ear and stroked it lightly while I spread my legs enough to give him quite a view...while still appearing as though I was trying to escape.

He loosened his hold in shock and I wiggled free. Without pause I slammed him down into a traditional pin, my one hand holding both of his wrists above his head while I used one of my legs to pin his lower body...my thigh pressed hard across his groin before the rest of my leg captured his lower legs.

My Colonel looked surprised, but pleased.

“Well done, O’Keefe, well done, if a trifle unorthodox. Let Major Linton up now...I think that is quite enough. Thank you, Major, for that demonstration, I believe you showed everyone how a much larger opponent can be subdued and even thrown...although our Captain O’Keefe is a bit of a rule unto himself there, we should have warned you! That is the end of this morning's assembly, gentlemen, officers, fall out.”

From the slightly red look on my commanding officer’s face and his casual dismissal of the troops before exiting after a quick nod to Linton and me, I suspected my “unorthodox” fighting method, i.e., giving a little tongue, had not escaped him. I grinned as I offered my erstwhile opponent a hand up. Hosting duties had been summarily handed over with that nod. The blond Major looked up at me ruefully, then accepted my boost to his feet.

“I must say, I’ve never been bested in quite that manner before,” he confessed, brushing off his pants and trying to look everywhere except at my legs. No easy task when my legs kind of took up a good part of his immediate view.

“It was such a tempting ear...all pink and delicate looking, and it’s been such a long time since I’ve been on leave,” I offered apologetically, giving him the puppy eyes.

“Perfectly understandable...must happen all the time,” he agreed, the gray eyes looking amused. I thought I might like this Major, despite his being English, of course. I held out my hand.

“Luke O’Keefe, Captain, Special Forces, here for some additional training and spiffing up following my first two year tour. Born in Ireland, moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the US of A at the age of four and now at the service of you and your enchanting ear...the lack of feminine company in the Special Forces being something with which a former Etonian like yourself can empathize.” I let Hank hand me my pants now and winked at his bewildered expression. Doug would no doubt explain it all to him later, probably with his usual all purpose, “it’s just Luke having fun, Hank, it’s nothing to worry about. He won’t hurt anybody.”

Doug and Hank were two of my men. That they were a couple was no one’s fucking business but their’s, as far as I was concerned. And I made it clear to anyone who felt it was their business, that Captain O’Keefe didn’t take kindly to anyone fucking around with his men. So, in my squadron, I had the crazy part Indian who drank a bit too much on occasion, the two “no need to ask as their every look told their story gay” soldiers, the stereotypical angry black man and overly erudite, intellectual urban Jew, only they were reversed, my cast had an angry Jewish soldier and an articulate, Harvard educated African American who enlisted for God only knew what reason...I think to write a book about the experience. My precocious baby brother says my war movie would have what they now call alternative casting. Especially with a 6'9" Irishman. I think he thinks I should be black. Little fucker. My Englishman is the only one who looks like Central Casting wasn’t high the day they picked him out. He could be public television’s idea of an English Lord, or a Jane Austen hero. Mr. Darcy maybe. No, Bingham, the nicer looking one.

My Englishman was waiting for me to stop daydreaming. Damn, I did need sleep. I smiled wickedly at him and gave Doug a sidelong look.

“I think the Colonel wants me to entertain you, Major, but I was just heading to bed....was there anything special you had planned for the rest of the morning?”

It really was a cute blush. Steve’s barking laugh ruined the effect, though, as it made the man stiffen all up. I wonder what he would have answered had we been alone?

 

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The classes in medicinal plants were proving to be much more useful than most of the “survival” type courses we sat through. English was a doctor, it turned out, as well as a botanist and chemist, and a bunch of other things...bright boy after getting out of Eton and Sandhurst. I found myself paying closer attention to the lectures than I normally did. More often than not, I attended these things to make sure the men paid attention. This stuff was useful. Plants to bring down fevers, to ease stomach aches, lessen infections. Damn useful. I pulled out my pocket notebook and drew sketches of the plants and used my own shorthand to describe what each plant could be used for, and how to prepare it.

The afternoon session was an odd one. The Colonel came in with two other officers but didn’t introduce them. He spoke to Linton for a few minutes and then Linton walked over by the window, not far from where I normally positioned myself, and Colonel Harris took over at the podium.

“Good afternoon, Gentlemen. Major Gunning and Lt. Colonel Gaines are here to observe some of our teamwork and decision making skills. Major Linton has been courteous enough to give up some of his lecture time this afternoon so these gentlemen would have time to meet with each of the squadrons. They’ve already met with some of the other men throughout the day and your group is among the last squadrons to go through this exercise and provide the data they are seeking. We appreciate your patience.”

A form was filled out with the usual Army psychological profile bullshit and medical information, as well as when you last pissed and what color was it. I sometimes felt I could fill out this type of form in my sleep. Of course, after growing up in Mama’s house, answering this type of questionnaire was a piece of cake.

As the forms were handed in, they were scanned by Gaines and Gunning, who conferred in quiet voices with Harris.

I gestured to Linton who came over to me. He’d been cautious around me since the first day. I don’t think he’d been quite sure what to make of me. Poor guy. I really shouldn’t have teased him so much. Right now, though, I wanted to find out what was up. There were about three squads in the room and the other captains looked as blank as I felt.

“Do you know what this is about?” I asked casually, seeming to look out the window at the Kentucky sky. Blue as ever.

“No, I was merely told they needed to question the men. I filled out the form as well, in fact, this morning’s session had the same interruption. I believe there will be a second step to this process
this time also.”

I drew my brows together. Odd. We often served as guinea pigs for our employer, Uncle Sam, but this was more off the cuff than usual. Something was up. Harris cleared his throat to get attention.

“Gentlemen. we’d like to play a little game. You’ve been in classes with each other for a number of weeks and live in bunks with each other...you’ve gotten to know the men in your squadron, would you agree?”

There were general noises of agreement. Some laughter as a few comments were made about getting to know so and so too well. Harris smiled. He was pretty good about knowing when to let the men blow off a little tension. “We're going to give you a hypothetical scenario and ask you to put down the names of the men you would take with you into this scenario, your dream team as it were.”

There were murmurs at this...and Harris held up his hand for quiet. “This is all just an exercise in leadership and decision making...how do you, the men who know each other best, make choices under a time pressure. Now the scenario is this. Two American journalists have been captured and are being held by terrorists. We’ve been told they will be executed in oh four hundred hours if the president does not meet their demands. The president of the United States does not meet the demands of terrorists. But we, the Special Forces of the United States Army are sworn to free the oppressed.  De Oppresso Liber. We have a lead on the location where the journalists are being held and believe that a small force, not more than six men, helicoptering in, and then proceeding by foot to the site, can rescue these men, and get the hell out again. I want you each to give me the names of your five picks to be on your team to make this mission a success.”

I kept my eyes on Harris’ as he made his speech. De Oppresso Liber. I knew my commanding officer. He didn’t break out the fucking Green Beret motto for any damn hypothetic. This was real. We were the best squadrons on the base and this was his way of deciding who to send. Clever, when you thought about it. I took the page handed to me as they were passed around and quickly wrote down three names, then, pausing a moment, added a fourth, signed it, folded it and moved forward to start collecting my group’s lists.

Harris read through the “teams” quickly, and began to smile as he reached about a quarter of the way through the stack. He pulled a couple of them out, and then handed the rest to the other two men, who also looked amused as they flipped through the papers. Steve gave me a raised eyebrow look as if to ask, what the fuck was going on. I shrugged. Better to let the top brass explain.

“There is an interesting pattern to the answers, gentlemen. Flynn, could you explain why you chose Captain O’Keefe to be on your team?”

The young Lieutenant reddened but stood and answered at attention until Harris told him to stand at ease and announced that everyone could remain at ease when called upon to answer. Relaxing, Flynn resumed his seat and answered frankly, “Well, sir, Captain O’Keefe is so big and strong, he’d be an asset in any situation and I figure if the hostages were hurt, or if a member of the rescue party got injured, well, he’d be able to carry them out. He’s damn strong, you know.”

Harris chuckled, as did the other superior officers. Linton gave me a sympathetic look as I shook my head. Steve was biting his hand to hold back a laugh. Harris then asked. “Did any of you not put Captain O’ Keefe on your team?”

I felt my face redden as I saw that not a single hand went up. For fuck’s sake, there were two other squads in the room. What was wrong with those men?

Steve’s hand went up and I looked at him in surprise. Him I would expect to choose me, hell, he was on my team!

Harris also looked at him in surprise. “Lt. Redraven, I believe I saw Capt. O’Keefe listed on your team.”

“Sure he was, but I felt I should point out that I didn’t put Irish on it because I expect him to be my pack mule.” I felt a smile tug at my lips. Sometimes Red reminded me why I put up with all his shit. He continued in his southern twang, “I can haul my own sorry carcass around most of the time, unless its pretty near dead, and in that case, he may as well leave it, as even he would be foolish to try carrying me and him and whatever else the rest of them think he’s going to be hauling around some mountain in wherever it is in the Middle East we’d be sneakin’ off to. But...if I do get injured, that would take out our pilot, so I’d think the team would need a second, which would be Luke, and he also is pretty damn good at most Middle Eastern languages, another asset I’d be looking for, and he’s a hell of a sharpshooter, as well as an engineer with that college degree of his...did more than play soccer I understand. So, all that considered, I’d want him along for more than his brute strength. His height is a bit of a detriment on any mission of this type, so’s mine, but we’d figure out a way to compensate for it I figure, or at least, he will and I’ll go along with what he figures out.”

I loved that man sometimes. I smiled at him gratefully while Harris looked at him approvingly.

“That, people, is how you analyze the strengths and weaknesses of a team member. Capt. O’Keefe, I note that you chose Lt. Redraven for your team as well. Since you are the universal choice, and you and he are mutual choices, can you explain your choice of him briefly and then explain your next two choices.”
I smiled. “Lt. Redraven already pointed out that we’re both pilots. The mission must be reached by way of helicopter, and there was no mention of a separate allotment of a pilot. Having pilots in the team is an advantage if we can count on leaving a copter in a secure site. Having two pilots is added security if one is injured or lost.” I passed over that possibility as coldly as I could. As a Green Beret, one was trained to focus on the mission. In truth, I’d never lost a team member. I hoped never to have it happen. Was it realistic? I was twenty-three, not yet twenty-four. I thought it was.

“He is a better shot than I am...I’ve never seen a better sharpshooter than he is. Plus, he is an amazing linguist. He speaks practically every major dialect used in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey...you name it, and is familiar with the customs of many of the local tribes. If we need to interact with the natives along any of the passes in the mountain areas, he can pass for a native. Most importantly,” I grinned, “if I get injured and need to be carried out, he’s the only one of these bastards who is capable of hoisting my huge carcass over his shoulder and hauling me out of there.”

There was a self conscious laugh from the many in the room who’d put me on their lists and an appreciative grin from Red and the brass. Linton had a small smile on his face. I knew I had a surprise for him so I continued.

“I put Sgt. Doug Jones and Private Hank Watson on my team because I know them to be fiercely loyal to myself and each other. I trust them, I trust my whole squad, don’t get me wrong, but there is a strong bond between these men, and in the old country, and by that I mean Ireland, but it was true of any of the old countries where they bred great warriors of old, men often teamed up for battle with a companion they loved and trusted beyond all others. Such pairs were believed to be invincible. I don’t doubt the wisdom of the ancients. Jones and Watson have each other’s backs and they would have mine, and they would work to ensure the success of the mission, of that I have no doubts. They’d be on my team.”

Harris nodded. He wouldn’t gainsay me. I glanced at Linton and the gray eyes met mine in surprise, but respect also. He knew what I was saying. They learned the classics in those English schools. Not many of my fellow soldiers understood the reference, I suspected. Which was fine. I wasn’t looking to out anyone.

“I wasn’t clear on your last choice, Captain. You were allowed to select five, plus yourself, which you decided not to do. Also, you realize we cannot compel your other choice....”

So Harris was admitting this was no hypothetical? One of the other men coughed and Harris stopped shy of saying as much to the group at large, seeming to realize that he didn’t want to make that admission.

“Well, considering that two of us are rather large specimens, I thought I would stop with a team of five. You said we could pick from anyone in the room, so I chose as my last team member, Major Linton, sir.”

A rumble of disgruntlement went over the room. Harris held up my hand. “Now, soldiers, please....first, let me ask, Major, if there were to be such a mission and your government were to consent to your participating in a humanitarian rescue operation of civilians, would you be willing to volunteer?”

Linton answered promptly. “I would be honored to do so, Colonel Harris.”

Harris smiled like the cat who ate the poor little English canary. “Why, the honor would be ours, Major. I do note that indeed, in our little exercise, your answers were remarkably similar to the Captain’s in terms of a team composition, although you described some of the men by seat location. Captain, to complete your rationale for the edification of the men, why did you choose Major Linton?”

“Well,” I mused in a serious tone. “He is a doctor, after all, so Lt. Redraven and I wouldn’t have to carry out all the injured, he could fix them up with his herbal remedies. Plus, he’s quite a good fighter, so he’d be able to fight in hand to hand combat all the enemy we don’t shoot, and best of all,” I smiled beatifically, “being British and all, if he were to get left behind...I don’t think I’d be as broken up about it as I’d be if it were a good old American boy.”

Steve just about lost it, he was laughing so hard. Thing was, so was Linton.
 

^^^^^^^^^^^^

(Setting: Mountains somewhere in Afghanistan; POV/Major Peter Linton)

We’d stumbled on the camp completely by accident. So had Lt. Redtaven apparently, as it was his unmistakable lean form kneeling on the ground in front of the figure holding the curved blade. His arms were bound behind his back. The other captives were tied up several feet away from him, their dirty faces showing their horror at what was about to take place in front of them. Their would be rescuer was about to become a martyr before their eyes. A second man held a camera ready to film the gory show for presentation to the Americans later. The sacrifice of the American Green Beret might buy the journalists more time, by feeding the lust for a penalty for failing to accede to their demand. A life was being paid...and it wasn’t theirs. Peter could see relief in the journalists’ eyes along with their horror. They wouldn’t be human if they weren’t relieved that today, at this moment, the bell was tolling, but it wasn’t for them.

I reached out a hand to steady Luke’s arm. “You can make the shot, Luke. Steady on, one bullet for the swordsman, then a second one for the cameraman.”

I saw him swallow. He looked so very young suddenly. I was twenty-eight and it felt like a life-time older. I wish I were a better shot. I was good, but not with a rifle and sight. He was a sharpshooter. He could make this shot. At a target, the voice inside my head said, not at a living creature, a real man, from whom blood will gush.

The sword swung back. Damn, I should have taken the rifle and at least tried to make the shot. That was the man’s best friend down there and he’s barely a boy...

The shot rang out...followed by a second.

Two men lay dead on the ground. The journalists were screaming and Redraven yelled at them to shut the fuck up. Thank God, with the swordsman down, as well as his accomplice, our two other teammates came running out from their positions and secured the campsite. All was under control quickly. I scanned the site but saw no signs of any other terrorists. Redraven was quickly untied and armed, giving the all clear signal. I signaled him back, and radioed that we’d be meeting them back at the copter.

I turned my attention back to Luke, who’d dropped his rifle. His face was in his hands and his shoulders were shaking.

“O’Keefe...are you okay? They were perfect shots! What’s wrong? O’Keefe...Luke?”

I waited a moment and tried to touch him, putting my arm awkwardly around his broad shoulders. “It’s okay to be a little upset...if you need to cry...I mean....” I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I realized reaction had set in but I needed to get him the hell away from that camp and away in the helicopter then he could have a good cry. Somewhere where it was safe. This place would be crawling with terrorists any minute now.

He huffed out a laugh. “I’m not crying. O’Keefes don’t cry. Even when we blow the fucking brains out of people so our best friends don’t get their heads chopped off, we don’t fucking cry! We drink or we curse or we fight but we don’t cry...do you understand?”

He looked up at me then with those beautiful green eyes drenched in tears. I reached out my arms and he fell into them, shaking, and rested his dark curly head on my shoulder.

“Hush lad, I understand. 'Don’t cry' all you need to. We have a few minutes. I’ll keep watch.”

And I did understand. I’d been raised that way too. I think that was when I fell in love with Luke O’Keefe.