Blackburn didn't need to go to some fancy college to know that his place in the grand scheme of things didn't mean jack. All he really wanted – all he really asked out of life – was to be able to make a difference to his chalk. His new family, his new brothers. He shivered in his field jacket, pulling it tighter around his body. He'd read somewhere that the temperature in the desert could drop as much as fifty degrees between day and night, and shit, now he believed it. It had been hotter'n blazes when he'd first stepped on post, and now he could see his damn breath. Crazy world, crazy times. Nothing at all had been like he'd expected when he'd first signed up, not basic or RIP or the long, mostly boring flight halfway around the world (and why couldn't the stewardesses've been like what he'd expected? He'd heard tales that they'd been giving out blowjobs and handjobs to the guys flying over to Desert Storm, but the most he'd gotten had been a fake smile and an extra bag of peanuts. Maybe it was 'cause they weren't really at war with the Somalis.) And Somalia sure as fuck ain't what he'd expected. Not even here twelve hours, and already there was talk that they could be on a mission as early as tomorrow. And yeah, sure, this was what he'd trained for, to kick enemy ass and take names, and yeah, this was all he'd ever wanted, but damn. He'd thought he'd have a chance to, well, get acclimated. "Some good shooting today." Blackburn twisted his head, glanced up into Sgt. Eversmann's smiling eyes. He started to scramble to his feet to give the proper salute. "At ease, Private, this is a social call," Eversmann said, and, to prove it, dropped on the hard-packed dirt next to Blackburn. "You've been out here a long time." "Yeah, well..." Startled, Blackburn glanced down at his watch and saw that he'd been sitting out for over an hour. No wonder he couldn't feel his toes anymore. "Guess I got some things on my mind," he shrugged. "Like?" "Amy Patterson." Blackburn picked up a nearby stick, and started drawing figures in the dirt – chick on all fours getting the hell banged out of her. Well, that's what it was supposed to be, anyway, but Blackburn couldn't draw for dick. "Who?" "Amy Patterson. She's, ah --" "Girl back home?" "Yeah. But not mine." Eversmann nodded sagely, and glanced out at the endless black horizon. "The infamous 'one who got away', huh?" "Something like that. Wish now I'd gotten down her pants when I'd had the chance," he said, thinking of tomorrow and the possible mission – the possibilities. "But did you?" Eversmann asked. "Ever have the chance?" "Nah, not really. She was too busy making it with Trey Stone. Basketball Captain," Blackburn elaborated, with a roll of his eyes. "What've you got against basketball captains?" Blackburn groaned at the wicked grin on Eversmann's face. "Ah, shit. You were, weren't you?" "High school and college." "Sorry, man." Eversmann waved off the apology. "Nah, it's cool. I don't offend easy." "You don't, huh?" Blackburn glanced at Eversmann again – Ev, the others called him – and decided, well, nothing like the present to start razing his fellow brothers in arms. And Ev seemed like the amiable sort. If a trifle idealistic. "So...there's this note?" "Uh huh." "On one of the latrine stalls?" "Uh huh." "You and Smith?" Blackburn said, and waggled his eyebrows. "Ah, yeah, that." Blackburn waited a beat. "So?" "Well, yeah, totally," Eversmann grinned, and Blackburn breathed a sigh of relief. "At it every night after lights out behind the motor pool. D-Boys all pay to watch us, even." "How much?" "Twenty a pop." "Twenty?" Blackburn shook his head sadly, secretly thrilled that a Sergeant was deigning to get ribbed like this, and play along. "Fuck, man, you two better be better'n Christy Canyon for that kinda money." "Jamie's got a mouth like a Hoover, man." Eversmann made an obscene gesture with his hand and his lips to demonstrate, much to Blackburn's disgusted delight. "We're trying to get articled out, see," Eversmann continued, and how he managed to keep a straight face, Blackburn never knew, "so we can open up one of those leather bars in San Francisco or maybe New York, y'know, and have those dancers that wear those little shorts in cages shaking their asses. So, y'know, if you're looking for a job after your tour, you let me know." Blackburn rubbed a hand over his newly shorn head, and pretended to give the matter some thought. "Well, I guess that would depend on the pay." "What, you're trying to say you won't work for blowjobs?" "I'm not that cheap." "Son, you're a Ranger," Eversmann replied, punching Blackburn lightly on the arm. "Of course you're that cheap." "Ah, right, I forgot," Blackburn chuckled, having more fun with this conversation than he could remember in a long time. "Grunts of the Special Forces." "And don't forget it." This time, when Eversmann glanced over, his eyes were serious, kind. A leader's eyes. "Feeling better now?" "Yeah, I – wait. How'd you know?" Blackburn asked, giving Eversmann a suspicious look. "Been there." "Yeah, I guess so. Uh, thanks," Blackburn shrugged, a little uncomfortable that he'd been found out, but it was a good kind of uncomfortable. His chalk had already accepted him as a brother. "Anytime, bra. We're a team. We stick together." Blackburn smiled, weak, but heartfelt. "Rangers lead the way." "All the way."
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