fitness hasn’t gone unnoticed, son.”
“I’m glad.” Ross’s voice cracked in relief. Last week he’d taken on some mates in close-quarter battle and managed to win a few. Despite his weak leg he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. The med team had told him to go easy, rest up and let nature take over but Ross had achieved more by doing rehab his way. Who Dares Wins wasn’t some token corporate team-building slogan, it was imprinted on an SAS trooper’s DNA.
“And counseling. How’s your progress there?”
“Working equally as hard in that area.” To appear unemotional, nerveless…The Iceman.
Thoughtfully, the CO scrutinized him and Ross startedto sweat. Finally the sharp gaze shifted to the wall calendar behind his desk. “I’m thinking of scheduling you for a couple more advanced instructors courses early next year. A GPMG—General Purpose Machine Gun—course in January, a Patrol Procedures in February and Counter Terrorism in March.”
That was three courses, not two.
“We’ll be short of good instructors when Frank retires midyear,” the CO continued. “And I’ve liked your style on demolition. You’re an excellent teacher.”
“You know my goal is to be available for operations.” Ross managed to keep his voice even.
“And these courses don’t preclude that, but it’s early days to be talking about deployment. According to your physio you’re not even jogging yet.” His ironic tone suggested he knew differently.
“I’ve been doing some light training runs,” Ross admitted.
“Stop.”
So much for informal. “Sir.”
“You’re a valuable resource…. Conserve, Ross.”
“Sir.”
“You still have some healing to do, son, mind as well as body.”
Ross tightened his jaw. “Did the psych say that?”
“No, you’ve convinced him you’re completely rational.”
It was delivered as a joke so Ross smiled. “Sir.”
But he’d heard the qualifier. Which son of a bitch had put doubt in the CO’s head?
“H OW MUCH MORE do I have to lose, Ross?” Charlie had decided beer wasn’t strong enough and moved onto spirits. He’d given up on his mother’s purple couches— “fifteen thousand bucks each and they’re not evencomfortable”—and lay sprawled on the living room carpet, head and shoulders resting against a pile of black and white polka-dot cushions. Reminded Ross of dominoes. Strewn around the shaggy white rug lay pictures of coffins.
It was 9:00 p.m. and the only light in the room came from the backlit nooks and recesses showcasing Linda’s objets d’art. “First Dad dies, then my marriage and now Mum.” Leaning on his elbow, Charlie held out his empty crystal tumbler with an unsteady hand.
Silently Ross refilled it with Linda’s cognac, topped up his own glass then returned the decanter to the polished black coffee table.
“Or maybe there’s a Coltrane curse,” Charlie continued. “It’s not as if you’ve done any better.” He hesitated. “Do you miss Dad?” He was drunk to be asking such things.
Ross wasn’t drunk enough. “No.”
“How about Steve and Lee?” Ross’s troop mates who’d died in the ambush.
“What is this, twenty questions?”
Charlie waited for an answer.
He sipped his cognac, felt the burn. “Every day.”
Satisfied, his brother lifted his drink, pausing as something under the coffee table caught his eye. Reaching under it, he retrieved a chewed orange plastic Y Ross had missed in his earlier cleanup. Charlie put down his glass and turned it over in his hands. “Trust Mum to buy a baby who can’t talk, an alphabet set.” His face crumbled, his shoulders heaved in a silent sob, before he wiped his eyes with the back of one clenched fist. “How do you do it, Ross? How do you make peace with death?”
“I don’t. Grief is fuel to get me where I need to be.”
“Which is Afghanistan?”
Ross nodded.
His brother’s gaze dropped to his injured leg, then slidaway. Charlie didn’t think he could
“I’m glad.” Ross’s voice cracked in relief. Last week he’d taken on some mates in close-quarter battle and managed to win a few. Despite his weak leg he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. The med team had told him to go easy, rest up and let nature take over but Ross had achieved more by doing rehab his way. Who Dares Wins wasn’t some token corporate team-building slogan, it was imprinted on an SAS trooper’s DNA.
“And counseling. How’s your progress there?”
“Working equally as hard in that area.” To appear unemotional, nerveless…The Iceman.
Thoughtfully, the CO scrutinized him and Ross startedto sweat. Finally the sharp gaze shifted to the wall calendar behind his desk. “I’m thinking of scheduling you for a couple more advanced instructors courses early next year. A GPMG—General Purpose Machine Gun—course in January, a Patrol Procedures in February and Counter Terrorism in March.”
That was three courses, not two.
“We’ll be short of good instructors when Frank retires midyear,” the CO continued. “And I’ve liked your style on demolition. You’re an excellent teacher.”
“You know my goal is to be available for operations.” Ross managed to keep his voice even.
“And these courses don’t preclude that, but it’s early days to be talking about deployment. According to your physio you’re not even jogging yet.” His ironic tone suggested he knew differently.
“I’ve been doing some light training runs,” Ross admitted.
“Stop.”
So much for informal. “Sir.”
“You’re a valuable resource…. Conserve, Ross.”
“Sir.”
“You still have some healing to do, son, mind as well as body.”
Ross tightened his jaw. “Did the psych say that?”
“No, you’ve convinced him you’re completely rational.”
It was delivered as a joke so Ross smiled. “Sir.”
But he’d heard the qualifier. Which son of a bitch had put doubt in the CO’s head?
“H OW MUCH MORE do I have to lose, Ross?” Charlie had decided beer wasn’t strong enough and moved onto spirits. He’d given up on his mother’s purple couches— “fifteen thousand bucks each and they’re not evencomfortable”—and lay sprawled on the living room carpet, head and shoulders resting against a pile of black and white polka-dot cushions. Reminded Ross of dominoes. Strewn around the shaggy white rug lay pictures of coffins.
It was 9:00 p.m. and the only light in the room came from the backlit nooks and recesses showcasing Linda’s objets d’art. “First Dad dies, then my marriage and now Mum.” Leaning on his elbow, Charlie held out his empty crystal tumbler with an unsteady hand.
Silently Ross refilled it with Linda’s cognac, topped up his own glass then returned the decanter to the polished black coffee table.
“Or maybe there’s a Coltrane curse,” Charlie continued. “It’s not as if you’ve done any better.” He hesitated. “Do you miss Dad?” He was drunk to be asking such things.
Ross wasn’t drunk enough. “No.”
“How about Steve and Lee?” Ross’s troop mates who’d died in the ambush.
“What is this, twenty questions?”
Charlie waited for an answer.
He sipped his cognac, felt the burn. “Every day.”
Satisfied, his brother lifted his drink, pausing as something under the coffee table caught his eye. Reaching under it, he retrieved a chewed orange plastic Y Ross had missed in his earlier cleanup. Charlie put down his glass and turned it over in his hands. “Trust Mum to buy a baby who can’t talk, an alphabet set.” His face crumbled, his shoulders heaved in a silent sob, before he wiped his eyes with the back of one clenched fist. “How do you do it, Ross? How do you make peace with death?”
“I don’t. Grief is fuel to get me where I need to be.”
“Which is Afghanistan?”
Ross nodded.
His brother’s gaze dropped to his injured leg, then slidaway. Charlie didn’t think he could
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