Spartan, but serviceable. Like his life and place back at Ft. Benning.
A month ago the stew wouldn't have bothered him. But a month ago he hadn't been a grandfather suddenly realizing he'd never been much of a father, too married to the military. Was he going soft?
Scanning the packed tables, he watched the hungry troops, more his kids than his own blood. Kids who kept an M-16 close by even at lunch.
His troops shoveled the stew so fast he prayed they wouldn't be doubled over with stomach cramps later. At least they were all drinking plenty of water, which may have had something to do with the young local woman passing out refills and snagging their lonely eyes with her hip swishing.
Trouble.
He assessed her as a potential problem. Attractive kid, probably about his daughter's age. A tomato-red scarf with bursts of white flowers in the print covered most of her dark hair in a surprise splash of color, but left her pretty little face free to smile at all the men sniffing after her. Not much to her, but more than enough to wreak serious mayhem among his men.
Damn. Just what he needed, his captains and lieutenants restraining troops from a girl angling for a green card. As if this place didn't have enough uproar brewing. Hell, the locals were already clamoring at the gates for food rations and medical aid— part of the deal with the Rubistans in exchange for free rein to use this shithole airport.
With crappy stew.
Age might be softening his language, but nothing else. If she stirred trouble, out she went. He could still eat the goat slop and do his job. Hell, he'd already logged through a discussion on the drop zone pictures before even finishing a bowl of...that.
Drew glanced over at Korba, a top-notch operational planner, even if he was a little rough around the edges. "While you were in a cushy mess hall during Afghanistan, flyboy, I was in a canvas tent eating MREs." He took refuge in the comfortable camaraderie of good-natured rivalry between the services. Shoveling another spoonful of the questionable substance into his mouth, he yearned for one of those tiny Tabasco sauce bottles packed with the Meals Ready to Eat. "Although gotta admit, an MRE tastes better than this."
Korba swiped coarse bread around the bowl to scoop up the last bite. "Wouldn't doubt it, sir."
"Of course once we cracked open those MREs, the wind started blowing and filled the damn things with sand." He gulped the last swig of water, scouted for a refill, found the woman trying to capture the attention of a young Private First Class. "After how much time we've spent over here, I feel like I've got an extra five pounds of grit embedded in this old body."
"Old?" Korba tipped back his chair. "No doubt you'll be running circles around most of us during the rest of your ten years in the service."
Drew stayed silent. Hauled another bite up to his mouth.
Korba's chair legs thudded to a landing. "You're getting out at twenty?"
"Who the hell knows? It's possible." At forty-two, he'd still have time to start another career. Doing... what?
His attention snagged on the woman sidling closer to the young private. Her dress swished like a small dark cloud drifting with each sway of her hips. The young PFC—Santuci, maybe?—pulled his earphones off his head, white bandage on his hand glaring in the bald overhead light. A single look at the flirty bat of eyelashes and Santuci smiled.
Where the hell was the boy's lieutenant? Homesick soldiers made too easy a target. Hell, they didn't even have to be across the ocean to be lonely. He'd been an ROTC student, taken in by a woman hunting for a way out of her hometown. Any officer would do for her. He'd just bitten first.
He and Glenna had lasted all of three years and one kid before she moved on to a civilian guy with a smoother veneer and higher pay grade. "Some days I think it would be nice to wake up without sand in my shorts, to spend some time playing with my granddaughter. Other days I figure I'll die with a rifle in my hands because I'm a bachelor soldier at heart. Know what I mean?"
"Afraid I do."
Korba twisted open another bottle of the water, reached into his front pocket and pulled out a thin pack of NutraSweet Kool-Aid. The powder spread a cherry-red stain and scent. Two quick shakes of the bottle and he gulped half while Drew kept a steady lock on the young love in action across the crowded dining hall.
The private pointed as if giving directions. The petite woman stared back at him without talking, studying him, before nodding. Her head tucked, she moved on.
Relief and a chuckle kicked through him. He'd turned into a cynical old bastard.
Leaning across the table, Drew tapped Korba's bottle of Kool-Aid, "Wish I'd thought of that during Desert Storm while we were stuck out there eating sand for six months."
"Here ya go, sir." Jack whipped out a purple packet and skidded it across the table.
"You could make a mint selling that over here if you bring more."
"Hope I won't need it again."
Quiet settled between them, heavy with the unspoken knowledge of the inevitability of another battle on another day in another place. A soldier's mission. Meanwhile, focus on this victory. Tomorrow would come gunning soon enough.
Korba scraped back his chair. "Well, sir, I need to hook up with Doc Hyatt on a few points and it looks like she's through with the vaccines now."
Drew flipped his wrist to check his watch. "It's about time to sleep, anyway. See you tomorrow at the mobile command center?"