Silver Stars (Front Lines 2)

Slide bolt into receiver. This is always tricky and usually involves some wiggling of the piece, but Rio has it down to a single, smooth insertion. Then slot the operating rod back into the housing, slide it back to make sure it catches the rod. Then the follower assembly—drop and slide. Bullet guide, follower arm, operating rod catch, holding pin, check the movement, slide in the long spring, lever the assembly into the stock, pop in the trigger guard, lock it down, check the bolt, squeeze the trigger to earn a pleasantly layered metallic click and . . .

“Five minutes, thirty-eight seconds,” Geer says. “Hell, I can beat that, Richlin.”

“Not my best,” she mutters, and when she looks up, Strand’s expression is not congratulatory but serious. His forehead wrinkles, his brows lower over his eyes, shadowing them. His mouth is set in a stern, pressed line, and it takes him longer than she would like for him to ease it into a pleasant smile.

“Okay,” Rio says with false cheer to conceal her unease, “let’s see if Sarge is feeling generous.”

She takes Strand’s arm, actually clamps a hand on his bicep—and draws him outside into the light and heat and dust. She looks around for someplace private, any place, but she is surrounded by a half a square mile of tents, temporary huts, cooking fires, male soldiers naked to the waist, piles of discarded crates that once held canned food, the cans that came from those crates, parked jeeps, and deuce-and-a-halfs rumbling by in clouds of dust.

One of the parked jeeps apparently belongs to Strand, at least for now, and he has a corporal dozing in the driver’s seat, helmet tilted forward to shield his eyes, feet up on the dashboard.

Sergeant Cole is sitting on a camp chair drinking coffee with O’Malley and another sergeant. Rio says, “Come on,” and hauls Strand over.

“Sarge, meet Lieutenant Braxton, a friend of mine from back home. Strand, Sergeants Cole, O’Malley, and Alvarez.”

Cole stands, pivots, salutes, then shakes Strand’s outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”

“And you, Sergeant, I’ve heard a bit about you through Rio’s letters.” He raises a finger, forestalling a response, and reaches into his inner pocket to pull out a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. “Rio happened to mention that you enjoy an occasional cigar. I don’t know if these are any good, I picked them up in a little shop in Casablanca . . .”

Strand unwraps the parcel, revealing six fat brown cigars. Cole swallows hard. “Those are Cubans. Those are the real thing!”

“Well, they’re yours,” Strand says.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. I take that very kindly. So, just what is it I can do for you in response to this very, very, very welcome bribe?”

“Well, I’m only here for twenty-four hours, and I was wondering . . .” He shrugs.

“I see.” Cole pretends to consider this carefully. “Sergeant O’Malley, I wonder if we might be able to rustle up a twenty-four-hour pass for Private Richlin.”

“Wait,” Strand says. He darts over to his jeep, feels around inside a canvas carryall, and produces a bottle of rye whiskey, which he carries back to O’Malley. “I don’t suppose you’re a drinking man?”

“I’d have thought an officer would have more sense than to even ask that question.” O’Malley hefts the bottle and says, “I do believe you’re correct that we’re being bribed, Jedron. And a damned fine bit of bribery it is too. Make it a case next time, Lieutenant, and you can have Richlin for the whole rest of the war.”

The pass appears with record speed—it’s possible the rye will be shared with the captain. Strand dismisses his corporal to the mess tent and settles behind the wheel with Rio beside him. They drive off, and then Rio sees Jack. Jack is shirtless, stripped down to his boxer shorts and boots, wielding a shovel and digging a new latrine trench. He is bathed in sweat that rolls intriguingly down his smooth, tanned chest. He spots Rio, then does a double take, eyes narrowing as he realizes who is driving.

It is the moment Rio had hoped to avoid. Strand is oblivious, Jack being just one more soldier with a shovel. Jack nods at Rio, tries and fails to smile, and ends up seeming to grimace in disgust. Rio raises her hand in a guilty, halfhearted wave and the jeep roars on by, its dust-cloud swirling over Jack.

It doesn’t matter. Strand is Strand, while Jack is just Jack.

“Where are we going?” Rio asks, raising her voice to be heard over the rush of wind in her face.

“I, uh . . . I arranged a little privacy.”

“How much privacy?” Rio asks archly.

“It’s a room in a hotel, but we can leave the door open. And I’m told there’s a shower.”

“Uh-huh.” A slow, skeptical drawl.

Strand grins at her. “You know, being in the army has made you cynical.”

“Being around men all day and night will do that to a girl.”

“I imagine that’s true. Say, how are you, Rio?” It’s a serious question, more serious than it would have been back home, more serious than it would have been on the Queen Mary. As she feared, the sight of her in an OD T-shirt reassembling her weapon like an automaton has left an impression.

She shrugs. “Fine as anyone, I guess. Sick of living in the dirt. Sick of the same three things to eat every day. Sick of hearing the same old stories from the same old people day in, day out. I swear if Suarez starts in again on the time he caught a fly ball at Yankee Stadium . . . But I’m okay.” She smiles and reaches out to touch his hand on the gearshift. “Let’s make a deal.”

“What deal?”