Bad Attitude

Iraq, 2003


There wasn't anything on earth much hotter than the desert in August. Steele lay in the hole he'd dug in the sand under his tent to keep him sheltered in case of a mortar attack, trying to remember the cool, honeysuckle-scented breezes that used to ease the hot summers of his childhood.

If he lay here long enough, he could almost block out the sounds of army operations in the background. The sound of trucks moving, soldiers calling out to each other. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear. The feel of the hard, hot rifle biting into his side as he kept it tucked in beside him.

God, he just wanted to go home again.

His thoughts turned to Brian, who up until two days ago had shared this tent with him, and winced.

Maybe he didn't want to go home after all.

He could still feel the sting of Teresa's words after he'd called her to see how she was doing.

How do you think I'm doing, asshole I just had to go tell my six-year-old son that his father is dead. I hate you, you worthless bastard! You swore to me that you'd keep him alive. You're the one who should be dead, not him. No one would even care if it were you.

The worst part was, he knew she was right. Brian wouldn't have even been here if Steele hadn't talked him into enlisting with him after college. They'd been childhood friends together, and Brian had worshipped him. Teresa had wanted Brian to go into the corporate world, but stupid him, he'd talked Brian out of it.

"C'mon, Brian, I'll take care of you. It'll be just like it was when we were kids. Remember how we'd play pretend soldier with our BB guns It'll be great. Just the two of us, watching each other's backs. No one can touch us."

Now he was paying for that arrogance.

It should have been him who'd died -- no one would give two shits if it had been. Teresa's hatred was irrational, but then a lot of army wives went through that when their spouses died. Even though they knew the risks, the reality of it was hard to swallow and even harder to live with.

Maybe in time she'd forgive him.

He let out a slow, tired breath, which was halted as two men came into his tent, carrying army footlockers.

"Sergeant." The two privates saluted him.

Steele had to force himself not to roll his eyes at the gesture, which, given their current surroundings, could get someone shot. But their CO had determined that even if it meant a bullet in the head from a sniper, military protocol must be followed....