Chapter 32

Ryan

Commander Shepherd stood behind my office chair and gripped the top of it, squeezing the leather and releasing, squeezing and releasing. He glared daggers at me.

I stood my ground, arms at my sides, drawn up straight.

“I thought the trouble was over, Petty Officer Baker,” he said. “I thought we resolved this.” The Commander hadn’t called me into his office once to discuss Whitmore’s ‘escape’ from his guards. I’d assumed it’d blown over, but apparently, it hadn’t reached him until, now. And then, only because he’d gone to see Whitmore himself.

The asshat had openly bragged about it.

“Do you know why I stayed behind, Baker?”

“No, Sir.” He was scheduled to leave weeks ago.

“Because I had to ensure that the transition of power here was smooth. I had to ensure that you didn’t fuck it up again somehow. I’m glad I stayed.”

“Sir, these are extreme circumstances. I can’t control –”

“You can’t control anything,” Shepherd said, and slapped the chair. It shuddered and rolled to one side. The Commander bore down on the desk and planted his knuckles on top of it. “I asked you to find me evidence, actual proof that Whitmore beat that Meek Springs kid and you’ve done nothing in the past two weeks but fuck around.”

“Sir, Whitmore admitted that he beat the civilian to the interior decorator, Chanel Scott. She can testify to that,” I said, smoothly. It was my Ace up my sleeve. Except for that, I had nothing. How could I when the evidence was washed away in the storm and none of the witnesses had seen what I had?

“Miss Scott,” Shepherd said. “The same woman who’s redecorating the base.”

“That’s correct, Sir.”

“And the same woman who’s spurred rumors around the base. Rumors about you,” Shepherd continued.

I kept up my poker face. God, I’d made a mess of everything here. I deserved the demotion and the relocation tomorrow. If I could just keep my shit together until then… no, it wouldn’t make me happy, but it might save my career with the Navy.

“I hear everything.”

“It was Whitmore, wasn’t it, Sir?” I sighed. “He’s obsessed with Miss Scott. He threatened her in private, though I’m not sure if she’ll press charged against him. Regardless, he added another crime to the list for which he’ll be convicted.”

“You sound confident about that.”

“I know him,” I said, “I thought I knew him until now, but I’ve come to know what lurks beneath his façade, Sir. He’s criminal.”

Shepherd eyed me. “You might be right about that, Baker. Can you explain how he got out of his quarters without supervision?”

“We investigated the guards on duty, Sir. We discovered that Officer Wyatt changed the roster to reflect his name during a time he knew he would be out on a supply run,” I said. “He’s been punished appropriately.”

“I doubt it,” Shepherd said. “I want to see Officer Wyatt after we’re done speaking. You’ll have him sent to me, immediately.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Baker, I’m disappointed in everything that’s happened on this base. Apart from Miss Scott’s endeavors. The base seems to have come along nicely. The soldiers seem uplifted.”

He used the word ‘seem’ a lot there.

“She’s a brilliant interior decorator, Sir,” I said, formally. “I’m glad that Meek Springs had something to offer.”

“Apart from a petition, you mean.”

I raised an eyebrow and opened my mouth to question him about it.

Commander Shepherd waved me to silence. “Nothing will come of it. They’ve gathered their signatures, but ultimately, this base is here to stay. There’s not much they can do against the will of the United States Government.”

Except cause trouble in the town when soldiers did supply runs. This didn’t bode well for the base, but it wasn’t my place to say that anymore. I wasn’t the CO here. “I’m glad to hear things will be resolved, Sir.”

Commander Shepherd grunted. “If you can call it that. We still have a half-dead boy in hospital and a criminal to convict.” He didn’t mention that the criminal was Whitmore. Could there still be doubt that he’d done it?

Whitmore had shown his mutinous side. He’d gone against authority several times prior to the incident and after. Surely, there couldn’t be a question as to whether he was capable.

“Sir, if you’ll speak to Miss Scott, I think you’ll find that –”

“I don’t need to speak to Miss Scott. She’ll testify when he’s court-martialed,” Shepherd said, and waved again. He dug around in his jacket pocket and brought out a wrapped cigar. “I’m leaving today. I think I’ll celebrate that in peace.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, and saluted.

A knock at the door stalled my exit.

“Wait a moment, Baker, this might be relevant,” Shepherd said, then raised his voice. “Come.”

The door opened and Petty Officer Jameson entered. She saluted.

“At ease.” Shepherd brought out a cigar clipper and gestured with it. “What news do you have for me, Jameson?”

“Sir, we’ve received information from the local police in Meek Springs. The victim of the attack, Timothy Meller, has come out of a coma. He’s in Cregton General speaking to the police, right now.”

I balled my hands into fists – silent triumph. This was the best thing that could’ve happened. Not only was the kid alive and talking, thank goodness, but he’d be able to reveal the truth about Whitmore.

Commander Shepherd froze with the clipper halfway to the end of his cigar. “That so?” he said. “Well, I’ll be damned. Has Mr. Meller said anything of note? Anything relevant?”

Jameson nodded, her arms still tucked behind her back. “Yes, Sir. He gave a description of the man who attacked him.”

Commander Shepherd finally clipped off the end of his cigar into an ashtray on the desk. “And?” He asked. “Are you going to tell me the verdict or do I have to squeeze it out of you, Jameson?”

“Sorry, Sir, I’m a – never mind. Sir, he gave a description which matches Jack Whitmore. From what we’ve heard, he described the incident as Whitmore following him out into the alleyway and assaulting him brutally. He doesn’t have too many of the details because his memory is fuzzy.”

Silence followed Jameson’s words.

I couldn’t help the rush of relief that washed over me. This was conclusive evidence. If Timothy pinned it on Whitmore…

“Thank you for the information, Petty Officer Jameson,” the Commander said. “You’re dismissed.”

Jameson left and I turned to follow her out.

“Not you, Baker,” Shepherd said. “You stay.” The click of a lighter behind me, followed by the sound of Shepherd sucking on the end of the cigar. “You stay.”

I shut the door, and faced the Commander again, nerves chasing through my stomach. If there was any chance he’d let me stay and resume command of this base, this would be it. I could put it forward, but the fear of being let down dominated me. If he said no, it’d be like losing everything again.

The tryst with Chanel last week had almost pushed me over the edge. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her again. She’d avoided me all week, and it was better that way, but the last time –

“You want to ask me something, Baker?” Shepherd sat down in the leather chair this time.

“No, Sir,” I said.

“You sure about that?” Shepherd puffed out a cloud of cigar smoke. “Because you look like you’re thinking about asking me something.”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Baker, I can’t give you back command of this base. I’m moving you because of the way you handled this situation, regardless of the outcome,” Commander Shepherd said, “you didn’t truly think that I believed you were responsible for Meller’s attack.”

I didn’t respond, but kept my hands at my side, rigid.

“I didn’t. What I believed wasn’t in question. We have the evidence to put that maniac in prison for a long time. He’ll be court-martialed and suspended. In fact, I’m going to have him taken off base, right now.”

“That’s good news, Sir. Good for the base. Good for the other soldiers.”

Shepherd studied me, the cigar held between two of his fingers. “Good for the soldiers, yes. Ensure that you’re prepared to be shipped out tomorrow, Baker. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, and saluted.

I wouldn’t bother trying to argue the point. Shepherd had made up his mind – I wouldn’t be allowed to remain here. I’d lost his trust and I didn’t blame him. Maybe it was all the fucking years of pent up anger over what’d happened in the desert. Or maybe, meeting Chanel had changed everything for me.

It was over. I had to leave and find a place for myself on the base in Hawaii. Hopefully, I’d be called out into combat one day and I could put all this behind me. Not that I lusted after death or glory, but there was no time to worry about emotions when life was precious and orders came from the top to be obeyed.

I walked toward the officer’s section, boots clicking on the floor that Chanel had kept. The walls were a different color, the lights had been changed on the ceiling above. She’d worked her magic in very little time, and would probably finish up here before the month was out.

In fact, she worked with military precision and efficiency. I admired that. I loved that.

Shut up. It’s over. This part of your life is over.

I strode toward the officer’s mess hall and the buzz of lunchtime activity. Three men appeared at the end of the hall, two flanking the one in the middle.

Whitmore.

The criminal spotted me and narrowed his eyes. The bravado he’d been touting for the last few weeks was gone, and had been replaced by outright hatred. “There you are,” he said. “I hoped I’d get to see you before you left.”

I ignored him, and one of the officers guiding him nudged him. “Quiet.”

“You’ll end up regretting this, Baker. I won’t lose, understand? You might think you’re better than me. You might see this as a victory. I won’t lose. Not again. You’re going to –”

The words trailed off as he turned the corner, but the grumbling continued. Perhaps, this had pushed him over the edge. He’d probably expected Timothy Meller to die in that hospital. He thought that he’d get away with this.

It showed how he’d lost touch with reality. I placed my palm against the wall and exhaled. “Christ, what’s happening to me? What’s happening to everything?” None of it felt right. I drew my hand away and blinked at the smudge on the wall.

Shit. The paint was still wet. And it was all over my damn palm too. I rushed off to wash up, stomach growling for a meal and for the resolution I knew wouldn’t come. My last day on the base. My last opportunity to see the woman I loved.

Scrubbing couldn’t wash away the sickly feeling that Whitmore had left behind. He achieved his longterm goal, technically. He separated me from Chanel and proved that I was fallible. I wasn’t fit to lead. I wasn’t fit to love.

What did that leave behind?