If not for Puncher, the LT would’ve gotten himself killed that day.
So, they didn’t kick out the “discipline problem” leej because the point had high connections and the point’s family, and even the LT himself, were grateful. They knew talent when it started shooting its way out of an ambush.
And then some staff sergeant who had brains and wisdom, despite the protestations of his two ex-wives, recommended Puncher for the Dogs.
And in the Dogs, Puncher blossomed. Made sergeant. Third enlistment was in view, and retention wasn’t even a question.
Now Puncher and his dog were the only members of the explosives/threat-detection team with the small Detron detachment. Mainly they’d been going out with the marines and making sure no one found any surprises along the roads. But he was still a leej. Him, and the dog.
Puncher found Captain Kirk Walters, Repub Marine flyboy and pilot for the Reapers, as all the meetings were still underway. It was late, and Walters was drinking. Technically he had nothing else to do until reassigned. And he felt like a failure for letting Amanda get captured. Not that he could’ve done much about it. Other than use his rank and force her to follow orders.
Other than that.
“Hey…” said Puncher. He was small. Compact. Ripped. A fighter. But he had a smile that was either genuinely friendly or incredibly mischievous. “You’re that missing sniper’s driver, ain’t ya, sir?”
Captain Walters looked around, bewildered. He hadn’t had a lot to drink. But he was stewing. Wrapped up in feeling like a failure for letting Amanda do something he’d known was patently stupid from the get-go. Half of him wished the navy would just drum him out, and the other half wished he were tough enough to fly over the Docks—the marines had secured the whole area—set down, and go looking for her himself.
But he’d had only the one day with his sidearm during flight school—that, plus a fairly pathetic survival course. Captain Kirk Walters didn’t trust his skills enough to believe he could achieve anything of value. More than likely he’d end up another hostage for the other side.
He stared at the legionnaire in fatigues who’d just waltzed right into the navy officers’ canteen. Then again… who in the navy was going to stop a legionnaire?
“Yeah,” said the pilot. He heard the self-loathing in his own voice. He started to make some excuse for Amanda and how it wasn’t her fault. Command was already blaming her for as much as they could. They knew it was best to start shifting as much blame as they could as early as possible.
“Don’t care,” said Puncher. “I just figured you’re all broke up about her.”
Captain Walters stared at the leej. Certain the guy could beat him to death with the martini glass the aviator was nursing. He noticed the sergeant’s stripes.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “It’s my fault. If I could go back in there and get her out… well, I’d do it. No questions asked. They can bust me six ways to Psydon on the back side. Just… if I could just go in and get her out… that’d all be fine. I could live with that.”
Puncher looked around and then leaned in close.
“Well… you can’t,” he whispered. “But it’s your lucky day, flyboy. ’Cause I can. And you’re gonna fly me over the wire and drop me off where you lost her.”
Captain Walters looked around. He wasn’t much of an officer, but he was enough of one to find it odd being told what to do by a sergeant.
“Are you crazy, Sergeant? I mean, I’m asking that seriously. Like it’s a real question you need to answer. They will throw anyone who tries anything in prison for that kind of stunt. Not to mention, technically… I’d be stealing my own ship, which is currently locked down.”
Puncher ignored the question. “Can you hack the controls, sir?”
“Yeah, no problem,” said the pilot. “But that’s not the point.”
“Don’t care what the point is,” replied Puncher, keeping his voice low and fast. “I’m going in, and I’m giving you the chance to help me out. You in… or out? Make up your mind right now. Sir.”
Walters looked around. No one seemed much interested in them at this late hour. Just a couple other officers playing hyperchess over against the wall. Both seemed engrossed in the game and their nightcaps.
“That’s not our—” Walters began.
“Yeah,” interrupted Puncher. “It is. It is our job. That’s what the military does, sir. My brothers are being held by some piece of sket who thinks he’s king banana. Ain’t gonna happen. Legion don’t leave Legion behind. That ain’t what I signed up for. And they’d come get me if I got myself in trouble. May not be the navy way… but that’s what Legion does, whether they’re supposed to or not.”
“Then how come you and the rest of your detachment aren’t marching out through the gates and getting it done right now?” the pilot shot back.
Puncher looked, for a moment, like he had no answer to that. Then he said, “Don’t know, sir. Not my problem. So, you in or out? We leave the pads in an hour. You fly me out quick and drop off me and my dog. Baldur can find ’em. I’ll get ’em back, activate a locator, and they’ll come and pick us up. Then… the whole thing ain’t an issue, sir. I’ll even get your shooter back.”
Captain Kirk Walter hadn’t had a lot to drink. But he’d had enough that this… this was somehow a way of making things right with the galaxy. This was… he didn’t know what it was. But it felt like the one right thing to do in a sea of wrong choices. Each one ending with no one doing anything.
Amanda. They were more than a team. They were friends. As much as the Reaper could allow anyone to be her friend… well, she’d let him be just that. Even if they didn’t say too much
