Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Anonymous Tip

Room 275
15th FSB Barracks
Fort Hood, Texas
CONUS
Friday
01 November, 1991
0315

The witching hour. That dark time of the night between 0100 hours and 0300 hours when the blood moves the slowest, the breathing is the shallowest, and the most people hover between life and death. When the curtain between the dead and the living was the thinnest.

My hands were already working while I squatted there, in the cold, completely naked. Untwining my braid until the holly fell out.

The leaves were yellowed and cracked into pieces when the hit the cold floor.

The room was already warming, the spikes of ice withdrawn from my collarbones, as I stood up, moving quickly over to the desk. I wove more holly into my hair as I rebraided it as quickly as possible.

Westlin came to me. Not Anthony, not Johnny, me. Someone who hadn't even met her was who she had come to see, not one of the three men who had held her close as she had drowned in her own blood on the Upper Helipad of Atlas.

Which meant...

Anthony was dead. Johnny was dead.

It hit me for a moment, making my hands shake. For a moment I could hear First Sergeant Ramirez's whisper as I stood next to him while he stared at his wife's body in the morgue.

...how will I live without you? you're all I know...

I crushed the thought, pushing it down, away, where it didn't matter.

I got dressed quickly in BDU's, leaving the locker with my gear open as I slipped out into the hall and walked down the hallway to the CQ. The CQ was a short black guy, SPC Dennis, Charlie Company, AB Negative, allergic to olives, sickle cell anemia ran in his family.

I pushed away the data-stream my subconscious provided as I drew close. Dennis was shivering, rubbing his arms.

"Goddamn, it's cold," he said. I could feel the residual cold spot at the CQ desk as I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the names.

"Wake these people up, tell them duty uniform, get their go-packs and battle ready to roll out," I snapped.

"Ma'am?" He looked at the list. "Is there an alert?"

I stared at him. "Call it a gut feeling," I told him. He just nodded, moving down the hallway.

A quick look in the phone book gave me the number I needed. I picked up the phone, dialed the number until it rang.

"Fifteenth Military Intelligence Battalion, Nighthawks, Staff Sergeant Littles, this line is unsecure, how many I help you, sir or ma'am," the voice said.

"This is Chief Cromwell, 15th FSB, I need to speak with Chief Headleburg, is he available?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am, he's the Staff Duty Officer. One moment," the phone went muffled and I waited.

"Chief Headleburg, this line is unsecure, how can I help you, ma'am?" The voice was just as familiar as I remembered.

"Headleburg, this is Cromwell, remember me?" I crossed my fingers.

"One of Stillwater's goons, right?" He asked.

"Yeah, his crew medic," I said.

"Heard you were dead," the man's voice was challenging.

"Atlas couldn't kill me when it exploded, some mudders ain't got a chance. Henley didn't give us permission to die," I shot back.

That got a chuckle, "All right, say you are Cromwell, what does one of Atlas's fucking..."