“Sir,” said Reynolds, continuing his saga of despair, “when I arrived at the weapons platoon, I found all the vehicles were gone to refuel… ” As he spoke O’Neal walked to the rear of the jeep without a word or a greeting to the senior officer or NCO. There he dropped the log and his pack and grasped the bumper. He squatted, then straightened, lifting the corner of the thousand-pound jeep into the air with an exhalation.
“Yeah, we can do this,” he said with a grunt and tossed the jeep back into the mud. It bounced on its springs and splattered Reynolds with more of the cold glutinous clay. O’Neal’s actions had effectively shut off the flow from Reynolds. “Good afternoon, sir, sergeant major,” O’Neal said. He did not salute. Despite standing division orders to do so, the 82nd continued the tradition of considering a salute in the field a “sniper check” and thus a bad thing to train for.
The sergeant major stuck out his hand. “Howarya, O’Neal.” He was astounded at the return grip strength. He had dealt with O’Neal peripherally but had never appreciated the specialist’s almost preternatural condition. The baggy BDUs apparently hid a body made of pure muscle.
“Specialist,” said the colonel, sternly, “that was not a good idea. Let’s try to think safe, okay? Rupturing a gut would just make a bad situation worse.” He cocked his head to the side like a blue-eyed falcon, pinning the soldier with his most arctic stare.
“Yes, sir, I guessed you would say that,” said the specialist, the officer’s stare bouncing off him like rain off steel. He worked a bit of dip over to one side and spit carefully. “Sir, with all due respect,” he drawled, “I work out with this much weight every damn day. I’ve lifted the gun jeeps before for exercise, I even clean jerked one, once. I just wanted to make sure the extra radios didn’t make it too heavy. We can do this. I lift it, the sergeant major slides the log underneath, we change the tire, reverse the procedure and you’re outta here.”
The colonel peered down at the specialist for a moment. The specialist looked back up with a matching scowl, the bit of dip bulging his lower lip. The colonel’s scowl deepened for a moment, a sure sign of amusement. He carefully did not ask why the sergeant major was sliding the log under the jeep instead of the driver. Apparently O’Neal had the same opinion of Reynolds that he and the sergeant major did.
“You have a first name, O’Neal?” asked the colonel.
“Michael, sir,” stated the specialist. He moved the dip to the other side. Other than that his expression of terminal annoyance did not flicker.
“Michael or Mike?” asked the colonel with a deepening scowl.
“Mike, sir.”
“Nickname?”
Reluctantly, “Mighty Mite.”
As the sergeant major chuckled the colonel scowled fiercely, “Well, Specialist O’Neal, I reluctantly approve this procedure.”
“How’re we gonna break the bolts?” asked the sergeant major. That had been wearing on his mind more than lifting the jeep. There were plenty of things to use for levers if necessary but not a lug wrench to be seen.
Specialist O’Neal reached into his cargo pocket and with a flourish withdrew a crescent wrench all of eight inches long.
“Good luck,” snorted Reynolds, “they got put on at Brigade with an impact wrench.”
A smile violated the frown on O’Neal’s face for a moment. He knelt in the mud, cold water seeping into the fabric of his BDUs, adjusted the wrench and applied it to the nut. He drew a deep breath and let it out with a “Saaa!” His arm drove forward like a mechanical press and, with a shriek of stressed steel, the nut loosened.
“Craftsman,” he said, relaxing and letting the rest of the breath out slowly, “when you care enough to use the very best.” He spit another bit of dip out, deftly spun the nut loose and started on the next.
The colonel scowled, but there was a twinkle in his normally cold azure eyes. He turned to be unobserved and gave the sergeant major a wink. They had found their new driver.
“Howarya, Mike?” General Horner asked, as the approaching figure brought him back from memory lane. He extended his hand.
Mike shifted the cedar box under his arm and took the outstretched hand. “Fine, sir, fine. How are the wife and kids?”
“Fine, just fine. You wouldn’t believe how the kids have grown. How’re Sharon and the girls?” he asked. He noticed in passing that the former soldier had lost none of his musculature. The handshake was like shaking a well-adjusted industrial vise. If anything the former NCO had put on bulk; he moved like a miniature tank. Horner wondered if the soldier would be able to retain that level of physique given the demands that would shortly be placed upon him.
“Well, the girls are okay,” said O’Neal, then grimaced. “Sharon’s not particularly happy.”
“I knew this would be hard on both of you,” said the general, smiling slightly, “and I thought about it before I called you. If it wasn’t important I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I thought generals had aides to meet low-level flunkies like me,” said Mike, deliberately changing the subject.
“Generals have aides to meet much higher level flunkies than you.” Jack frowned, taking the opportunity to leave it behind.
“Well the heck with you then.” Mike laughed, handing the officer the box of cigars. “See if I cough up any more Ramars.”
Even while on active duty, Specialist O’Neal and then-Lieutenant Colonel Horner had developed a close relationship. The colonel often treated Mike more like an aide-de-camp than a driver. The specialist, and later sergeant, was invited to eat with the colonel’s family and Horner explained many of the customs of the service and functions in the staff that would normally remain a mystery to a lowly enlisted man. Mike in turn increased the colonel’s computer literacy and introduced him to science fiction. The colonel took to it surprisingly well, considering that he had never read it before. Mike took great care however in the subject matter, starting with the great modern combat science fiction writers to pique his interest.
After Mike left the service they continued to correspond and Mike followed Jack Horner’s career. They had lost touch in the last three years, mainly because of a disagreement over Mike’s career. After Mike completed college, Horner fully expected him to take a commission, and Mike wanted to work in web design and theory, while writing on the side. The colonel could not accept Mike’s reasoning and Mike could not accept Jack’s inability to take “no” for an answer.
Mike sometimes felt that a career in the Army might have made more sense than civvie street, but he had seen too many officers’ lives strained to the breaking point by the demands of the service. When his time to reenlist came he got out instead and went to college. The pressure to take a commission, especially during the tough years when he was just getting started and after Cally came along had been hard on him and hard on his marriage. He had never told Jack but the implicit blackmail was what had caused Mike to sever their relationship.
Sharon had experienced the problems that he only witnessed. Her first marriage to a naval aviator had ended in divorce, so she had no intention of letting Mike go back into the service. His brooding on the severance from Jack, in many ways like that of a son from a father, had distracted him from a discordant note: Jack’s rank.
“Lieutenant general?” asked Mike in surprise. The morning sun glittered on the five-pointed stars of the new rank. The last Mike had heard, Horner was on the list for major general. Three-star rank should not have come for another few years.
“Well, ‘when you care enough…’ ”
O’Neal smiled at the reference. “What?” He retorted. “Given your well-known resemblance to Friedrich von Paulus, they decided major general wasn’t good enough for you?”