So I fucked his wife.
Funny enough that’s a big no-no in the military—the kind of thing that can get you a court martial followed by a dishonorable discharge. Like I give a shit.
I know how that sounds, because being a Marine is about having to trust your life with the guy who’s got your back—so fucking his wife kind of puts a downer on things. And usually I don’t go near married women—not anymore. But they both deserved it. Long story short: the no-ball pen-pusher didn’t want anyone to know his wife was screwed by a noncom, so he had me reassigned. Mostly I did PR which I hated. I was shit at it, too. Too much time having to smile. But I did work with some journos flying out to Afghanistsan, getting them prepped for a war zone.
There are worse places than Geneva. There are worse countries. I’ve seen a few of them. But there comes a point when you’re so fucking bored that you bore yourself thinking about how bored you are. I’d reached that point five months ago.
I’d even thought about getting the hell out of the Marine Corps and doing something else with my life¸ although I had no clue what. But I’d re-upped, so I had another two years to go. The only glimmer of light was that in Spring 2012 they needed more US-born interpreters in Afghanistan. And for this billet, I’d get a huge bonus. But it was more about getting the fuck out of Cuckoo Clock-land.
I’d put my name out there again, so who knows.
This was my tenth year in the Marines. It had been an interesting life up until Paris two years ago. I’d found that I was good at languages—which was a big fucking shock to actually be good at anything when my parents had only ever told me that I was a fuck up since birth—and I’d been promoted through the ranks. I’d been proud of being a Sergeant and had even thought about trying to get my degree so I could progress further and become an officer. And then Paris had happened. For the last two years I’d been kicking my heels in one miserable office job after another, although I’d made Warrant Officer—just to get me out of their hair, I think. But now I’d got a new CO, so there was a chance I’d get moved on to something useful soon. This guy was in the oxymoron that is Military Intelligence. I’d met him briefly when he was out here for a few days. Nice wife. Blonde. Not my type.
At least I had some leave coming up.
My buddy, Ches, had asked me to come stateside and see his family. I was tempted, but since an incident with his wife’s best friend, as well as the friend of her best friend … I wasn’t as welcome as I might have been.
I was toying with the idea of taking off on my motorcycle and seeing some of Italy. I’d never been, although it was somewhere I’d wanted to see ever since. There was a guy I’d met when I was a kid. He was Italian, from Southern Italy, and he’d taught me more about what a father should be than my own asshole dad. Papa Ven was such an amazing guy—and I’d fallen in love with his daughter, as well. But that’s another story—no fairytale ending either. So Italy was somewhere that I’d wanted to visit for a while, and now the border was just a few miles away. What the hell. I had nothing better to do.
Well, I did have one offer that I was considering. I’d spent last Christmas in the Swiss ski resort Klosters, with Benita from Düsseldorf. I had an open invitation to visit. I don’t normally do reruns, but did I mention I was bored? And I hadn’t been laid since Christmas—it was nearly fucking Easter. Well there was that one night with Dorota from Poland who had some business at the UN. She was only in town for one night. Classy chick. Nice ass.
My cell phone rang, interrupting my memories of that one wild night. Polish chicks knew how to have a good time.
I glanced down and was surprised to see that it was my new CO calling.
“Sir?”
“Hunter, quick sit-rep. Something’s come up that could be your ticket out of Switzerland. I’ve got a job for you—shipping out to Afghanistan. Not sure of the date, but could be in about three weeks.”
I took a deep breath, feeling a shot of adrenaline wake up nerve endings that hadn’t been used for a while.
“Thank you, sir. That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not a done deal—about 70/30 right now. I see you’ve got some leave. I suggest you use it up as soon as the current PR briefing is finished. But don’t go too far—no more than a couple of hours from Ramstein. No Stateside trips, Hunter. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended abruptly. I was going back to Afghanistan. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but it was what I’d been trained for.
I stared over the rooftops of Geneva towards the lake. It was peaceful here—the polar opposite of where I’d being going next.
I sat for some time before I realized that I’d spent 20 minutes just looking out at the water.
I liked my apartment: it was fairly basic but nobody came here except me. It was in an older part of the city where the architecture looked more Italian than Swiss. The cobblestone street was narrow and quiet. I liked the peace. After you’ve shared a tent in 120oF heat with 19 other sweaty, stinking guys, you’d want peace, too.
It was owned by an old lady named Madame Dubois. She was always trying to introduce me to her granddaughters, but apart from that she didn’t bother me.
Today’s lesson in sheer fucking tedium was an ear-achingly dull hostile environment briefing—my fifth this month. It was part of my ‘rehabilitation’ after Paris. I don’t know how it was supposed to rehabilitate me. I mean, what part of sending me to Switzerland was supposed to teach me to keep my cock in my pants when it came to the CO’s wife? My new boss was 3,000 miles away. With his wife. I’d need fucking super strength sperm to cause any trouble from this distance.
Today I was training journalists—foreign correspondents—to prepare for an assignment in Afghanistan. I was working with a British team: Major Mike Parsons and a Lieutenant Tom waste-of-fucking-air Crawley. I’d learned some new words since I’d met Crawley: ‘wanker’ was one; ‘tosser’ was the other. Both worked.
Parsons was okay except for the fact that he hated me. Probably because I always showed up late. I think he knew why I’d gotten this assignment, so he never gave me much shit about it. If he’d been my CO, he’d have handed me my ass, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. But we were only allies—civility was an optional extra.
As I pulled on the jacket of my uniform, my attention was caught by the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s that was still next to my bed. Yeah, a quick hit of that might actually get my ass moving and make the morning’s mind-numbing monotony more bearable.
Might.
I was forty minutes late, which was pretty good for me.
Crawley was droning on about some tedious shit that even had the journos present yawning their heads off.
Parsons didn’t look happy when he saw me. Guy had a broomstick up his ass like the rest of the Brits when it came to punctuality. Yeah, well, it was probably an army thing. I was a Marine. Big difference.
“Thank you, Tom. We’ll take a short break in a few minutes, ladies and gentleman, and meet back here at 1100 hours. Refreshments will be served in Les Nations lounge. And we’re very glad to have our colonial colleague Warrant Officer Hunter join us.” He stared at me coldly. “I’m sure his insight will be invaluable.”
Wow, wounded by sarcasm at close range. The Brits sure fight dirty. Next it’ll be harsh language.
But my timing was pretty good—coffee break already.
I hightailed it out of the hotel, knowing that if I stayed I’d be asked a shitload of dumb questions. I’ve had some journos come onto me, acting like they’re my best friend in the hope that I’ll dish the dirt. They must think I’m a fucking moron if they think I’m going to trust them after five minutes. I usually prefer to get kissed before I get screwed.
It was all I could do to drag my weary ass back in that seminar room after the coffee break and hope that my brain didn’t completely atrophy before the afternoon pastries. The Swiss French made awesome cakes.