“I’ll be back in my hooch by 2100, Sir,” Cooke, looking at his watch, called after Wynn. “Come see me after. Meantime I’ll knock on some doors.”
By his comment, Wynn knew Cooke intended to go check on the platoon’s soldiers. Cooke, at night, would regularly go door-to-door of the Wolfhound trailers, making sure the men were OK. Wynn thought again about Kale. Maybe Cooke would get some one-on-one time with him.
It was grey dusk outside now, nearly 2000. A thin stripe of orange lay on the horizon, the sun’s final lingering kiss. Wynn watched the slowly sinking orange as he made his way westward across the gravel-covered parking lot and the dirt road bisecting the FOB to the passage leading down the long row of company headquarters buildings. Fine powder from the road surface wafted upward,
