Chapter Twenty-Four: MILITARY WORK
956 Words
Eli
The desert was quiet.
Not peaceful.
People who had never served often confused those two things.
Peace and silence were not the same.
A battlefield could be silent.
A battlefield could be still.
That didn’t make it safe.
I stood inside the operations tent, studying the large digital map projected onto the screen.
Coordinates.
Routes.
Intelligence reports.
Satellite images.
The familiar language of military work.
The kind I’d spent most of my adult life learning.
Outside, soldiers moved between checkpoints and vehicles.
Inside, radios crackled intermittently.
A constant background noise.
One I barely noticed anymore.
“Colonel Winslie.”
I glanced up.
Lieutenant Harris approached carrying a tablet.
“Updated reports.”
I accepted it.
“Anything urgent?”
“No, sir.”
Good.
For once.
The past three days had been relatively quiet.
Relatively being the important word.
In military operations, quiet rarely stayed quiet for long.
I reviewed the reports quickly.
Everything appeared normal.
Or as normal as this job ever became.
Harris hesitated.
Then spoke again.
“You should get some sleep.”
I looked up slowly.
The lieutenant immediately regretted his decision.
Smart man.
Unfortunately, he was also correct.
I hadn’t slept properly in two nights.
A recurring problem.
One that wasn’t likely disappearing anytime soon.
“I’m fine.”
“Sir.”
“I’m fine.”
Harris wisely abandoned the topic.
Good choice.
He left a few moments later.
I returned my attention to the screen.
Work was easier.
Work made sense.
There were objectives.
Procedures.
Solutions.
Life was rarely that straightforward.
A radio crackled nearby.
Several soldiers exchanged information.
The operation continued.
Predictable.
Structured.
Controlled.
The way I preferred things.
For years I’d convinced myself that work was enough.
That as long as I focused on the mission, everything else would remain manageable.
Most days it worked.
Most days.
Today wasn’t one of them.
My gaze drifted toward the photograph tucked inside my notebook.
A habit.
An old one.
The picture showed Kira sitting on my shoulders at a zoo three years ago.
She was missing a front tooth.
Grinning like she’d personally conquered the world.
The image always made me pause.
No matter where I was.
No matter what was happening.
Kira had that effect on me.
She always would.
A small smile appeared before I could stop it.
Then another memory surfaced unexpectedly.
The island.
The beach.
Kira and Miss Kingsley arguing about crabs.
I frowned.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because I hadn’t intended to think about Miss Kingsley.
Yet somehow she appeared anyway.
The woman had become strangely difficult to ignore.
Not because of anything dramatic.
The opposite.
Because she’d quietly woven herself into Kira’s daily life.
Into the rhythm of the house.
Into routines I hadn’t realized existed until they became noticeable.
The thought irritated me.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was true.
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
“Enter.”
Major Thompson stepped inside.
“Briefing starts in ten.”
I nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
He lingered.
Which usually meant bad news.
Wonderful.
“What?”
Thompson crossed his arms.
“Your daughter called.”
I immediately looked up.
“Kira?”
“Yesterday.”
I blinked.
“I missed it?”
“You were asleep.”
Interesting.
Apparently I had been more exhausted than I’d realized.
“Did she leave a message?”
The major handed over a phone.
I pressed play.
Instantly Kira’s voice filled the room.
“Daddy!”
I already knew this wasn’t going to be brief.
“I miss you.”
A pause.
Then:
“Nanny says I have to eat vegetables.”
Another pause.
“Please come home and stop this injustice.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Naturally.
The message continued.
“I love you.”
Then:
“Also Nanny says that’s not how injustice works.”
The recording ended.
Silence returned.
Thompson was trying not to laugh.
Poorly.
I pocketed the phone.
The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself.
“She’s dramatic.”
“Runs in the family.”
I gave him a look.
The major wisely changed subjects.
A survival skill developed over many years.
After he left, I remained alone.
For a few moments.
Just listening to the quiet.
Thinking.
Kira sounded happy.
That mattered.
It always mattered.
As long as she was safe, healthy, and smiling, I could focus on my work.
Simple.
At least it should have been.
Yet a strange unease lingered.
One I couldn’t explain.
Perhaps it was instinct.
Perhaps it was exhaustion.
Perhaps it was nothing.
Still, the feeling remained.
I rubbed a hand across my face.
Two weeks.
Just two weeks.
Then I’d be home again.
Back to New York.
Back to Kira.
Back to the estate.
The thought should have been comforting.
Instead, for reasons I couldn’t quite identify, another image appeared.
White hair.
A nervous smile.
A young woman speaking English with stubborn determination despite constantly mixing her tenses.
Miss Kingsley.
I immediately dismissed the thought.
Work.
Focus.
Mission.
Those things made sense.
People didn’t.
Especially not people like Miss Kingsley.
She was Kira’s nanny.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The reminder should have settled something inside me.
It didn’t.
Outside, the sounds of military life continued.
Orders.
Radios.
Vehicles.
Responsibility.
Duty.
The world I’d spent years building around myself.
The world that required nothing except discipline and sacrifice.
A world that never asked difficult emotional questions.
A world that never reminded me of things I’d lost.
Or things I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
I straightened my uniform.
Collected the reports.
And headed toward the briefing room.
Because work was simple.
Work was familiar.
Work was safe.
And right now, safe felt a lot easier than whatever waited for me back home
- Writer
