11 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Read Free

The driver was still outside.
    “I know.” Her emotions screeched, denying the words. It didn’t matter. It was a ten-minute ride to the center. She could handle it. I survived eight years with Tuck; I can survive ten minutes with strangers.
    He’s a friendly. They’re both friendlies. No one is going to hit us ….

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
     
    Joe clenched his hands as the shuttle stopped at one of the medical center entrances. It wasn’t his exit, but Mrs. Carter seemed to freeze in place when the driver hopped out to open the door. She paled and kept looking down at the baby. While she didn’t quite gnash her teeth, refusal to move was stamped all over her expression.
    The van’s design allowed for loading wheelchairs and securing the wheels, so patients didn’t have to juggle with moving into or out of the vehicle. All the better for his broken back.
    “Hey Josh,” he called. “Can you come adjust the wheel? I think it’s loose.”
    “Sure thing, Captain.” The former corpsman gave Mrs. Carter a quick grin and loped to the back of the van.
    Mrs. Carter didn’t waste any time. As soon as Josh opened the back door, she slid over the seat and scampered out. The diaper bag banged her legs, but she double-timed it for the exit, still cradling her infant daughter in her arms.
    Josh touched the wheel. “Captain, its fine.”
    “I know. But you made her nervous as hell.” Her reaction said a lot about what was going on in her head. “If you have to give her a ride back, just open the door and keep your distance.”
    The corpsman looked from Joe to the medical center entrance and frowned. “I didn’t do anything….”
    “I don’t think you have to.” And he left it at that. It wasn’t his business or place to explain, but he couldn’t ignore the tangible fear in her eyes or posture.
    “Okay.” The bewildered driver double-checked the wheels and closed up. Fifteen minutes later, Joe wheeled into the cheerful little room—otherwise dubbed the seventh circle of hell with its blue chairs, donuts, coffee and uncomfortable guests—for his sixth group session since beginning rehabilitative therapy.
    He still wasn’t impressed.
    A number of familiar men and women strolled, limped, and crutched their way through the doors. Three newcomers already occupied seats in the inner circle—two with their own mode of transportation. Amputees . A fist wrapped around his heart. The younger of the pair was missing both legs from the knee down, and the other boasted a prosthetic and a crutch.
    “Hey, Captain.” Gunnery Sergeant Jasmine Winters breezed past his chair, giving his shoulder a light squeeze as she strolled over to grab a blue chair and flip it around. She straddled it, the defensive posture one she assumed every week. Like Joe, she faced a lot of choices in her life and while most of her scars remained on the inside, the faint droop to the corner of her mouth and one eye revealed a deeper, more devastating injury.
    “No Logan today?” Joe wheeled himself over to sit next to the Gunny.
    “Nope. He’s helping Zach out at the field. I had to make up for missing the last group session.” She made a face, but the easy humor lit up her eyes. “What’s your excuse?”
    “Week six. Time to talk.” He grimaced and pretended not to see her nod of sympathy. The doc held them to only a few hard and fast rules. The first demanded they listen to every member of group when they talked, whether they had something to offer or not. The second, they show up for their sessions or make it up if they couldn’t. The third was that by week six, participation was no longer voluntary.
    The last of their group walked in with the doc, a young man with an inner ear injury and a self-confidence problem. The kid needed to lighten up on himself, but the same drive to excel which made for an excellent Marine didn’t always communicate to an easy recovery.
    “Good morning, everyone.” James Westwood followed the circle