And the paper Cole wanted me to sign on the floor wasn't an honorable hardship discharge.
I reached out with my left hand and turned the single sheet of white paper toward the dim fluorescent light overhead. The top block had the battalion letterhead, but the pre-printed title at the top of the form was DA Form 4187—Personnel Action. The requested action box was checked for Voluntary Confinement / Waiver of Article 32 Investigation, with a pre-typed admission admitting gross negligence and unauthorized tampering with garrison fuel storage systems.
Cole hadn't brought me down into Bay Four to give me an easy exit. He had brought me down here to secure a written confession to match the forged digital audit trail. Once my wet signature was on that page, Cole wouldn't take it to the executive officer for a hardship discharge. He would hand it directly to the military police investigators along with the tampered Toughbook logs. A signed admission of guilt waived my right to an administrative separation board, stripped my pay immediately, and sent me straight to the regional confinement facility at Fort Leavenworth.
"You're running out of time, Nora," Cole murmured. He stepped two inches closer, the heavy leather of his combat boots creaking. "The battalion muster horn blows in eight minutes. Once the company commander signs the morning attendance roll at zero six hundred, that AWOL status becomes permanent garrison record. You sign the paper now, or you face the Provost Marshal in handcuffs before lunch."
"The Provost Marshal won't accept an AWOL flag logged at zero five forty-five," I said quietly, watching the reflection of the screen in the slick metal of his belt buckle. "Morning roll call doesn't open until zero six hundred. The computer shouldn't have let you lock the muster status fifteen minutes early."
Cole’s mouth tightened. For the first time, a flicker of irritation broke through his bored mask. "Chief Miller’s admin cert has full network bypass authorization. In twenty minutes, nobody is going to care what minute the box was checked. All they’re going to care about is that the fuel is gone, your signature is on the vouchers, and you aren't in your ranks."
On the desk, the computer emitted a short, electronic chirp.
TRANSFER COMPLETE: 14 BATCH FILES VERIFIED.
Cole broke his gaze away from me. He turned his shoulders toward the workbench, reaching out his right hand to grip the yellow-taped thumb drive and pull it from the USB slot. His attention was focused entirely on securing the hardware before the automated system logged an idle timeout.
That was the only opening I was going to get.
I didn't reach for the pen. I drove my right shoulder upward with everything I had, slamming my weight into the side of the steel folding chair that lay between us. The heavy tubular legs caught Cole squarely across the front of his shins, knocking his footing out from under him. He stumbled sideways, his hip crashing into the metal workbench with a loud bang that rattled the screwdrivers and sockets across the tabletop.
"What the hell are you doing—" he barked, swinging his arm out to catch his balance.
I didn't stop to answer. I lunged forward across the slick concrete, throwing my hand onto the edge of the workbench. My fingers closed around the plastic body of Chief Miller’s diagnostic thumb drive. I ripped it sideways out of the port with enough force to snap the plastic guide tab, breaking the yellow tamper seal across the connector. With my other hand, I grabbed the heavy green canvas binder sitting open beneath the keyboard—the hardcopy daily delivery log containing the original blue-carbon delivery receipts from yesterday afternoon.
Cole lunged, his heavy hand catching the wet collar of my training shirt. The cold cotton tore with a sharp rip, the fabric biting into the back of my neck as he dragged me backward toward the floor.
"Drop that drive, Vance!" he snarled, his voice echoing off the cinder blocks. "You drop that drive right now, or so help me God, I'll charge you with assaulting an NCO!"
I twisted my body hard against the pull of his grip, ignoring the burn of the fabric choking my throat. I drove the heel of my boot downward onto the toe of his combat boot, feeling the thick leather compress, and drove my elbow backward into his sternum. The impact knocked a sharp burst of air from his lungs, loosening his grip for a split second.
I spun free, clutching the thumb drive inside my closed fist and hugging the green canvas binder against my wet ribs. The single exit was four yards behind me—the heavy steel fire door that led to the subterranean maintenance trench.
Cole scrambled upright, his face flushed dark red with fury, lunging to cut me off. "Gate security is already alerted, Vance! You have nowhere to take that!"