Vance straightened up, trying desperately to reconstruct his rigid military bearing. “Sir, I need to prefer charges against this Specialist for—”
“Inside, Sergeant Major,” Hayes interrupted, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. He stepped aside, holding the door open. He looked at Rostova. “Specialist Rostova. You as well. Have a seat.”
Rostova stood up, smoothed her uniform blouse, and walked into the office. She was ready.
Chapter 3: The Last Message
Captain Hayes’s office was quiet, smelling of floor wax and stale coffee. The walls were lined with unit citations and framed maps. Hayes walked behind his heavy wooden desk but did not sit down. He braced his hands on the desktop and looked back and forth between the two soldiers.
Sergeant Major Vance stood at rigid attention before the desk, his jaw locked, staring straight ahead. But his hands were trembling by his sides, a micro-movement that Hayes did not miss.
Specialist Rostova stood at parade rest beside him. She looked completely calm, despite the glaring injury on her face.
“I’m going to ask this once,” Captain Hayes said, his voice dangerously soft. “Specialist Rostova, who struck you?”
Vance’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, to frame the narrative, to claim insubordination or self-defense against a subordinate.
“The Sergeant Major struck me, sir,” Rostova answered immediately. Her voice was flat, stating a fact without an ounce of dramatic flair.
Hayes stared at Vance. The silence stretched until it felt like it would snap. “Is this true, Sergeant Major?”
“She provoked it, sir,” Vance blurted out, the panic finally bleeding into his voice. He reached into his breast pocket and slammed the silver dog tag onto the Commander’s desk. It hit the polished wood with a sharp clack. “She was wearing a memorial tag. She stole my son’s dog tag. I discovered the theft and she became defiant.”
Hayes looked down at the tag. He knew Vance’s history. He knew about the tragic loss of Tyler Vance. He looked back up at Rostova. “Did you steal this, Specialist?”
“No, sir,” Rostova said.
“Then how do you have it?” Hayes asked.
Rostova reached into the deep cargo pocket of her trousers. She pulled out the clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was a small, brown leather notebook. The edges of the pages were stiff and dark with dried blood. The back cover was heavily stained with it.
Vance looked at the notebook. The air rushed out of his lungs in a ragged gasp. He knew that notebook. He had given it to Tyler for his eighteenth birthday, telling him to write down his experiences, to keep a record of his time in uniform.
When Tyler’s personal effects had been returned to him two years ago, the casualty officer told him the notebook had been lost in the explosion.
“I was the medic attached to Third Platoon during the ambush in Sector 4,” Rostova said, speaking directly to Captain Hayes, but allowing Vance to hear every word. “Private First Class Vance did not die in the initial IED blast. He was struck by shrapnel during the subsequent firefight while attempting to drag Corporal Miller to cover.”