Page 23 of Keeping a Warrior

Les took a big drag of his, the ember flaring bright in the darkness. “Suit yourself.”

Rhys leaned next to him and stared up at the hulks of the derelict planes, silhouetted against the sky in the moonlight.

He shivered. “That has to be one of the saddest, creepiest things I’ve ever seen.”

Footsteps crunched across the asphalt and Rhys glanced up to see Devon approaching. She was wearing a pair of cut-off gray sweatpants and a bright white T-shirt. Her hair was damp, drying into a soft curl around her face.

“Hey, lady,” Les greeted her. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.” She gave him a faint smile. “Smelled your cigar and came to investigate.” She turned down his offer of one and leaned against the truck next to Rhys.

After a moment, Les said quietly, “Were you OEF?”

“Yeah.” Devon wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “Three years in the Twenty-Ninth Transportation Battalion. Did two combat deployments.”

“Thought so. The way you drive, I could tell you’d been in some shit.”

Rhys was burning with curiosity. A transportation battalion?

Les blew a cloud of smoke toward the sky. “What’re you doing here with all these yahoos?”

Devon told him about the CST program. “I spent about three months with a SEAL team in Kandahar before I...” She trailed off. “Anyway, in the Two-Nine I got to know one of the Afghan National Army interpreters we worked with. Just for fun he taught me some Pashto.”

“You speak Pashto?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m totally fluent, but I get by.” She turned to Rhys. “Remember that female terp who broke her ankle on the mission?”

Remember? Rhys would never forget. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“I visited her in the combat hospital in Kandahar before they shipped her home to L.A. We’ve kept in touch, and she’s helped me with Pashto, too.” Devon shrugged. “Somehow the powers-that-be in the CST program heard about it, decided I’m valuable, and here I am. Again.”

Les wet his fingers and pinched out the ember on his cigar before sticking the half stub in his shirt pocket. “Well, Miss Devon, I gotta say, you are one very interesting young lady.”

Devon’s lips twisted—a little bitterly, Rhys thought. Renewed curiosity surged, and suddenly he wasn’t ready for the evening to end.

“Hey, you wanna go for a walk?”

Devon stiffened, and for a moment it seemed like she’d refuse. Instinctively, Rhys kept his body language relaxed, hands in his pockets, as she assessed him, her gaze sharp, wary.

At last she seemed to make a decision, then said to Les, “Can we walk around the planes?”

“Sure, but you’ll be walking all night. The distance between them is greater than it looks.” He reached in his pocket and tossed her some keys. “Take my truck.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

Les cut off her protest. “I’m about to head over to play a little poker with the boys. Take the truck if you want.” He walked around to the bed and rummaged in a cooler, extracting a few bottles with a clink. “Left a couple beers in there, so help yourself. I’ll get the keys from you in the morning.”

He wandered off, whistling.

Rhys looked at Devon. “I’m game if you are.” He caught the keys in midair when she lobbed them toward him.

“Okay, but you drive.”

They climbed into the truck, and Rhys navigated them along the road that led to the airplane boneyard. For the next several miles, they wandered among the rows of planes. Some of them looked like all they needed was a pilot and some fuel, and they’d be airborne. Still others were true derelicts, with missing engines and broken wings.

“Ooh, look at that one.”

Devon pointed at a huge 747. Its logo had long since faded under the harsh desert sun. All of the exit doors were off on both sides, so they could see right through it. There was plastic and insulation hanging down from the cabin ceiling, which waved idly in the breeze.