General Vance’s arms wrapped around the man in the black polo. The heavy silver steamer sat on the concrete between them, radiating heat. The smell of roasted garlic and diesel exhaust hung thick in the humid North Carolina air. I stood frozen, my hand still suspended in mid-air from my salute. My arm started to ache.
“Mateo!” Vance boomed. His voice echoed off the corrugated metal ceiling of the loading dock. “You old bastard! I thought you were deploying to Kuwait!”
The man in the black polo laughed. It was a deep, gravelly sound. He patted the General’s back. “Change of plans, boss. The contract got pulled. I’m back stateside. Brought you some empanadas.”
I cleared my throat. The sound was loud in the sudden silence. “Sir,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “With all due respect. He’s blocking the fire lane. The truck is unmarked. I need to see his base access credentials.”
General Vance slowly turned his head. The warm, joyful smile vanished from his face. It was replaced by a look so cold it could freeze the humidity in the air. He looked at my outstretched hand, then up at my face.
“Sergeant Comrie,” Vance said. His voice was quiet. Deadly quiet. “Do you know who this man is?”
I swallowed hard. My Adam’s apple bobbed. “A civilian contractor, sir. He doesn’t have a Form 12 for the loading dock.”
Vance stepped away from Mateo. He walked toward me. His polished black dress shoes clicked sharply against the stained concrete. He stopped inches from my face. I could smell his expensive starch and leather.
“This is Master Sergeant Mateo Silva,” Vance said. He enunciated every syllable. “Sixteen years in the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Night Stalkers. He flew the MH-60 Little Bird.”
My stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. The 160th. The most elite helicopter unit in the world.
“In 2008,” Vance continued, his voice rising, echoing off the metal walls, “my Black Hawk took a rocket-propelled grenade to the tail rotor in the Korengal Valley. We went down hard. We were pinned in a dry riverbed. Taking heavy fire.”
The loading dock was dead silent. The other cooks had stopped working. A young private dropped a metal tray. It clattered loudly against the floor.
“Mateo flew his bird into a kill zone,” Vance said, his eyes locking onto mine. “He hovered thirty feet off the deck, under direct machine-gun fire, and pulled me and three of my men out of the wreckage. He took shrapnel in his left shoulder. He still has the scar.”
I looked at Mateo. He was just smiling, wiping his hands on his rag. He didn’t look like a legend. He just looked like a guy delivering lunch.
“He saved my life, Sergeant,” Vance whispered. The sound carried across the entire dock. “And you want to tow his truck?”
“Sir, I… I didn’t know,” I stammered. My face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. I looked at the yellow paint on the concrete. It suddenly looked very bright. “I was just following protocol. The manual says—”
“The manual,” Vance interrupted, his voice sharp as a whip, “was written by people who have never been shot at. Master Sergeant Silva has a standing order from the Pentagon. He parks wherever he damn well pleases on this base.”
Vance turned back to Mateo. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ignore the kid, Mateo. He’s just doing his job. A very stupid job.”
Mateo chuckled. He looked at me, his eyes kind, completely devoid of anger. “It’s alright, General. The boy’s just young. He’ll learn.”
Vance looked back at me. “Sergeant Comrie. Since you are so concerned about the loading dock being clear, you can help Master Sergeant Silva unload his truck. By hand.”
“Sir?” I blinked.
“You heard me,” Vance said. He turned and walked toward the steel doors. “Carry the steamers to the mess hall. All of them. And then report to the Provost Marshal for a reprimand.”
The steel doors swung shut behind him. The heavy thud echoed in the quiet dock.
I stood there for a long moment. My face was burning. My uniform felt too tight. The other soldiers were staring at me. No one was laughing, but I could feel their eyes burning into my back.
Mateo walked over to the back of his white box truck. He unlatched the heavy metal doors and pulled them open. Inside were twenty massive, heavy silver steamers.
“Well, Sergeant,” Mateo said, his voice gentle. “You heard the General. Let’s get to work.”
I walked over to the truck. I reached out and grabbed the hot metal handle of the first steamer, my boots squeaking against the concrete.