He glancedat the single word and replied.
Talon:Really?
Riley:No. Talked with dad. Going back to the States.
Talon:Is that something you want?
There was no answer.He checked for a response before he showered and after. Perhaps shefell asleep or the doctor had arrived. He checked before he met with his team, letting them know to get bug-out ready and then again after the meeting. Still nothing. Maybe she didn’t see his last question, and if she did and didn’t want to respond, it was fine. Annoying, true, but it wasn’t like they were friends. He didn’t have many of those. Besides, it was for the best. He lived a nomadic life and didn’t need a texting buddy. He had his family and his team. They were enough for him. He frowned as he walked to the mess hall for dinner. Jug looked up at him when he sat down with his meal.
“Who pissed in your Wheaties?”
Talon snapped his attention to his second in command and then glanced at the rest of the team. “What are you talking about?”
Hammer lifted his hand. “Oh, I know. I know the answer.”
Talon slowly turned his attention to Hammer and lifted an eyebrow. The man was hilarious most of the time, but … “Ever since we got back from the last mission, you’ve been acting weird. Like you did when we came back from the mission in the Sudan, which means your mind is telling you to forget the suffering you saw, and your gut is telling you that you can’t.”
“Yep. That,” Wolf said as he dipped his bread into the gravy that was sitting in a pool of instant mashed potatoes.
“She’s going to be okay, Skipper,” Stryker said softly.
“I know,” Talon growled, kind of hating that his team could read him so damn well. He nodded. “She texted me and told me her father is sending someone to take her back to the States.”
“That’s good. Right?” Jug asked. “I mean, she’ll have friends and people to support her at home, wouldn’t you think?”
“I should think so,” Dude said over the comms. “What’s for dinner?”
Talon mentally thanked Dude for changing the subject. He laughed as his team described the food before them. It had become a contest of who could do the best job adequately describing the lack of taste, texture, or desirability.
Stryker answered, “The main entrée is a beige mystery loaf, its texture somewhere between recycled packing peanuts and rubber. It has the faint odor of overcooked regret and a hint of something that might once have been beef.”
Jug interjected, “Yeah, if beef had given up on lifeand taken residence in a government surplus storage facility.”
“True,” Hammer agreed.
Stryker continued, “Next to it, the instant mashed potatoes have been plopped into a lumpy, gluey pile.”
Wolf laughed. “I think they've been stirred with a shoe, not a masher.”
“True, and for reference, Dude, they don’t so much sit on the tray as kind of ooze sideways.”
Dude laughed. “It can’t be as bad as you guys say it is.”
“No, it’s true,” Jug added, “and the gravy, or sludge on top of the potatoes and mystery meat, has the color of murky dishwater.”
“No way.” Dude laughed hardily.
“It’s true,” Stryker agreed. “We can’t forget the greasy film clinging to the surface like a bad decision.”
Hammer nodded. “Yeah, our bad decisions.”
Talon shook his head and filled up on the tasteless calories. Yeah, it was bad, but they’d had worse, and they’d lasted on nothing but determination and water, too. So, even though the shit was questionable, it kept their bellies from rumbling.
“Would you rather have an MRE?” Dude asked.
“No.” Every man at the table replied at the same time, drawing eyes from the other tables. “Well, when you get back to the States, I’ll take you out for some of the best food in the world,” Dude offered.
“Deal,” Hammer said before anyone else could. “Tomahawk steak for me.”
