Runaway Rebel

Part One

by G. Lawrence

A young man seeks dangerous adventures

I have been working on this novella off and on for several years, long before ever hearing of Literotica. I have completed a 135-page rough draft and I'm now rewriting subsequent chapters, so there is no fixed schedule for publication. Part One features nudity, romance, a war zone, fist fighting, nudity, and streaking. Future chapters will involve bondage, BDSM, consensual sex, nonconsensual sex, gay characters (and no, just because there are gay characters doesn't make this gay erotica, so don't go there), tricks, and pranks. Readers uninterested in these themes may wish to move on to something else. All characters involved in sexual activity are over 18 years old. ©2025 All Rights Reserved.

INTRODUCTION

Runaway Rebel is my hero. From the first moment I read of her exciting adventures online, I discovered an interest in life that had disappeared two years before. Rebel is not an ordinary woman. She defies conventions. Sets her own course. She executes her strategies in defiance of the odds. Though she knows that at any moment her plans may collapse into disaster, she always perseveres. And then Rebel reports her daring midnight runs to her fans with a thrilling intimacy that makes me envious. Rebel is living life at its fullest, on the edge, the way I can only hope for.

I was twenty-two when I first discovered Rebel's website. Two years out of the army, and two years before the events in this narrative. My religious upbringing was conservative, if unfocused. Had anyone said I'd develop a desire to imitate Runaway Rebel's adventures, I'd have called them crazy.

Chapter One

A LESS THAN PROMISING CHILDHOOD

I was born Russell David Carpenter in Crockett Township, Tennessee. My childhood could not be described as good. My parents were drunks who slapped their children around and occasionally punched us. My older brother was a bully who beat me until the day I fought back. After two black eyes and a broken tooth, he never raised a hand to me again. His friends thought they could push me around and paid a price, though I took my lumps. I was small but scrappy. When I was five, my cousin thought he could humiliate me in front of other children. I used an overhead left punch to break his nose. Problems with him ended. Uncle Carter was harder to resolve.

"Dear, I know your Uncle Carter is a little strange," my mother said. "But he's the only one in the family with money. Please don't make trouble for him."

I managed to avoid the strange old man, and he soon learned to avoid me.

I was six years old when my father hired me out to rake leaves in the neighborhood, mow lawns, water plants, and trim trees. He needed beer money. The pay was generous, but my parents kept my earnings. At least it got me out of the house. My mother received payments from a state education fund to homeschool me but she never got around to it, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and watching soap operas instead. I picked up a lot of tricks on the street, and though I never stole anything, my friends did. We learned to run, duck, and dodge.

Gardening proved the only education I received during these years, other than learning how to avoid getting beat-up. Old Man Winters, who owned a large house at the end of the lane, had me working several hours a day, three days a week. A gray-haired bachelor, he'd let me swim in his pool after the chores were done. He taught me how to trim trees and bushes, weed flower beds, and know which fertilizers to use. He liked to watch me picking peaches in the orchard. His knowledge became my knowledge. Mr. Winters always made sure I had a good lunch, which didn't happen at home.

When I was nine years old, state welfare officials finally followed up on a neighbor's complaint. My mother had to give back the school money she'd stolen from the education fund and my father departed for parts unknown, never to be seen again. I was sent to live with my paternal grandparents in Oregon. They were great, living in a small town at the edge of a vast forest. I hiked, climbed trees, swam in rivers, and lived like Tom Sawyer. But they also made me go to school. That was hard. I could barely read and had no math skills, having a lot of years to catch up on. I felt dumber than the kids around me and was often teased. And defended myself when I needed to, sometimes leading to lectures from the principal. I still mowed lawns and trimmed trees to help my grand folks with expenses.

I played sports in high school, primarily track and soccer. As a short skinny runt with spiky hair, I didn't impress anyone, but girls liked me. Unfortunately, I had no money for dating. I never really had a major, and with my questionable grades, I wasn't going to college, so it wasn't important. I did like botany, though Latin proved an on-going mystery. At the end of my senior year, my grandparents' health declined. I dropped out of high school a few weeks before graduating to join the army, giving them my signing bonus. I would only see them a few more times before they were gone.

Chapter Two

THE U.S. ARMY BUILDS MEN

At 5'7 and 125 pounds, I wasn't exactly what the army was looking for, but I was agile, worked hard, and obeyed orders. Most of the time. With dark auburn hair cut short, brown eyes that were nearly black, and a fair complexion, women found me attractive. And men, too. I preferred women but was not prejudiced. Not long after my eighteenth birthday, my best friend and I had fooled around, though Jeremy tended to be aggressive, and I was shy, which made for awkward moments. Did he go too far a few times? Not quite, but close. We were young.

Girls were a little different. Again, we had been young. Experimenting rather than actually doing things. A lot of kissing, petting, and touching. Though I lost my virginity that summer, I never saw Sherry Jackson naked, staying under the sheets. I did see plenty of boob. The first time I saw a fully naked woman was in a downtown strip club in Augusta. Lady Lila was really pretty, but the girls were professional performers not interested in underweight Army recruits.

The army started out great. I trained at Fort Jackson in South Carolina. Having been born in Tennessee, I could use a Southern accent when picking up girls in bars. Most of the time my accent was Oregon, like my grandpa. As I was only eighteen, the army ID helped get drinks. For the first time in my life, I had $100 in my wallet.

I could not claim to stand out. My scores on the rifle range were average, I tired more quickly under a 50-pound pack than the bigger guys and had to study hard just to pass the written tests. I did get my GED and had the best record on the obstacle course of any soldier in my division. With several wars going on, we expected to see action soon.

* * * * * *

Having finished basic training and been assigned to a combat unit, B Squad was feeling brave and feisty. On a pleasant afternoon, my unit was on a training run atop a long ridge overlooking a major highway. I was gaining a reputation as an eccentric, not tied down to wearing cumbersome clothing when I didn't have to. In the barracks, and even using the outdoor showers, I'd strip down to nothing without a second thought. It wasn't a gay thing, which my buddies fully understood. My Tom Sawyer days had taught me indifference to certain conventions, and though it caused a lot of teasing, none of it was mean. I was the little guy, no threat to anyone's masculinity.

"You should run naked," my friend Private Mickey Herald taunted as we grunted on the dry, dusty trail. It was a clear blue day, somewhat hot. My fatigues felt restricting. Increasingly sweaty, which I always hated.

"And get court-martialed?" I answered, uneducated but not an idiot.

"I dare you," Mickey challenged. The squad came to a halt. Grinning.

"You dare me?" I asked.

"You heard me. I dare you," Mickey challenged. I needed to think about that.

"Want to run naked?" Sergeant Hagenmeyer inquired, coming back to see why everyone had stopped. It wasn't my first choice, but I didn't want them to think I was chicken.

"I won't back off a dare," I replied.

"Then you have my permission. Strip down, private," my sergeant said. "Harris, carry his clothes. Carpenter, you're still responsible for your pack."

There were sixteen guys in my squad, smirking. Fuck them, I thought, stripping naked except for my boots. And I really didn't need them, accustomed to running barefoot. The sun felt good on my skin. I guessed Mickey had some plan to hide my clothes, or lose them, but I didn't really care. Other than a few female MPs back at the base, our unit was all guys. We resumed the run.

"You're really comfortable with this?" my buddy Jake asked, keeping alongside me. From time to time, I needed to reach a hand down to stop my junk from bouncing. I wasn't huge or anything like that, yet nothing to be ashamed of, either.

"It's just us guys, and we see each other in the shower all the time," I responded. "It would be different if there were women here or someone was taking pictures."

"What if someone does try to take a picture?" Jake said.

"Without my permission? I'll break the motherfucker's nose," I replied.

We were near the end of the trail where it runs along the state highway, getting ready to turn back toward the base, when there was a loud crash. We looked down. A big rig had hit the center divider and bounced back, overturning an SUV. It had landed on its roof, catching fire. I didn't waste a second, starting down the side of the steep hill in steady leaps before jumping a chain-link fence.

"Carpenter! Carpenter! Goddamn it, come back here! You're fucking naked!" Sergeant Hagenmeyer shouted. That was true, but the burning car wasn't going to wait for me to get dressed.

Other cars were stopping, some people getting out but afraid to approach. Being afraid of danger has never been my problem. The more the better.

Pulling on the door didn't help. I saw a woman at the wheel and her daughter in the passenger seat, hung upside down in their seatbelts. The daughter looked like a college student. There was a lot of smoke. I found a chunk of rebar on the side of the road, smashed a rear window, and opened the door to crawl in. The young woman seemed disorientated. In a panic. Flames grew around us. I found it totally exciting.

"Stay calm," I urged, finding the door lock button and hearing it click. I crawled over the daughter, pushed the door open, and dragged her out. Half a dozen good Samaritans were there to pull her away. I went back in for the mother, coughing as the smoke grew thicker, and released her seatbelt. Flames burst into the cab. Lowering her to the roof of the inverted car wasn't easy, but my small size and raw muscle came in handy. I pulled backward, getting free of the steering wheel, and pushed out onto the roadway. More hands helped. Someone threw a blanket over me.

The jammed highway had come to a halt, the big rig twisted at an angle. It didn't appear that any other vehicles were involved. A dozen motorists had emerged from their cars. I heard an ambulance in the distance. Wrapped in the blanket, I went to check on the mother and daughter. Dumb as I was, I knew First Aid, having picked up plenty of cuts and scrapes over the years. They didn't need my help, there being two doctors on the scene.

"Carpenter, what the fuck!" Jake exclaimed, finally catching up. "That was awesome!"

I discovered my whole squad had followed me down the hill, drawing everyone away from the burning car before it exploded in a ball of fire.

"Let's get you dressed," Sergeant Hagenmeyer said, guiding me into the bushes. "We can't have headlines about a naked soldier rescuing trapped accident victims." It only took a moment to get into my fatigues. My guess was that, between the smoke and flames, only a few had a good view of what had happened.

"Is everyone okay?" I asked, finding it a little difficult to breathe from the smoke.

"Everyone looks fine," Hagenmeyer confirmed. "By the way, kid, that was terrific."

Before long, there were cops and emergency vehicles everywhere. I sat off to the side, watching and staying quiet. An old gentleman let me use his inhaler, which was a blessing. I had a few minor cuts and bruises, but nothing worth bragging about. An hour later, after giving official statements, we climbed back up the hill to finish our hike.

Stories began to spread, of course, but there were no clear photos to back up any strange assertions. The driver, Mrs. Helen Kaplan, was very grateful to her rescuer, though she couldn't understand why she thought there had been a naked soldier wearing combat boots. Obviously a delusion of the moment. Her pretty daughter, Samantha, remembered a lot more, but proved discreet. She contacted the base, requesting to meet the brave young man, and we had a few dates before she returned to Stanford. If I ever saw Stanford, it would be trimming trees. Samantha was grateful, too.

An incident altered the course of my army career. Sometimes the squads would bet on our runs and various exercises. Obstacle courses in particular. A Squad, accustomed to winning everything, got in Sergeant Hagenmeyer's face, calling B Squad a bunch of losers. Sarge suggested a course where his skinny private would challenge their best guy. A five-mile run, no packs, swim a lake, crawl under barbed wire, and a two-mile sprint back to the base.

To be clear, I had no part in making the bet, though I wagered $200 on the outcome. All the money I had. A Squad's sergeant, Hoot Blasglow, was a fool not to demand backpacks. It would have slowed me down. He selected Private Harve Hoosgoon, a big man and a strong runner. Great on the rifle range. Fabulous at throwing grenades. The perfect soldier. But not in a race like this.

Half the base was at the starting line, about five-hundred G.I.s, our barracks in the background, a wire fence and gate in front of us. I'd seen Hoosgoon in the cafeteria, a jovial fellow for the most part. I tended to be quiet, attracting little attention. Little guys learn not to be too loud unless they're looking for trouble.

"I'll try not to embarrass you," he said at the starting line.

"Harve, my buddies have bet a lot of money on this race. I need to give it my all," I responded. "Please don't hold it against me."

"You're funny, kid. Let's do this," Harve encouraged.

A whistle was blown. I took off wearing short pants, a green t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Harve was more traditional, in camouflage fatigues and boots.

Harve did great on the five-mile run, getting an early lead and keeping it. I was satisfied to follow at a steady distance, using him to set my pace. It was at the lake where the race changed. While Harve stopped to remove his boots, I plunged in, swimming hard. I'd been in rivers, flood channels, rapids, and gone over waterfalls. I cut through the water like an otter, emerging before Harve was halfway across.

The obstacle course was familiar. A few walls, sandbag barriers, and rows of low-strung barbed wire. Wearing almost nothing, I slithered under the sharp prongs with barely a wasted motion. Harve hadn't even started when I was beginning the final two-mile stretch back to the starting line, finishing five minutes ahead. B Squad cheered. A Squad didn't, saying the race hadn't been fair. Major Vanderberg declared me the winner, offering a salute.

As the crowd dispersed, I went to the outdoor shower and stripped, getting under the cold spray. I was sweaty and a little bruised, never allowing obstructions to slow me down more than necessary. My bunkmates were collecting on our bets, and I had big plans for mine. I was not allowed to shower in peace.

"Think you're pretty damn clever, don't you?" Corporal Jed Smith of A Squad said. He had three privates with him. Sergeant Blasglow was conveniently absent. "My squad is out $3,000."

"The race wasn't my idea, and I warned Harve I'd try my best," was my reply, reaching for the soap. Smith knocked it from my hand. Private Jess Rawlings turned off the water. Private Kershaw grabbed my clothes, leaving me naked in front of four disgruntled complainers. I glanced around, seeing my squad still lingering near the finish line slapping backs and laughing. I didn't notice any officers.

"What is it you want, Corporal Smith?" I officially asked, not bothering to cover myself.

"To take you down a peg," he answered, rolling up his sleeves. "We'll show you B Squad pigstickers aren't so smart after all."

"Four on one? Or will one of you gutless cowards take me on alone?" I questioned.

"Gutless cowards?" Private Rawlings objected with a frown.

"Excuse me, Jess. Sore-loser piece-of-shit gutless cowards," I clarified.

They exchanged glances before Rawling stepped forward, a big Kentuckian with the arms of a lumberjack. We stood toe to toe. I wasn't stupid enough to throw the first punch.

"Okay," Corporal Smith said, getting the others to step back.

By now, others had noticed. My squad came running, but I put up a hand to let them know everything was okay. I had been winded after the race, but the cold shower restored me.

For some reason, Rawlings didn't get it. Just because I was five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, he expected me to be afraid. Yes, I was cautious, but that's not the same thing. It's never wise to take an opponent too lightly. He swung a massive right fist. I ducked, moving to my left. He tried again, grazing my jaw. Which I allowed. I needed him to land the first punch or end up in the brig. Another attempt caught me on the forehead, knocking me down. I'd likely get a purple bruise from that one.

By now fifty or sixty soldiers had formed a circle, watching and placing bets. Only my own bunkmates were betting on me, demanding 1 to 5 odds. I motioned to Mickey with five fingers, saying to put $50 down for me. I could have bet more, though the possibility that I might lose couldn't be dismissed. Jess was a big guy.

With the preliminaries out of the way, I jumped back up and set myself. There were a few cheers. Most were holding their breaths hoping the officers wouldn't interfere. My sergeant was in the background making sure it was a fair fight.

We swapped several punches. Jess landed a backhand that smacked the side of my face hard enough to knock me down again. Probably earning a blackeye. It was inspiring. I loved the taste of blood in my mouth. But I was still hanging back, studying his movements. How he held his arms. Where he placed his feet. Like poker, I was searching for his tells. And from the few blows he was landing, I knew he hadn't much experience at this. It's one thing to punch someone, it's quite another to know how to punch someone. I had been doing this since I was five years old. Cocking my wrist. Bouncing on the balls of my feet while setting up my next punch. Using my back and shoulders for thrust.

When Jess closed in, I popped up on my toes with a sharp left jab, landing it squarely on his nose. Blood spurted as he howled. I landed two more quick jabs which made the pain worse. He backed off. I moved forward. He tried to kick me, drawing boos from our fans. Reversing course, I slipped to the side and struck a powerful blow to the kidney. An illegal punch in boxing, but this wasn't an official match. No one had made any rules.

It must have looked very strange. A tall man in khaki army fatigues fighting a small man wearing no clothes at all. I found it to be an advantage. I was much faster, able to weave, dance, and duck. Jess was deceived to think he had an edge, pressing closer only to find an elusive opponent. I had a big target, landing blow after blow. None strong enough to take him down all at once, though he was tiring. Before long, frustration set in.

Jess began swinging wildly, leaving openings. I ducked under his guard to pound his midsection. Better for my bare hands than striking bones in his face, for I didn't want to break my fingers. He started losing air, pushing me back so hard I fell on my ass. When he tried to stomp me, I rolled away, grabbed his foot, and twisted his ankle so hard we all heard a tendon snap. He collapsed with a shriek.

I was back up, ready to continue. When Corporal Smith started to intervene, it was Harve Hoosgoon who grabbed his collar and pulled him away.

"Don't even think about it," Harve growled. A good sport. I gave him a nod.

The fight was over. Mickey got me into my shorts and t-shirt before there were too many questions. Lieutenant Mathers arrived, restoring order while the sergeants separated the opposing forces. I collected on my bet and went to shower in the barracks.

My company commander soon had me boxing for the company as a featherweight, visiting other bases. When they had trouble finding someone who could stand in the ring with me in my weight class, I moved up to lightweight. That was tougher. Trained boxers with twenty pounds on me were harder to handle. But they always knew they had been in a fight.

Chapter Three

Cynthia-Ann

I was assigned to Fort Bliss in Texas, training in armaments. Missiles. Rockets. Artillery shells. Our job was to not let stuff blow up until it was supposed to. My work was mostly in the warehouse, loading trucks and keeping spare parts organized. And I was taking classes, getting a background in triggering mechanisms. The possibility that something could suddenly go off was exciting, and though I wasn't supposed to be dealing directly with live ordnance, I often found an excuse to assist the techs.

We went to a popular El Paso bar on a Saturday night. Two buddies and I had a corner booth scarfing buffalo wings. Other members of our squad also liked the Wild Stallion. I noticed Private Cynthia-Ann Rogers with two of her girlfriends and waved. I'd had a crush on her since basic training. But she was very smart, so my chances of hooking up with her were slim.

Sometimes I drank too much, but not on nights I wanted to find female company, so I was taking it easy. When Cynthia-Ann's friends went to use the ladies' room, some slob started hitting on her. A big, hairy, thuggish piece of shit.

"No, thank you," I heard her say several times, pulling her arm away. She was backed into a corner. No one was doing anything to stop him, so I got up.

"Where are you going, Rooster?" my buddy Private Beanie Chin asked.

"To rescue a damsel in distress," I replied.

"That's a big guy," he warned me.

"Not that big," I dismissed.

"Rooster, don't," Beanie persisted, trying to draw me back.

"Let him go, Beanie," Private Dicky Jackson said. "Rooster will mop the floor with that asshole."

"He's a big guy," Beanie repeated, taking a closer look.

"Want to put money on it?" Jackson asked. Beanie stared again.

"No, I'm not taking a sucker bet," Beanie answered. Though I never went looking for barfights, that didn't mean I walked away from them.

"Friend, you need to leave my girl alone," I said in a casual tone. He turned, being six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. A bit round in the middle, bulky but soft, with puffy red cheeks.

"Find your own bitch, pipsqueak. This slut is coming with me," he answered, reaching for her again. Cynthia-Ann was scared. I should have been scared, but the prospect of beating the crap out of this bully was getting me excited. I noticed he had an equally large drunk friend, and a younger skinnier friend who didn't seem to share their enthusiasm. My buddies stayed in the booth, assuming I didn't need any help.

"Such language is very inappropriate, sir," I said, proud of learning bigger words. "I must insist that you desist."

"Are you a fucking professor?" he sneered, getting ready to belt me.

His friends had stopped. Watching. I'd have to take the big guy down quick if they rushed me. I wasn't too worried about the skinny one. I motioned for Cynthia-Ann to stay out of the way.

"Actually, I have been taking literature classes. Have you ever read Call of the Wild?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's about a fucking wolf," he answered.

"No, sir. It's about a dog that becomes a wolf," I answered just as his fist was coming my direction. I ducked, caught his arm, twisted him around, and pinned him against the booth. I was hoping he'd let it go, but no such luck. When he tried to break free, cursing in rage, I gripped his wrist and yanked up hard, separating his shoulder. He screamed, dropping to his knees on the dirty floor.

His friends were at me now. I danced aside, fists up, catching a punch on the jaw before countering with several quick jabs. The more aggressive of the two, the other bloated bully, exchanged body blows with me, and I took another punch to the face, cutting my lip. The blood tasted good. I smacked him in the eye. His thinner friend tried to get in the game, but he was more hesitant. Out of his element. A gut punch knocked him down.

The first bully started to get up, cradling his injured arm. I didn't know his intentions, and he didn't say anything, so I kicked him in the balls just as his big friend grabbed me from behind. He had both arms wrapped around my chest, squeezing hard. I butted him in the face with the back of my head. We both went down as he fell, but I got up quicker, ready for his next move. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding, charged with adrenaline. Instinct told me to watch my surroundings. Be aware of danger. Take nothing for granted. I noticed Cynthia-Ann watching from the booth, frightened and fascinated.

The big lout staggered to his feet and lunged, as I hoped he would, missing me and landing against the bar. I was on him like lightening, pounding his forehead on the countertop and sending him to the floor. Then I stepped back, ready for more, but he lay there moaning.

The last assailant came up behind me. The skinny kid, less dedicated than his friends. I didn't guess him to be much of a fighter. I saw his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, clinched my fist, and spun on him with my overhand left hook.

I didn't just break his nose, I shattered his face. He went down hard, twisting in ghastly pain. A doctor rushed forward trying to prevent him from suffocating in his own blood. Many patrons gathered around in curiosity and shock. Others got out of the bar as fast as they could. I stood against a wall with Cynthia-Ann, dumbfounded.

"Thanks for saving me, Russ, but you didn't need to kill the poor guy," she whispered.

"I didn't mean to hit him that hard," I replied. "Everything was happening so fast."

"Are you going to get in trouble? With the MPs?" she asked.

"Search me," I answered.

My buddies stayed to make statements to the police, standing by my side. Beanie said I should take on four guys next time and let them place bets in advance. He thought it was funny. I wasn't laughing.

Paramedics finally wheeled the kid away on a gurney. I heard he required two operations and three weeks in the hospital. Security video from the bar proved I was only defending myself, but I still felt bad. He was just a young fellow trying to help his friends, like I would have done.

Feeling bad didn't stop me from sleeping with Cynthia-Ann that night. White knights, after all, do need to be rewarded. And it was great. She was sweet, and beautiful, and passionate. Everything I ever hoped for. I loved her for the rest of her life, and I still do.

A week later, I went into the commander's office with a transfer request. I decided I was never going to hit anyone ever again. Or shoot anyone. I would be a pacifist. That wouldn't stop me from serving. The army had an EOD unit devoted to disarming high grade explosives. Missiles were being dropped all over Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon, with unexploded warheads needing to be defused. Cynthia-Ann had signed on weeks before, but I hadn't thought myself smart enough. Now I felt being smart wasn't the issue.

* * * * * *

Cynthia-Ann's family in Ohio had no more money than mine, but at least she was on good terms with them. I got one Christmas card from my mother, when she wanted money, and sent back a blank card reading "F-U." I never heard from her again.

Unlike me, Cynthia-Ann had signed up to get ahead in the world. I only wanted excitement. We met during basic training, and though I was immediately crazy about her, it took her longer to warm up to me. We had a moment in El Paso after the bar fight, then went our separate ways for several months. We reunited on a maintenance barge off San Diego.

The Army, always jealous of the Navy, was seeking to give their demolition teams more skills. Including underwater skills. I was a strong swimmer, having grown up around rivers and traveling down dangerous rapids wearing nothing but tennis shoes. I'd gone over waterfalls and through floodgates, always managing to survive. And not telling anyone, especially my grandparents.

Demolition teams were being trained to disarm explosives in watery areas such as canals, underground channels, and even swimming pools. Cynthia-Ann became a coordinator, using underwater communications devices to guide scuba teams to their targets. Other team members learned to attach directed charges to unexploded ordnance, and when necessary, to open the warheads and disable the arming mechanisms. After taking the exams, I was assigned to deliver supplies.

We had a floating platform off Point Loma just two miles from the beach. The weather was cloudy and the ocean rough. Colonel Walter Campbell Smith almost called off the exercise, but it was mentioned that teams in the field would not have that option. He was a crusty old bird in his early 50s. I liked his bushy white mustache and straight arrow bearing. Cynthia-Ann and Captain Joe Hubble were on the heaving platform. Likely seasick. I didn't get seasick. For whatever reason, my sensory system worked differently. Or maybe my inner ears were just too damaged after having my head banged around so often.

There was a two-man team down on the bottom, blowing a hole in an old wreck for the exercise, pretending it was hiding a missile. Captain Hubble moved to a yellow raft, getting tossed around. Cynthia-Ann was on the platform with Corporal Pedro Sanchez, reading her computer while transmitting data. The goal was to disarm the device without detonating it prematurely. I stood at the railing of a supply ship seventy yards away, a hulk so old that it looked ready to join the wreck on the ocean floor. The Navy definitely had better boats. A large swell rose under the platform. And then another. The waves were getting worse.

"Call them in," Colonel Smith decided. "Private Carpenter, keep a line ready to draw the platform back."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledged, going to the cable tier on the stern. Suddenly a wave bigger than any of the others lifted the supply ship and twisted us sideways. The cable attached to the platform yanked it upside down and snapped, sending the crew and equipment into the water. Without thinking, I kicked off my shoes and climbed on the railing.

"Private, get down from there!" the boatswain shouted. I glanced at him, then looked at the capsized platform. I couldn't see Cynthia-Ann.

"Carpenter, stand down," Colonel Smith ordered, signaling for a rescue crew to launch a lifeboat.

I looked again. Cynthia-Ann was gone. Captain Hubble's raft had floundered. How long would it take to launch the lifeboat? I didn't know, so I dove in.

There was no random splashing around in the water. I had a good vantage point from the ship of how the waves were running. I was shoved under, came up, and shoved under again. I was not deterred. During a spill down Wilson's Rapids, I'd spent fifteen minutes in pounding torrents bouncing off rocks and tree branches, doing whatever it took to stay alive. The river almost won. I crawled out on a beach so battered I could hardly breathe. Two weeks later, I went back and tried again. I was never going to let a river defeat me. Now I was catching just enough air each time to push forward.

The platform appeared and I dove under. It had raised sides and a deep bed, making for possible air pockets. I bumped into someone. A man. He moved on contact. I could tell he was disoriented. That was rarely my problem, having a natural sense of my surroundings. I pulled him to the surface, wrapped a safety line around his chest, and went back under.

The tide was pushing the growing debris field toward the shore. And the rocks. I didn't have a lot of time. The seawater stung my eyes, which felt good in a strange way. I grabbed another body, the only other one that would be there. It was a woman. Either Cynthia-Ann or a mermaid. I used everything I had to shove to the surface, getting up just as my lungs were bursting. An arm grabbed me. Two arms. I held on to Cynthia-Ann as Captain Hubble pulled me on his raft. All of us were cold, beat-up, and gasping for breath.

"You're fucking nuts, private," Cap said, helping me secure her from the tossing waves.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, spitting up water.

I wanted to give Cynthia-Ann mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but she didn't need it. She was spitting up water, too, but alert. She looked at me like I was an apparition.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she replied.

"The ship," I answered. She stared across the churning waves. The transport seemed miles away, though it was only a hundred yards.

"You are goddamn crazy," she wheezed.

"Yeah, the story is getting around," I said.

The lifeboat arrived twenty minutes later.

The supply ship's captain wanted me court-martialed for abandoning my post without permission. The crew thought I should get a medal. I did not want to be court-martialed and had no need for medals. Being the Army, they gave me a commendation and a reprimand.

Chapter Four

The Basement of Hospital Ky

I had been in the Army two years and two months when we were sent to Syria. The unit stayed busy digging under collapsed buildings and triggering failed warheads. Sometimes a missile, or a rocket, or a drone, or an artillery shell would hit crowded areas. Schools. Marketplaces. Relocation centers. We needed to deactivate those arming mechanisms rather than detonate them.

Captain Joe Hubble and Sergeant Cynthia-Ann Rogers were good at their jobs. The whole team was. I could read a circuit board and knew how the sensors worked, but I wasn't close to them in skill. I mostly acted as support. Lifting and carrying. Guarding supplies. Being ready to gather whatever the team needed. One Army Ranger called me Fetch, as if I was a golden retriever.

The war was going like most wars in the region went. The governments, or what passed for governments, were fighting rebels, militia groups, and each other. And they had allies. Lots and lots of allies. America, Russia, China, Iran, and a dozen countries that claimed not to be involved but were. I really didn't care about any of that. We were acting as peace keepers and first responders, clearing undetonated ordnance, providing emergency medical care, and assisting transport to emergency centers. Why the U.S. Army? Because we were there.

Many of the sights I saw were gruesome and left lasting images that were hard to forget. Broken bodies in the streets. Mothers crying over their dead children. Arms and legs scattered in the streets, their owners lying senseless or blown to pieces. And not just people. Dogs. Goats. Sheep. Horses. Death came in many forms. I expanded my knowledge of First Aid, studying hard for a change, and got pretty good at it, though I'd never be a paramedic.

Cynthia-Ann and I spend a lot of time together, professionally and personally. She tutored me in the frequent testing required by the Army, which must have been a chore. I was good at logistics. Getting equipment where it needed to be when it needed to be there. Refueling trucks by fair means or foul. Anticipating needs. Always knowing where the nearest laundromat was, because our clothes were constantly full of dirt, sand, and sweat. Central command tried to keep the field units supplied, but chaos in the midst of constant shelling was the order of the day. It drove the sergeants crazy. That was not my situation. I thrived on chaos.

On a warm July day, our sensors showed a warhead live and unstable. After crashing through the first-floor stairwell of a large hospital, it had burrowed into the basement. None of our scouts could find a way below the wreckage, and the evacuation was going slowly. Too many recovering from surgery and infirmed. A children's ward. Six hundred patients and medical personnel scrambling for safety. Corporal Sanchez eventually spotted a shattered conduit that might be accessible.

"This is your job, Cindy," Captain Hubble concluded, looking down into the broken cement shaft.

"No, this is my job," I disagreed, dropping off my equipment belts.

"The shaft is too small, little buddy," Sanchez said. "Cindy might squeeze through there. You won't."

I wasn't going to argue, taking off my boots and studying the dusty tunnel. Dragging a pack wasn't going to work. Too many broken rebars to snag it. I would take a packet of hand tools. The leather pouch could be held in my teeth.

"Carpenter? Are you listening?" Captain Hubble asked.

"Cappy, the only way down there is crawling through that rubble. Cindy doesn't have the upper body strength. I'm sorry, she doesn't. She's brains, not brawn. No one else here is skinny enough."

The captain checked with Colonel Smith, but he knew I was right. The missile attack on the hospital had taken everyone by surprise. Our team was the nearest, and one of the best, but we had no construction equipment. Burrowing would take hours.

"Russ, it's too dangerous," Cynthia-Ann said. Two nights before, we were sleeping together at the Royal Marriot Hotel in Beirut, talking about the future we hoped to have. Now we were on a bombed-out street while locals searched for missing relatives.

"It's our job. It's what I signed on for," I explained.

"Promise you'll be careful. You haven't been lately," she warned.

That was true. As the months went by, and the danger increased, I'd been volunteering for riskier missions. Pushing the envelope. Taking point on hazardous scouts despite the threat of snipers. Pulling wounded out of live fire zones where I'd gotten my first Purple Heart and a bronze star. Maybe I was just a dumb private and a pacifist, but no one doubted my commitment. Cynthia-Ann was very proud of me when I dragged two children out from under a burning truck, earning another bronze star. On another occasion, I charged into a crumbling infirmary after a drone strike, where I rescued a doctor, two nurses, and half a dozen injured soldiers. Minutes before the structure collapsed.

It earned me my third bronze star, but it wasn't about getting medals. These exploits weren't even about the mission. Each time I got closer to that unexploded weapon that hadn't got us yet, my excitement grew. There was something about flirting with instant death, with fate and skill mixed in an unsteady blend, that had my heart racing.

"You've got the okay," Hubble reluctantly reported. "Speak into your com as often as you can. Keep us informed. And ask for advice, this isn't your forte."

"My what?" I asked.

"It's not your strongest suit," he clarified.

"I always try my best, sir," I replied.

"Everybody knows that, private," Cap said, offering a respectful salute.

A last look at the opening was discouraging. I crawled a few feet, but as expected, my belt was snagging on debris. I pushed out and cursed as I removed everything but my t-shirt and boxer shorts. I even got rid of the socks, needing my toes to push forward. One of the Rangers took my picture with his phone, getting a rebuke from his sergeant.

With the tool pouch in my mouth, I slithered past the first obstacle, crawled through an open patch, and hit another collapsed barrier. Dragging myself a few inches at a time over sharp cement fragments was cutting me up, but there was no answer for that. At times, the roof was so low I could barely breathe. It occurred to me that if I got stuck, there wasn't going to be a way out. Did that scare me? It sure as hell did. That was the moment I decided to be cremated instead of being buried in a coffin.

The shaft bent at an odd angle, but a tiny portion of the basement was visible through murky light. There were too many dark crevices for my tiny flashlight to see much, but it was better than a dead end.

"Almost there," I said into the com, only to discover it had torn away. The shaft was thick with dust, forcing me to pull a mask from my underwear lining. I've always hated masks, but the musty air was beginning to choke me.

Taking Cynthia-Ann's advice, I entered the last damaged segment cautiously, but the meager light was broken with dark shadows. Then something hit me. Or maybe I hit it. I don't know. A stabbing pain jabbed my right side just below the ribs. It really hurt. Suddenly I was unable to move forward, and unable to back away. Hung up on a sharp metal object sticking in my flesh. A broken pipe? Rebar? There was no way to know. After wiggling for five minutes and making it worse, I paused to catch my breath, at the mercy of a wrecked building. It was very discouraging.

Okay, what to do? I twisted backward, trying to flatten out. I relaxed. Focused. It took a few more minutes, but whatever was sticking in me finally popped free. Then I used both hands to drag myself along on my back using the crumbling ceiling supports. Cynthia-Ann would not have been able to do that, but she might not have gotten stuck, either.

I reached the end of the shaft and tumbled into the basement, landing on a rubble-strewn floor. It was painful. I found myself covered with scratches, bruises, and abrasions. That wasn't a big deal, but the punched hole in my side was bad. Blood was leaking out of me. I took off the remains of my torn t-shirt to use as a bandage. My shorts were gone. Somewhere they had gotten snagged and left behind. Cracks in the basement walls allowed me to see the missile lying nose down in a row of laundry hampers. It was two meters long, about 18" in diameter, and had no markings. Probably not Russian, Chinese, or American. A militia invention. Never fun. The activation sensors were flashing.

I nestled near the control panel and laid out my tools. Small screwdrivers, a jeweler's mallet, magnets, and bonding tape. Thankfully, the panel opened without incident, which is always the most dangerous part. Or so I thought, until I saw the internal mechanism. It was a sick joke of spare parts, flywheels, patches, and circuits held together with duct tape. This thing was not in any manual I'd ever seen, probably thrown together by some crazy garage mechanic.

Even the most bizarre things have a logic to them. I tried to catch my breath, stirred by realizing that I was sitting stark naked on a cement floor seconds away from death with no idea what to do about it. God was it exciting. I got to work, trying to find that one pesky wire which would shut the entire thing down.

It wasn't an easy task. The missile casing was beginning to crack under the weight of the debris. Finally, I found a circuit deep inside the warhead. I was forced to use my right arm to keep the cover open while my left hand used the electronic sensor to test the wires. It took an hour, and my shoulders were aching. Everything was aching. I didn't think I was losing too much blood, but some.

I did not hurry to disable the arming mechanism. It wasn't about what I wanted. To survive, I needed to discover what the bomb needed, to understand how it was made, and how it worked. I knew it was an inanimate object. That didn't change how I sought a personal connection. We would walk a tightrope together.

At last, I found a promising combination of green, red, and black wires, snipping the black one. I waited to see if the detonator would explode. It decided not to. Sucking dirty air, I crawled back from the missile, feeling elated. I'm not sure that I'd ever felt so alive.

A construction crew broke through half an hour later. Trapped in the laundry room, I'd had no problem finding pants and a shirt.

They took me to a hospital that had not been bombed. The injury created by a shard of split rebar posed threats of infection, so I was kept there for a week. And for three weeks afterward, I had to suffer therapy for scores of cuts, contusions, and strained muscles. Fortunately, the treatments did not stop me from sleeping with Cynthia-Ann, who I had fallen deeply in love with. We were both twenty years old, doing vital work, and anxious to see new things. Once we put in our time with the army, we'd use the G.I. Bill to get ourselves real educations. She would go to college; I'd look for a trade school.

They gave me another bronze star and my third Purple Heart, then let me return to my unit. Sadly, our fond reunion only lasted a few weeks. Even now, it's distressing to remember.

We were called on a cold, rainy afternoon a few weeks before the ceasefire was negotiated. Like in other war zones I had heard about, the various powers were making a last push to enhance their positions, making the carnage worse. We were summoned to a downtown food market where an unexploded missile, probably Russian, had torn through the dining area and crashed into the kitchens. Wounded were everywhere, pinned under the collapsed ceiling, hampering the first responders. Captain Hubble was not reckless, so we approached cautiously. The missile casing had cracked along the nose after sliding into the ovens. The thrusters were still venting. I thought we should hold off. Captain Hubble disagreed. The warhead was showing active and there were too many wounded civilians to evacuate quickly.

"Go back and get a stack of tarps," he ordered. "And another light stand."

"Let me bring the robot," I suggested.

"The X-ray is seeing through this shell. We'll disarm the power pack," he answered.

"It could have shifted. We'll only see where the coupling was before, not where it is now," I protested.

"Do you know more about this business than I do?" Hubble asked.

"No, sir," I answered.

"Then get going," he insisted.

Technically, he was not wrong, and we had done this a dozen times before. I took a last look at my team, giving Cynthia-Ann a smile, and crawled over the broken food stalls bathed in dead fish and crushed vegetables, reaching the truck guarded by half a dozen Army Rangers. I was drenched in slime by the time I reached the street.

"Glad I don't have your job," a ranger offered, guarding the supply truck.

"Wish I had your job, but I can't," I said, finding flood lamps and several tarps to keep dirt off the warhead.

"Why is that?" the corporal asked.

"I'm a pacifist," I answered.

"A pacifist?" he sputtered.

"Yeah, hell of a thing, isn't it?" I said, going back inside.

It was worse than before. Another section of the ceiling had caved in, forcing me to move along the far wall. I noticed several injured laying under toppled tables, intending to pull them out on my way back. A cook was trying to help is wife from their pastry booth. I pushed on, doing my best not to let the debris slow me down.

The missile exploded a minute later. I was skirting the freezers when it detonated, shielding me from the worst of the blast, though I was buried in the rubble. My team wasn't so lucky. Captain Hubble, Cynthia-Ann, and Corporal Sanders were gone. Nothing but bits and pieces.

Doctors had me in a German hospital for six weeks. The broken arm, concussion, and internal bleeding healed quickly, so there was no reason for me to stay. By the time they released me, Cynthia-Ann had been buried in Arlington. I wanted to see her.

"I'm fine," I complained, terribly bored and angry.

"Your infirmities are not all physical," my doctor lectured. "Please understand, PTSD is as damaging as punctured organs and torn ligaments. So is a broken heart. You need time."

"I need to get out. To run free. I need to jump out of a plane or fly off a cliff. I can't take it here anymore," I answered.

"It's too soon, private. Please have patience," he counseled.

They added an oak leaf cluster with V device to my Bronze Star and gave me another Purple Heart but insisted that I remain under medical supervision. Fed up with their nonsense, I requested an early discharge, which was granted. They even gave me a small disability pension even though I wasn't disabled. The shrinks wanted me to check in regularly, which I didn't.