Tyson’s eyes were open before his alarm sounded. That was just how his body functioned these days. No music, humming, no little finger-tap keyboard on his thigh like he used to do as a kid; just the dark, the faint whirr of the heater in the barracks, and the knowledge that PT was in forty minutes whether he felt like it or not.

  He dressed quietly; green-on-green, boots laced and knotted, slung over his shoulder with his blouse and trousers for later. The reserve HQ in Atlanta wasn’t like San Diego or Oakland — this place slept. Civilians passed by the gate on their way to work, daily. Most of the Marines here were weekenders. Tyson, along with a few others, had the distinct pleasure of being on full-time orders: five years now, Motor T at the reserve headquarters. The routine had sanded him down to nothing but edges and schedules.

  Outside, the Georgia winter carried damp wind and cold. Despite being ‘the South’, Atlanta’s air carried a nip. Formation was, as always, small and intimate, full of mixed ranks, ages, and MOSs — admin and a couple of Navy corpsmen, supply, a tank mechs, cooks, sentries, and of course good old Motor T, like him. Most of the ‘staff’ was accounted for.

  The ‘master guns’ called cadences in that bored, practiced way that showed his age. “All together? Exercise!” The platoon executed each of the positions systematically: crunches, burpees, jumping jacks, then Marine Corps push-ups and finally a good ol’ fashion hazing death run.

  Through 10 miles of “—left, left, left-right-left—“ Tyson ran, eyes forward, breath steady. He didn’t think about music or California. His mind was far removed from the bus ride back in ‘75 and the drill instructor’s hand on his face; his focus was on his breathing, his mind an empty vessel.

  PT broke, they stretched, then dismissed to chow. Tyson ate fast, mostly eggs and toast, nodding at Marines he’d seen for years but didn’t really know, then headed for the motor pool. The air was still a bit nippy, the head was drafty, so he changed quickly.

  The shop smelled like diesel, oil, and boredom. Seven-tons and Humvees sat in lanes, some propped on jacks, most awaiting parts which were always two weeks out. The walls were decorated with decrees, edicts, and a few sinful pleasures. He’d spent half a decade maintaining the reserve unit’s fleet; officers that only showed up once a month demanded vehicles that actually started.

  Gunny was already in his office, coffee in hand, folder on the desk.

  “Graves.” His voice was gruff, not from age but from sleep.

  Tyson poked his head through the doorframe. “Gunny?”

  “Get in here. Close that door.”

  Tyson did, popping to parade rest; hands fixed in the small of his back while Gunny flipped the folder open, peering at him over the top of it.

  “You have a wife? Kids?”

  Brow furrowed, “Gunny, I—I live in the barracks—“

  “Raising any parents out here?”

  “No, gunnery sergeant.” The questions demanded Tyson’s eye contact.

  “You ever say no to a promotion, Staff Sergeant?”

  Tyson blinked. “I’m a Sergeant, Gunny.”

  “Not for long.” Gunny slid the papers across. “1/8 up at Lejeune is short a Staff NCO in Motor T. They are crunching numbers for a workup, asking for bodies. Their CO called down asking for a name. I gave ’em yours.”

  Tyson scanned the orders. PCS. Report no later than ten days. Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

  “Effective today?” he asked.

  “Effective right-fucking-now,” Gunny said, with a little grin. “You’ve been sitting in this comfy little spot too long. Time to stretch your legs and move about the cabin; play with some real Marines again.”

  Tyson didn’t smile. He just nodded. “Aye aye, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  Gunny leaned back. “You’ve done good work here. Damn good, boy. You haven’t had to deploy, but you kept everybody rolling. Everyone noticed. I got no pushback.Go pack your shit, devil.”

  Tyson snapped to attention, dismissed.

  “Fair winds and following seas, Graves.”

  That was that. He cleared out of the barracks within an hour. What he had fit in the back seat of his car — uniforms, civvies, a toolbox he’d ‘tactically acquired’, but this was Motor T, everybody did it. He signed the checkout sheets, shook hands with people he might never see again, and by noon he was heading east on Highway 20, heater blowing, radio off.

  It was just him and the road. That was the norm. Five years: No calls home, no letters out. Not even a single return. His file was still absent a real next of kin. It still felt like a lie, but equally a necessity.

  Lejeune was a different animal, though it didn’t hold a candle to Oakland. Tyson was here for his ‘MOS’ School, but he never got a chance to explore. Everything felt different. Maybe it was the winter cold, the gray clouds that blanketed the sky in the middle of the day, or the nature of the transfer. Even the gate felt tenser, vehicles constantly in and out, MPs watching everything. The traffic was mostly olive drab, and the air wafted with whatever Marines smelled like.

  Signs led Tyson to his first stop where he checked in with the base and changed into his ‘Service Alpha’ uniforms in the head, declining lodging. From IPAC he was pointed to the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines headquarters, a low squatting rectangular mass of concrete and brick veneer, sun-bleached and salt-bitten from decades of coastal wind.

  A narrow concrete walkway led to a recessed steel door, flanked by slit-like windows with wire-mesh glass—more observation ports than invitations. Inside, the air was fluorescent and institutional, humming with the low buzz of overhead lights and the clipped cadence of boots on vinyl tile. The walls were painted in two tones: government beige above, olive drab below, like a uniform pressed into architecture.

  Marines bounced around the building in uniformed precision, parting ways subconsciously as Tyson stepped through the fold. Again, signs directed him through the maze. ‘New checkins proceed, last office on the left.’

  Offices branched from a central corridor like compartments in a ship—modular, efficient, interchangeable. Each room bore the same furniture: metal desks, green filing cabinets, corkboards pinned with orders and maps. A framed portrait of the Commandant hung in the front office, flanked by the battalion’s guidon and a faded photograph of Marines in the field, their faces young and sunburned, their posture rigid with purpose.

  At the end of the hallway through the hatch, an admin corporal looked tired and busy but still had enough energy to be annoyed.

  “Name, rank, MOS, and last four, please. Last name first.”

  “Graves, Tyson; Sergeant, Motor T. Last four—“

  “You’re the Motor T Staff NCOIC?”

  Tyson paused. Now he was the one annoyed. “Yes, Corporal.” His tone was wry, hands clasped on his orders against his chest.

  “Huh.” The corporal began sifting through cabinets of folders. “No offense, Sergeant. It’s just that, well, Gunnery Sergeant Trent was, umm. A beast.” She pointed over Graves’ shoulder to a picture on the wall. “That’s the Ironman competition from two years ago.”

  In the photo, stood a Marine, shirtless, boots planted wide on the scorched concrete, his arms raised in the Herculean pose; elbows bent, fists clenched, biceps flexed into mountainous arcs. From each arm hung another Marine, gripping the bulging muscle with both hands, their legs dangling midair like flags caught in a windless moment. Their faces were taut with effort, but the central figure wore a grin carved from pure defiance—half joy, half challenge, as if daring gravity to argue.

  “You got some big shoes to fill, is all I meant, Sergeant.” The corporal found what he was looking for. “You’re early. That’s good. They’re spinning up.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugged. “Flavor of the month. Go see your Company First Sergeant.” She stamped a form and handed it to him, took his orders, presenting him with check-in documents and a map of the base. After drawing out the route for him, she sent him back out into the world.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The company area was a cacophony of noise and energy, vibrating in the Carolina chill. Barracks loomed against an overcast backdrop, built in that efficient rectangle design. Across the street sat the chow hall and exchange.

  Platoons of Marines in flak and Kevlar, radios, and that familiar barking of the devil dogs in motion. Tyson felt more at home here than he had in years. This was the part of the Corps that never slept.

  The motor pool looked like it had been poured straight from a mold. Low-slung and unapologetically utilitarian. No signage beyond a stenciled “Motor T” on a sheet-metal placard bolted to the cinderblock wall. The walls were painted Marine Corps green, sun-faded and chipped in places, like the skin of something that had seen too many summers and not enough touch-ups.

  Graves stepped through the bay door and into a world of diesel and discipline. Warm air hit him first—hot, metallic, tinged with oil and brake dust.The shop floor stretched wide, a concrete slab etched with tire marks and oil stains that told stories no logbook ever would. Five-ton trucks and Humvees sat in various states of disassembly, their hoods yawning open like wounded beasts. Marines in coveralls moved with practiced rhythm—torqueing, welding, cursing softly. A corporal barked for a socket wrench. Someone laughed near the parts cage. The radio played low—ZZ Top, maybe.

  Across the room, a voice boomed over the productivity. “Welcome to ‘the Machine’.” A stack of rockers and chevrons approached him, each step determined. “I figured this would be the first place you’d come.”

  First Sergeant was a tall, thin black Marine with salt at his temples. He shook Tyson’s hand for real. “Graves. Heard good things. You Motor T boys in Atlanta live like kings.”

  “Depends on who you ask, First Sergeant—”

  “—White.” The beckoned, and Tyson followed. And it’s not going to be like that ‘round here. We got workups. We’re attached to a MEU rotation next year, but word is… Lebanon. Nobody’s saying it out loud yet, but that’s the word. You’re going to be running the shop, making sure everything we got is running smoothly when we load them on the ship.”

  “Aye. First Sergeant.”

  Behind the shop, the men stood in a parking lot of diesel engines and steel. “This is no short order. We need all wheels mobile for this expedition, and we are behind schedule. I know you know how to fix some shit,” he motioned back to the shop, “But those kids need a fire lit under their asses. Ever since Trent EASd, they’ve been slacking. Good kids, but they lack focus.”

  The tour ended at the barracks. White had talked the entire time about the culture and climate of the team and about the changes since he’d been back. Tyson just nodded.

  “You get settled today. Tomorrow you PT with the company, bright and early, and we’ll take you around for the meet and greet. You’re very early. They’re going to love that.”

  Tyson dropped his seabag in the transient barracks S1 stuck him in, changed into his fatigues,and went to chow. It was evening rush. Marines everywhere, trays clattering, news broadcasts on each of the TVs, all about the Middle East. Tyson got in line, grabbed his food, and scanned for a place to sit. Across the hall, a table for 8 sat vacant and inviting.

  Eyes focused on his meal, fork inspecting for quality, Tyson let his guard down and relaxed.

  “Hey, I like your shoes.”

  A voice from behind tensed his muscles, but its tone assuaged him. Those words were familiar.

  “—no fucking way…” Tyson hadn’t quite turned fully when the tray slid across the table inferno of him.

  Alex Granados sat now, bald with that tell-tale scar across the side of his head, stronger, yet his face was somehow exactly the same: that crooked grin, eyes that laughed before his mouth did. His cammies said “GRANADOS” and “USMC” now, and he wore corporal chevrons.

  “Holy shit,” Alex said, louder. Alex was always louder. “You’re still alive, cabrón!”

  Tyson felt something move in his chest he hadn’t let move in five years. “Granados.” He was on his feet now, before he’d even registered the action. They clasped forearms, Marines parting around them.

  “What company are you with?” Tyson asked, taking his seat, motioning for Alex to do the same. “Come on, sit. It’s been damn near eternity.”They sat away from the bulk of the company, at the edge where the windows were.

  “2/8 for now. They’re moving me, though. Orders came down last week. I’m taking a ‘B billet’: Embassy Duty. I’m out of here by the end of the week.” He boasted proudly. “Should be up for Sergeant soon too, so watch out! You? See you picked up rank pretty quick.”

  “And about to pick up another, part of my orders. I Just got here. I’ve been on a reserve base this whole time. Way easier to pick up rank when it’s about keeping up appearances. I’m sure you worked for every chevron.”

  Alex dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days. “Man. You still look the same. A little tougher, though.”

  “You don’t not entirely at least.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m pretty now.” He laughed, then jabbed his fork toward Tyson. “So then you’ve reenlisted? I wasn’t sure you would, figured you’d have gone back to your ‘grassroots’. I’m sure they prepared you for supply adequately.”

  Tyson fought a smirk. “You still wearing the wrong boots?”

  “Fuck you,” Alex laughed so loud a sergeant turned to look. “You remember that night hike?”

  “First week, Pendleton,” Tyson said, remembering the cold, the climb, the dark. “You stepped in that hole.”

  “Brother. I stepped in a whole-ass puddle. Water in the boot, all night. ‘Figure it out over there,’ right? Couldn’t ask shit. Next day my feet looked like…you ever seen raw chicken?”

  Tyson chuckled.

  “They dropped my ass,” Alex said, still smiling, a flicker in his eyes. “Kilo picked me up a week later.”

  “I heard.” There was a lull in the conversation.

  “Man, your platoon was mean to me,” Alex said, like he was telling a story at a bar. “Your heavy — Cervantes? — he hated all of us drops.”

  “That’s Bravo company. For you. He hated me too.”

  “Yeah, but your ‘kill-hat’? Barientes? He loved you. ‘Graves already did it. Why haven’t you?’” Alex mimicked the drill instructor voice, that raspy frog. “He make you go back to the whiskey locker?”

  “He never fired me.”

  “That’s right. Because you’re a fucking overachiever.”

  Tyson sat with that a moment. Alex wasn’t there for the crucible. He hadn’t heard Barientes’ words of affirmation when he was presented with his Eagle, Globe, and Anchor on the parade deck that morning after the last hike.

  “Did Harris ever make Drill Master? You remember Harris?” Alex said suddenly. “Big white dude, bald? Climb two ropes at once?”

  “Senior? Yeah. We ended up getting the top marks in the final drill meet.”

  “He still scares me, bro. Guy was a beast.”

  “Me too.”

  Alex’s grin softened. “You changed after I left,” he said, quieter now. “I can tell.”

  Tyson looked at his tray. “We all changed,” he said. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Yeah.” Alex nodded like he believed him. “You ever reach out to your folks?”

  Tyson looked away, scanning the room. “No, that’s all behind me now. Part of being a new person, I guess. It’s probably for the best.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, where are they sending you?”

  “Middle East. I don’t know where exactly. They just said bring desert shit. From what I gather, you’ll probably be going out there, too. The way things seem to be looking, we may be there for a while.”

  “Probably.”

  “Well,” Alex said, standing, “Do yourself a favor: try not to die, huh?”

  “You do the same.”

  They shook hands again, tighter this time. Lasting. Then Alex was gone, swallowed by green bodies, and Tyson was alone again with his food and the marquees scrolling by on the TV screens.

  The weeks bled into months. Workups were harder than anything he’d done since boot camp. Not because the PT was worse — he was in great shape — but because now he was in charge of Marines, schedules, vehicles, embark lists. They ran convoy, recovery, and live-fire drills in support of infantry lanes and maneuver courses. Every day brought a new taste of future necessity.

  Tyson slept less, operating systematically. He was physically and mentally lean, focusing only on the tasks at hand, sequestering all emotion on an island in the creases of his mind. He saw only urban terrain and roadside ambushes when he closed his eyes. He thought of only his training.

  Lebanon was just a rumor, until it wasn’t. Come May of 1982, 1st Regiment, 8th Marines was going. In the dead of night, Staff Sergeant Tyson signed off on serial numbers and watched his fleet be loaded onto flatbeds, transported to the naval shipyards. His Marines were on similar manifests, serialized all the same.

  He had the leisure, as a Staff NCO, to take his time, overlooking every detail the operation revealed to him. From the pier, seabags in tow, he watched the ship that would ferry him out to sea.

  For the first time, he was leaving the country. Not on one of the ‘awakening’ trips to Africa that his parents raised him with, or to some Caribbean island that he’d dreamt of in college, but to war, it would seem. The complete opposite path anyone thought he would take.

  #

  Air in Beirut hit like a wall of exhaust and salt. The ship hadn’t finished lowering its ramps before the shouting began. Officers, dockhands, interpreters, all trying to be heard over one another and the engines. Tyson stood on deck with his clipboard and manifest, watching the first of his cargo roll down the ramp.

  Everything was wrong. The docks weren’t ports; they were ruins patched into usefulness. Cranes swung like metronomes, creaking as they moved pallets of ammunition, food, and medical crates marked with logos he readily recognized: CaliberFreight, CRD, HuSource Global, CalMan Inc., HighCaliber — The same manufacturers of his gear, and their vehicles; stacked here to the sky. Rumors circulated behind the products, passed down since Korea—private contractors who’d made fortunes supplying both sides of the fight, showing up where the cameras didn’t.

  The sun cooked the steel deck beneath his boots. He barked orders, waved drivers into position, kept the column moving. Marines cursed, Lebanese stevedores yelled in Arabic, and through it all stood civilians in white vests, clipboards in hand, faces too calm for a place that had just been shelled last month. One of them—a middle-aged man with silver hair and a CRD badge—was arguing with a Navy lieutenant about cargo priority. Tyson caught pieces of it: biomedical equipment…research authorization…non-combatant clearance.

  “Non-combatant, my ass.” The chaos masked his crass.

  He’d heard this song before, just a different verse. Back in boot camp, Cervantes warned them about the lines between Marine and contractors blurring fast, how CSS trucks ran night convoys the Corps wasn’t allowed to acknowledge, how ‘civilians’ in jungle fatigues took over whole cities economically. Cervantes swore he’d seen one of their facilities firsthand, systems and units, maps, charts, graphs, and fake IDs to sell the lies. The old heads in Atlanta had similar tells, and Tyson remembered every word. Now, looking at the docks—the civilians with security escorts, the crates stenciled with serials that didn’t match his manifests—it didn’t feel like rumor anymore.

  He signed off on the last vehicle, handing the clipboard to a corporal, and watched as the CRD convoy began forming up on the road out of the port. CSS operators—private, not military—flanked their trucks.

  “Staff Sergeant, are we good to stage the rest?” his corporal asked.

  “Yeah. Keep ‘em tight,” Tyson said, eyes still on the convoy.

  A lieutenant shouted something about dispersal zones. The CRD group rolled out first, taking the only clear road into the city. Marines were left idling behind them, waiting for orders from men they’d never met.

  The breeze shifted, wafting in from the city, carrying the smell of fire and waste. This was the start, no doubt about it. He narrowed his eyes on the towers of debris and decay in the distance, searching for a silver lining, of which he found none.