Free The Pit (The Bugging Out Series Book 4) by Noah Mann Page A

water and MREs was a convenient necessity allowing the lieutenant to get all of her troops clear of the place where she stood with us. A few minutes later that was precisely what happened as her five subordinates carried the first load away from the lighthouse.
    “Do you know what I did before this?” Schiavo asked. “Before the damn blight, do you know where I was stationed? What my job was?”
    We waited, silent, no need to prompt the answer we knew was coming.
    “I was a musician,” Schiavo said, a hint of a grin flashing. “I played piano in DC for get-togethers where Army brass and political types would dress up and dance and eat food I could only dream of where I grew up.”
    I hadn’t seen that coming. I doubted Neil or Elaine had, either.
    “Musician,” I said.
    “Did my time before that in a logistics unit,” Schiavo said. “Before that I had two years of infantry. But somehow I sat down at a piano one day at an off base club, just to fool around, and some colonel heard me. And recognized me. And told his superiors I was being misused in logistics. Next thing I knew I was sitting at the ivories.”
    She waited for commentary from us, but, to be honest, I had no idea what to say. Nor did I have any idea why she’d chosen this moment, after what had just transpired, to share this bit of her past. It certainly didn’t seem germane to what had just transpired.
    “So you have a piano player issuing commands,” Schiavo said. “I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to know I’m not some born to kill Army lifer out to piss vinegar in your direction for the hell of it. I’m a piano player who happened to be one of the few who stuck around to keep taking orders when everything went to hell. Eventually I was told to step away from the keys and grab my M4, so that’s what I did. Then I was on an Air Force transport that left me and others like me in Hawaii. And you know what we did there?”
    “I’m guessing it wasn’t surf,” Neil said.
    “We waited,” she said. “And were split up into units. Every lowly lieutenant was given their own command. Five hell raisers and a louie that played piano. That’s what my unit was. Then we trained. It was back to basic infantry. We didn’t even know what for, but I made a promise to myself right then that the person leading my men anywhere was not going to be the piano player—it was going to be the warrior.”
    “That’s one hell of a personal narrative,” I said.
    “I hoped you’d think so,” Schiavo said. “Because if I revert to the rulebook at times and seem like an a-hole, it’s because sometimes I’m afraid that I should still be playing piano. Okay?”
    She’d used a term I hadn’t expected—afraid. Fear was a common emotion, even in those who wore the uniform and served their country. Cops felt it. Boxers in the ring knew it. Crabbers on a boat in stormy seas, as well. But rarely did they admit to it to virtual strangers.
    Lieutenant Angela Schiavo, in her own way, was offering up an explanation as apology. And hoping that we would take it to heart.
    “Fair enough,” I said.
    Schiavo nodded.
    “And I’ll try to remember that you haven’t been riding out this hell in some cushy civilian nirvana,” she said.
    She needed to offer no more explanation. No more apology.
    “We won’t share any of this with your men,” Elaine said.
    Schiavo smiled lightly at the assurance.
    “They know,” she said, then looked to the crashed Sea Stallion, worry and hope sharing the space in her gaze. “There’ll be a radio in Ketchikan. Every garrison has one.”
    She looked back to us, those eyes filled only with certainty now.
    “And we’ll get you to Skagway,” she added, pure promise about her as she spoke. “It’s still your boat, still your destination. We’re just borrowing it for a while along the way.”
    And that was it. Some understanding had settled in between the lieutenant and us. As for myself, I fully appreciated what it was she