Free Shadow Catcher by James R. Hannibal Page A

help me prepare it, just for you. It says that you have the right to prepare and present a defense to me. Do you wish to invoke that right?”
    Quinn stared down at the page. He didn’t have the heart to read it. He shook his head in silence.
    Petrovsky nodded. “I didn’t think so. That paper will follow you the rest of your career. That way, every one of your future commanders will get to read the highlights of your adventure last night—how you left the Hog’s Breath Saloon stumbling drunk, how you allowed your teammate to drive despite his extreme intoxication, and how you—a pararescueman—lay passed out in your own vomit while Staff Sergeant Haugen breathed his last.”
    Quinn maintained a stolid military expression, but inside he screamed at the final charge. A tear escaped his right eye, rolling down his cheek and mingling with the stitches, making them itch all the more.
    â€œOh, so now you care?” asked Petrovsky, his face turning red. “Well, it’s too late. You should have started caring last night when Haugen put his keys in the ignition. You should have started caring when you were in that ditch, too busy puking to give him mouth to mouth.” Petrovsky reached back and picked up the maroon beret. “This was supposed to be yours,” he said, thrusting the beret in Quinn’s face.
    Quinn’s heart dropped when he heard the words
supposed to be
. His eyes grew wide, and he shifted his gaze to meet Petrovsky’s angry stare.
    â€œThat’s right,” said Petrovsky. “In a single night, you proved that you have neither the mental fortitude nor even the basic common sense required of a Special Tactics team member.” The captain took a breath and let his tone return to normal. He paced in front of the desk. “Because of your skills, I was willing to let the other stuff slide: the attitude, the incident on the sniper range”—he reached up and touched the bump on his head—“even the personal attack last night. I was willing to view it all as youthful exuberance and moxy, but now I see it as a pattern of behavior. You’re headed down a road to self-destruction. I can’t allow you to bring that kind of risk into this community.”
    Petrovsky stood directly in front of Quinn so that their noses were just millimeters apart. “You’re done here, Airman Quinn,” he said in a low but intense voice. “You will not graduate with this class or any other.” He jerked the form out of Quinn’s hand without backing up. “This paper says that I have the right to keep you here, to put you on work detail like a common criminal. But I don’t want to. I just want you off this base.” He paused to glare a moment longer into Quinn’s eyes and then turned and tossed the beret into his trash can. “Now get out of my office and go pack your stuff.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Quinn burst into his dorm room, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He went straight to the bathroom and vomited into the pedestal sink. Then he looked up at the face in the mirror, the stitched gash, swollen and red, a disgusting drop of yellow bile still clinging to his chin. He yelled and reached back to punch through the glass but caught himself. Petrovsky’s words echoed in his mind: “A pattern of behavior . . . a road to self-destruction.”
    Maybe Petrovsky wasn’t the problem. Quinn asked himself why he would take the risks that he’d taken over the past few weeks. Why destroy two years of work with childish insubordination and foolish pranks? And how could he have let Haugen drive? The image of his friend dying on the bank was seared in his mind, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring Haugen into focus.
    Quinn stepped back from the mirror, wiped the spittle from his chin, and stripped off his shirt. He was in great physical condition by any measure. Even the