The M5 Ripsaws sat in a neat line, battle damage already being repaired by contractors. In a few hours, they’d be ready to fight again. No fatigue. No fear. No doubt.
But they couldn’t hold ground — couldn’t make the choice between legitimate target and war crime. They couldn’t inspire scared kids to be more than they thought possible. That still took people… flawed, tired, magnificent people.
“Sergeant?” Munoz appeared, looking haggard. “Maintenance wants to know about that track tension issue.”
“OK. I’m on my way.” Torres took one last look at the sunrise, then turned back to his work. Because somewhere out there, the next war was waiting. And when it came, it would come at machine speed, with human souls paying the price.
It was time to make sure his people were ready.
Torres sat on his bunk, tablet propped on his knees. The FaceTime connection struggled with the base’s overloaded Wi-Fi, but Maria’s face finally resolved on screen.
“Hey, baby,” she said, and just hearing her voice made his chest tight.
“Hey. Kids asleep?”
“Finally. Carlos fought bedtime for two hours. Kept saying Daddy promised to read him a story.”
Guilt twisted in his stomach. “I did. Lost track of time with the exercise.”
“He’ll live.” Maria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How are you?”
“Tired. Cold. Missing you.”
“How’s the training going? You guys ready to show the Russians what’s what?”
Torres forced a laugh. “If they’re dumb enough to try something, yeah. Though honestly, I think this is all just saber rattling. No way Moscow wants a real fight with NATO.”
“That’s good. The news makes it sound worse.”
“News always does. If it bleeds, it leads. We’re just here as a deterrent. Wave the flag, show some strength, everyone goes home.” He kept his voice light, confident. No point worrying her with his doubts.
“Speaking of home…” Maria’s expression shifted. “Miguel’s in trouble at school again.”
“Ugh, what now?”
“Cutting classes. Third time this month. Coach called — said if Miguel misses one more class, he’s off the team for the season.”
Torres sat up straighter. “Whoa, hold up, Maria. He’s skipping school?”
“No, just his afternoon classes. He shows up in the morning and for practice after school. He disappears between eleven and three. It’s starting to tank his grades, Ramon.”
Torres sighed audibly in frustration. “OK. Put him on, Maria. I’ll handle this.”
“Ramon—”
“Put him on, Maria,” he said with a bit more heat than he meant to.
She disappeared. He heard footsteps, muffled arguments, then Miguel’s face filled the screen. Even at fourteen, Torres could see the athlete in him — broad shoulders, quick eyes.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going in Poland?”
“Don’t ‘hey, dad’ me, Miguel. You want to explain yourself?”
Miguel’s cheeks flushed as he shrugged. “School’s pointless, dad.”
“Oh really? Pointless? You know what’s pointless? Throwing away a gift most kids would kill for.”
“Oh, come on, dad. It’s just a few classes—”
“No, Miguel, it’s not. We’re talking about your future here.” Torres leaned forward. “You know what your fastball clocked at last week?”
“Eighty-seven,” Miguel answered with genuine pride.
“That’s right. Eighty-seven miles per hour — at fourteen, Miguel. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Miguel shrugged again, but Torres saw interest spark in his son’s eyes.
“It means scouts are already asking about you. It means you could have college paid for. Hell, it means you could go pro if you keep developing. You could land a multimillion-dollar contract, Miguel. But you know what else it means?”
“What?”
“It means nothing if you can’t stay eligible. No grades, no team. No team, no scouts. No scouts, no multimillion-dollar contract.”
“Oh, come on, dad. It’s not that bad. I’ll always have baseball—”
“Oh, yeah? Where? The parking lot? Your backyard? You think the Astros are scouting kids who got kicked off their high school team for being too stupid to show up for algebra?”
Miguel’s jaw tightened. “I’m not stupid.”
“Then stop acting like it. You’ve got a gift, Miguel. A real shot at something special. How many kids in your school can throw eighty-seven?”
“None.”
“How many in El Paso?”
“Maybe… two or three?”
“And how many of them are ditching class?”
Silence.
“Miguel, I’m not there to drag you out of bed or make sure you show up for class. Your mom’s working doubles to pay for the transmission that decided to take a crap on us three hundred and two miles after the warranty expired. You want to help? Stop making her worry about whether you’ll graduate.”
“Ugh, these classes are sooo boring—”
“Life’s boring. You think sitting in this tank for hours is exciting? You think your mom loves checking IVs at three a.m.? We do it because it gets us somewhere better.”
Miguel’s defiance cracked slightly. “The other kids say baseball’s just a game.”
“The other kids are jealous. They see what you can do, know they can’t touch it. So they try to drag you down to their level. That what you want? To be just another kid with excuses?”
“No.”
