“Wrong spot, rookie. The Navy doesnât know a d*mn thing about ground combat.” He smirked at me, pointing toward the coffee machine like I was the help. He saw a woman in a clean uniform. He saw a “paper-pusher.” He didn’t see the scar on my neck, or the Trident tattoo hidden under my sleeve.
âWrong spot, rookie. The Navy doesnât know damn thing about ground combat. Maybe check the chow hall?â Staff Sergeant Kyle Brennan didnât even look up from his map when he said it. He just gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist toward the corner of the operations tent, where a fresh pot of sludge-like
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