'Almost' by Sean Michael 

Lane got himself into his wheelchair, rolled himself to the back porch and started doing pull-ups. His eyes were on the lake, on the water right outside his porch as he worked his arms, his abs. He’d spent his whole fucking childhood in this lake house, fishing with his gramps, swimming, goofing off. He loved this place and now Gramps was gone and it was his to do what he wanted with.

Hell of a trade for a pair of legs.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Eyes on the water. Don’t think about sand, bombs, enemy fire. Just the lake. The water. The burn in his arms.

The snap of a twig sounded like a shot.

He stopped, frowning. It was late winter. People didn’t come out here in the winter and he hadn’t found himself a dog yet. “I have a .38 and I know how to use it.”

“I sure as hell hope so. It wasn’t your head you injured.”

Jesus fuck, that sounds just like Hammer.

Lane lowered himself down onto his chair. No. No way. He hadn’t talked to Hammer in almost two years. Hadn’t seen him in longer than that.

The owner of the voice appeared beside his deck from the side of the house. Tall, stacked, haircut high and tight over a strong, square jaw and mismatched eyes. He’d only ever met one man with one hazel eye and one green, and that was Hammer.

Lane immediately, instinctively rubbed his shaggy beard that hid the scars on his face. “You lost, Sarge?”

“I was thinking I might be, then I turned a corner and found you, so no, I’m not lost.” Hammer wore a pair of jeans, a T-shirt with a leather jacket over it and had his bag slung over his shoulder. Fuck, he looked good.

Lane was in nothing but a pair of sweats, the sweat cooling on his bare chest making him shiver. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“I do. I was hoping you’d invite me in, too.”

'On the Home Front' by Jambrea Jo Jones

Peter ‘Bulldog’ Jakes stood at attention in front of his CO’s desk. They had just returned from a training mission in parts unknown and now he was hearing that his mother was dead.

Fuckin’ murdered.

How was he supposed to react? He should have been there, but no, he’d been off having fun. Most might not see it that way, but he loved everything about the Army and his position in the Special Forces. It was his life and a way out of a boring nine-to-five existence or the welfare train his brother was on.

“Your leave will start now,” Lieutenant Colonel Mills finished up.

It took a second for Bulldog to focus on his LT.

“Leave, sir?” He looked down at the LT sitting at his desk before going back to attention.

“Yes, Jakes—leave. Once you’re home and get a sitrep, let me know when you’ll be back.”

He didn’t lose his bearings this time. “I don’t need—”

“This is not a request, First Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bulldog turned and left the room—he’d been dismissed and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just been given a direct order to go home. Fuck. He shouldn’t be upset at the LT for making sure he was in his right mind—if he wasn’t, he could get people killed—but he didn’t want to go home and face his past.

Bulldog bumped into someone—it could have been anyone, but was it? No, it was Moby, a man he really didn’t want to see right now. If he’d been on his game, that wouldn’t have happened, but right now everything was off.

“Hey, Jakes, what’s doin’, man?” Moby Edward grinned.

It seemed that was all the Master Sergeant ever did. The man was happy all the time. Moby even smiled while disarming a bomb. Not that Bulldog could blame him—being in Special Forces was a dream come true and they might all be just a bit nuts. You had to love it to do what they did. It was one of the things Bulldog really admired about Moby—not that he’d tell the man he had any feelings in any kind of way because Moby would jump all over that. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell might have been repealed, but there were just some things you didn’t let happen…like having sex with a guy in your unit. Even if Moby did have a really great smile that reached his dark brown eyes…

'Who Dares Wins' by Lily Harlem

It’s the dreams that are the worst when Jack is away. They start off pleasant enough—me riding a bike in the woods, a picnic spread on a blanket with the sea breeze ruffling my hair, my handsome soldier-lover talking of our plans for the future—but they always turn dark, these dreams. Before I wake there’s a plunge into blackness, an abyss, like falling from a plane without a parachute and flailing for something to hold on to—reaching out and finding nothing.

When I do wake I’m left with this gut-wrenching breathlessness, my heart is racing and my limbs are heavy. Often it’s this one section of the night that lingers with me, it’s a sensation of running but not getting anywhere, putting all of my efforts into reaching Jack, battling uneven terrain, steaming uphill, fighting enemies. But my limbs are leaden, my efforts not rewarded.

I’m standing still.

It doesn’t take a psychologist to decipher the meaning. I’m just a deputy manager of a small town garden centre and I can figure out the symbolism.

When my partner Jack is away on a mission and I’m left at home in our little Cornish cottage, I’m utterly helpless. Oh, not that I can’t get up in the morning and get on with my day. That’s fine. I’m just not part of his terrifying world. If something happens to him, then yes, they’ll tell me eventually, but not until it’s too late, not until it’s over for him. If he needed me, was shot by enemy fire, captured and tortured, I’d never know until his ordeal was history.

Until he was history.

“Morning, Ken,” Mary said, rattling a trolley of begonias past me.

I glanced up from the vegetable seed stock chart I was double-checking. “Hey, Mary. How are you?”

“Great, thanks. Busy though, boss. We’ve just had another delivery.”

I grinned. “Good, now stop slacking and go and earn your money.”

She stuck her tongue out, then smiled and carried on towards the aisle of sweetly scented border plants.

Working at Bedding Beautiful was a godsend. Not only did it take my mind off the scary times when my gorgeous Master was away on duty, it also provided me with a kind of pseudo family. Everyone knew and accepted that I was gay and that I was sometimes teetering on the edge of my nerves. They didn’t know what Jack did exactly, that was confidential information, but they knew he worked away and I was left home alone.

'An Act of Duty' by Elizabeth Coldwell

Mark watched a man in a tiger onesie cycle past him on a rickety, black-framed bike, and knew Ozzy would have really loved Amsterdam. He’d barely been in the city for half an hour, yet already he was falling in with its relaxed vibe. This was a place to chill, to leave your worries behind for a while. As he looked at the tourists strolling along the cobbled pavements in the September sunshine, it was almost possible to forget that halfway across the world, good, honest men were dying in their efforts to bring stability to the basket case that was Afghanistan. Good, honest men like Ozzy.

He paused to consult the foldout map in the back of the tourist guide he’d bought at the airport. If he took the next left, it should bring him out right in the heart of the red-light district. Whenever they’d talked about visiting the city, that had always been the area Ozzy had wanted to tour more than any other. Forget the canals and the historic gabled houses, some so old they leaned at odd angles and appeared in danger of toppling into the water at any moment. Ignore the Rijksmuseum, where you could admire paintings from every Old Master Holland had ever produced. No, Ozzy had simply wanted to have a few beers and get his end away.

On one of their monotonous desert patrols, he and Ozzy had made a pact to come to Amsterdam on their next spell of leave. They’d never discussed what would happen if one of them wasn’t around by then, even though the fear of death was never far from either of their minds. Making this trip had seemed to Mark like the right thing to do—a way of honouring the memory of the man who’d been the best friend he’d ever had. No, they’d been closer than that. Gary Osmond, known to everyone in the regiment as Ozzy, had been like the brother Mark had never had, and he couldn’t help wishing the guy were here with him right now. He felt a tear threatening to spill down his cheek and blinked it away, glad his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

Turning a corner, he found himself confronted with the sight Ozzy had always hoped to see. In almost every ground floor window of the buildings that lined this stretch of canal stood a woman in her underwear, smiling and beckoning to the small groups of men who passed by. Here and there, thick burgundy drapes were pulled across one of the windows, indicating that its occupant had company. The sight of so much exposed female flesh didn’t rouse Mark’s desires, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate beauty when he saw it. He wondered which of the girls would have caught Ozzy’s eye. The peroxide blonde in the bright yellow bra and panties, maybe, or the brown-skinned, almond-eyed sylph in a PVC corset and thigh boots?

'Trusting the Army Captain' by Noelle Keaton

It isn’t fair!

The words resounded over and over in Patrick Bosworth’s mind until he grew sick of them, but the irritating chorus wouldn’t stop. It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair!

Signalling a passing waiter for another drink, Patrick slumped farther in his chair and wondered when the relief that a scotch and soda usually provided him would take hold. He’d had two already, but still felt as miserable as when he’d first come into the bar. It might just be that it wouldn’t take the edge off this disappointment—the bitterness of being passed over for promotion to major ran way too deep.

By most measures, Patrick knew he’d had a very successful military career, making it to captain while still in his early thirties. But when measured against the standards of the rest of his family, he felt like a total failure. Every Bosworth male since his great-great grandfather had served in the army with distinction, including an ancestor who had been a member of one of the first graduating classes at West Point. Patrick’s grandfather had held the position of Vice Chief of Staff of the army, and his father had risen to the rank of lieutenant general. And his older brother, Greg, showed every promise of following in their distinguished footsteps with his recent promotion to lieutenant colonel.

Patrick had tried his best to live up to the legacy. Although he hadn’t elected to go to West Point like his brother, he’d graduated summa cum laude from Yale University, and immediately enlisted in the army. After serving two tours in Afghanistan, he’d returned to America to work in military intelligence, and had seen his career plateau ever since.

A waiter placed a fresh drink in front of him, and Patrick gulped it, still wondering what, if anything, he could do to get his career back on track. He wished he could turn to his family, but he knew they would most likely counsel patience. But the only thing he could see patience getting him was a permanent place as captain in career purgatory.

“Now, how did I know I’d find you here?”

Patrick looked up to find his superior officer, Jake Moretti, standing over him with a sympathetic expression on his face. “Mind if I sit down?”

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, Patrick wanted to say, preferring to be alone right now. But he gestured for Jake to take a seat, which he did in an opposite facing chair. “How many of those have you had?”

“I don’t have to report in until oh-eight hundred Monday. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Touchy, touchy. Obviously, you haven’t had enough of them. Give me a sec.” Jake got up and came back a few minutes later with a tray that had four shots lined up on it. “If this doesn’t loosen you up, nothing will.”

'Letters to a War Zone' by Lucy Felthouse

After clicking all the available links on the website to find out more about it, Bailey decided to go ahead and sign up. He’d never know what it was really like unless he gave it a go.

He’d read about the site in an article somewhere, about how it linked people with serving soldiers, pilots, marines and sailors in order to write to them. It had been proven that receiving mail—even from someone they didn’t know—improved military morale. It sounded like a damn good use of time to Bailey, and it would be interesting, too.

He began typing his details into the online form. Of course, the chances were that he’d be paired up with a man, given the ratio of males to females in the forces. It didn’t matter, though. He could still exchange letters with a guy, become friends. It seemed like such an old-school way to communicate with someone, given how technology had come on over the years, but at least it was different. Perhaps it would give him something in his life to look forward to, something other than getting up, showering, going to work, coming home, eating, watching television and going to bed. The watching television—and even the eating—were occasionally replaced by nights out with friends or seeing family. Weekends were spent cleaning, washing clothes, gardening and odd jobs. Dull stuff, in other words.

He had an utterly mundane life, and Bailey knew it. It wasn’t even as if his job was exciting. Insurance broking was hardly thrilling, game-changing, or going to save the world. He didn’t expect having a pen pal to change his entire life, but it would certainly break the monotony. Hopefully.

He went through the various steps to fill in his details and create a profile, then continued right through to the information on actually writing and sending the letters. It looked straightforward enough.

His mind made up, Bailey immediately went in search of a pen, some nice paper and an envelope. Armed with a print out of exactly what to do when the letter was finished, he settled down at the kitchen table. Instantly, his mind went blank. What the fuck was he meant to say?