Chapter 8 - The Weight Of The Medal
Mercer motioned for the other officers to step back, giving the three of us a small circle of privacy beside the perimeter fence. The roar of diesel trucks leaving the gravel lot rumbled in the distance, a sound that usually brought me immediate peace. Today, it felt like an interruption.
""My family set up a trust after Tommy died,"" Mercer explained, his voice low and personal. ""My parents left it behind when they passed. It was meant for Tommy’s children, but Tommy never got the chance to have any. It’s been sitting in a bank account in San Antonio, collecting interest for over two decades. Over six hundred thousand dollars.""
I frowned, taking an immediate step backward. ""Keep it. I won't touch a dime of that money.""
""It isn't for you, John,"" Mercer said, his eyes shifting toward Emma. ""And it isn't charity. Tommy made a pact with the men in that ditch. If any of them didn't make it, the survivors took care of whatever was left behind. You took care of his memory by wearing that band until the leather turned to dust. Now Tommy’s trust is going to ensure that your daughter starts her military career without a single cent of civilian debt, and that you park that damned Freightliner for good.""
Emma looked between Mercer and me, her face pale. ""General, sir, I can't accept that. I have my officer's pay. I can take care of my father.""
""You're a Second Lieutenant, Carter,"" Mercer said with a thin, rare smile. ""Your pay will barely cover your uniforms and mess bills for the first two years. Let an old three-star give an order for once that actually does some good.""
""I don't park my truck for money, Dan,"" I cut in stubbornly. ""Driving is all I know. It's the only thing that keeps the noise down at three in the morning.""
""Then don't park it,"" Emma spoke up, her voice suddenly ringing with clear, unquestioned authority.
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I looked at my daughter. She was standing with her boots apart, her shoulders set, looking every bit like an officer who was ready to command a platoon through hell.
""You sell that broken Freightliner,"" Emma said, stepping up until she was toe-to-toe with me. ""You take the trust money, and you buy the garage outside Dayton you've been pointing at through the window every time we drove north on Route 75. The one where you said you could teach kids how to rebuild engines. You stop running from the war, Dad. You let us bring you home.""
