Chapter 12.
Jack McHenry tells himself to just treat the next five minutes like RASP: Ranger Assessment and Selection Program.
No BS. No lies. No smart talk.
Short answers. No wandering. No wisecracks.
Give them nothing extra.
Just answer their questions and get out of this tent after your five minutes are up.
And don’t blow the gig.
He sits down. The wristband feels heavier than it should.
When the woman across the desk begins by asking about his military service, he goes back to the beginning, why he enlisted the week after 9/11. He trained, was deployed, got promoted, led. He keeps it tight. Professional.
When he finishes, she says, “That’s a very admirable story, Mr. McHenry. Or would you still prefer being referred to as sergeant major?”
“That was a long time ago,” Jack says. “But I’ll always be proud of serving my country.”
“Could we talk a bit about your private life for just a second?”
He grins.
“Your five minutes,” he says, “even if it’s my five cents.”
“You frankly can’t be quite as proud of how you did as a husband,” she says. “Your two failed marriages are a different service record.”
“I wasn’t aware that this was a counseling session,” Jack says. His smile tightening.
There it is. The smart mouth. He hears it the moment it leaves him.
Silence.
“Listen, you people say you’re looking for a leader,” he says, jumping right back in. “I’ve been one my whole life. I was voted captain of every football team I ever played on. I was the senior enlisted leader in my platoon. Men depended on me.”
“We’re well aware,” she says, “as we’re aware that you were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism during combat overseas. We’re aware of what you did. And why.”
“I protected my brothers,” he says. He’s heard men justify anything with words like that. He doesn’t like how familiar this feels.
She points at his left arm now.
“I can’t help but notice one of your tattoos,” she says. “The one that says you never lose.”
He waits, sensing she’s not quite finished.
“So let me ask you a question, Sergeant Major,” she says. “How does a man who never loses end up alone, pulling shifts on an oil rig?”
The woman pauses. Jack feels it—the old heat behind his ribs. The shame that still makes him want to swing first.
“Would you like to talk about your nightmares?” she asks.
“No,” he says, jaw hard, eyes down.
The woman waits. Patient.
Jack leans forward just enough for her to feel it and looks her in the eyes.
“But I’ll tell you this,” he says. “I’m not here to be handled. I’m here to win. So ask what you came to ask.”