Ask, Tell, page 1
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Table of Contents
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bella Books
Synopsis
Where can you turn when you’re caught in a crossfire of
war and passion?
Captain Sabine Fleischer is a skilled and dedicated U.S.
Army surgeon deployed to a combat hospital in Afghanistan.
She is also one of the thousands of troops who are forced to
serve in silence because of the military’s anti-gay policy of
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).”
Usually driven and focused, Sabine finds that battles
raging both inside and outside the perimeter walls are
making it more and more difficult for her to deal with her
emotions. Dealing with loss and mortality, lack of privacy,
sleep deprivation, loneliness and the isolation forced on her
by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” are all taking their toll. Plus, her
long-term relationship with a civilian back home is quickly
becoming another casualty of war.
Colonel Rebecca Keane is an enigmatic career officer who
runs the surgical unit like clockwork. Well liked and
respected by those who work with and under her, she walks
a fine line to preserve the military’s chain of command while
connecting with those under her care and supervision.
Sabine knows the Colonel is way off-limits, but can’t help
fantasizing about her. Especially when she starts picking up
unspoken cues—a stolen glance, a secret smile, an
“accidental” brush of hands. Or is it just wishful thinking?
After all, Rebecca’s wedding ring shines almost as brightly
as her deep blue eyes…
Copyright © 2017 by E. J. Noyes
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of the
author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have
any control over and does not assume any responsibility for
author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2017
eBook released 2017
Editor: Cath Walker
Cover Designer: Judith Fellows
ISBN: 978-1-59493-530-5
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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the Internet or via any other means without the permission
of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please
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About the Author
E. J. Noyes lives in Australia with her partner, a needy cat,
aloof chickens and too many horses. When not indulging in
her love of reading and writing, E. J. argues with her hair
and pretends to be good at clay target shooting.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a strange experience and one I may not
have survived without the help of some very important
people. Thanks must go first and foremost to Ash. I’ve no
words to express my gratitude for your guidance and
encouragement through every step of this process. I
couldn’t have done it without your unwavering faith in me.
Go Bears!
Thank you, Kate, for your staunch friendship and
(sometimes painfully) honest opinions—you were right, I’m
sorry, you’re pretty. Paula, I wouldn’t have kept my sanity
without your laughter…and your wine. Thanks to Dina,
Steve and the Scribbers for your time, enthusiasm,
knowledge and support.
Thanks to my (favorite, but don’t tell the others) cousin,
Adam, for answering my endless questions about your job—
last question, I promise. I’m so grateful to Mary Buchanan
who shared her knowledge with me, and to Dr. Michelle
Warman who went on a trawling mission among her
colleagues to supply me with more information. Thank you,
Liaison Extraordinaire Trish and CPT Melissa Kalis for the
fascinating insights into your day-to-day life.
A world of thanks to my editor, Cath Walker and the team
at Bella Books for making my first publishing experience so
exciting and wonderful. It’s been everything I’d ever hoped
for. And a bag of chips.
Finally, my eternal gratitude to my partner Phoebe who
never laughed when I told her I was writing a book. Pheebs,
thank you for talking me out of my panic every other day
and making me feel like this was the most important thing
in the world. I love you. You’ve always felt like home to me.
Author’s Note
The United States military policy Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
(DADT) is an important part of LGBT history. Prior to its
implementation in 1993, homosexuals were banned from
enlisting, and if discovered once serving were dishonorably
discharged—their careers finished.
In addition to the stigma, personnel lost their military
pension, insurance, healthcare (including treatment for
physical and mental injury acquired during their service)
and financial aid for social welfare assistance or education.
They lost their entitlement to a military funeral, were barred
from wearing their uniform or medals in public and in some
cases even prevented from voting or owning firearms. They
were often denied bank loans and found their past viewed
unfavorably in job applications.
All because of their sexuality.
It was considered by some that openly gay and lesbian
service members could potentially undermine the integral
structure of discipline in the armed forces. DADT was
developed as a strategy to prevent discrimination without
compromising the military’s culture of regulation and
hierarchy. The policy was simple: Don’t Ask anyone about
their sexual orientation. Don’t Tell anyone about your sexual
orientation. Pretend the “problem” didn’t exist. It meant
that one could not be discharged for simply being gay or
lesbian, only for engaging in homosexual conduct. A person
could still be dismissed but discharge was no longer
automatically dishonorable. Clearly DADT was inherently
flawed.
Openly homosexual personnel were still subject to
discrimination, so service members were forced to conceal
their sexuality. They couldn’t share important aspects of
their lives with the men and women with whom they lived
and died. They couldn’t discuss the birth of a child, be
supported when a partner died or comforted during a
breakup. In short, DADT still denied gays, lesbians and
bisexuals the same human rights and respect as other
members of the armed forces.
In 2010, as a necessary step toward allowing gay and
lesbian service members to live and s
the Department of Defense was undertaken to gauge the
effects of repealing DADT. The risk to military unit
effectiveness, order and morale was considered low and the
process of repeal continued. DADT officially ended on 20th
September, 2011.
A bill has since been passed to give service members who
had received less-than-honorable discharges due to their
sexual orientation the opportunity to have their discharge
records corrected to reflect their honorable service.
* * *
The Army base that sets the scene for this book is fictional
but based on the workings of a military base in Afghanistan.
As a person who has never served in the armed forces, I
received assistance from a number of veterans and serving
members, but any inconsistencies that remain may be laid
squarely at my feet.
Chapter One
FOB Imperia Military Hospital, Khost
Province, Afghanistan
August, 2009
I’ve wanted Rebecca Keane from the moment I first saw
her perform surgery. I’d only been deployed for three days
on my first tour and instead of concentrating on our patient,
I found my eyes drawn to the strands of wavy blond hair
that had escaped her scrub cap. Wide, dark blue eyes
creased when she smiled over her mask at me and I forgot
how to verbalize, mumbling something stupid about a liver.
My shallow thoughts about her beauty took a backseat
when I saw how effortlessly she negotiated what seemed to
be a lost cause. Confident, yet never demanding. Skilled
and calm. She tilted her head as she asked my opinion, then
her eyes held mine as she agreed with it.
My want of her isn’t anything deep or well thought out,
but more the way you see a coat in a store window and
think right away I want that. Then you remember you
already have a coat. A coat named Victoria that’s been
yours for almost nine years.
* * *
I run with sluggish footsteps and a wandering mind, trying
to take my thoughts away from here. Away from war, bullet
wounds and dismembered limbs. Away from the dust and
dry heat of Afghanistan and a man I couldn’t keep alive.
Away from the expression on Keane’s face when I told her
I’d lost him. Away from her look of disappointment and away
from my own failure.
It’s not working. I can’t stop thinking about it. I need a
better distraction or I’m going to cry. I shove my thoughts to
the opposite end of the scale. Instead of disappointment, I
imagine Keane giving me a look that is lustful. Perhaps as I
push her against the wall of a shower cubicle and kneel to
slip my—
“Sabine.” Mitch interrupts thoughts that are fast becoming
inappropriate.
“Mmm?”
He isn’t even panting. “You’re fuckin’ slow. My mama runs
quicker’n you.”
The fantasy is gone. I slide my tongue over dry lips as I
turn my head toward him. Even in sunglasses, I’m squinting
and the dust in my mouth coats my tongue like a gritty
blanket. I can’t think of a witty comeback. I’m going to have
to let this one go. Slow, my ass. I clamp my lips together
and increase my pace.
Mitch moves ahead. I try to keep up. He laughs and
increases his speed again, taunting me. I drop my shoulders
and burst into a sprint. We race each other around the track,
jostling and giggling, and I manage to keep up with him for
twenty feet or so before the length of his strides allows him
to break away. Mitch Boyd, my best friend and a fellow
surgeon, is well over six feet tall and athletic. I can’t
compete when he decides to outpace me.
With his beefy arms raised to make a V above his head
Mitch crosses an imaginary finish line. He tosses his cap
high in the air before bursting into a warped victory dance.
The smug bastard looks ridiculous as he shakes his ass and
I’d tell him so if I wasn’t so breathless. I reach him as he
leans down to pick up his hat.
“Really thought you could outrun me? Maybe you should
borrow some stilts,” Mitch teases in his molasses drawl. His
voice always reminds me of barbeque on a Sunday
afternoon. Texan and stupidly good-looking, he would
probably be my type if my type had balls. I suppose it’s
possible I’d be Mitch’s type, if his type had tits.
I manage one word between gulping air. “Asshole.” My
friendly punch goes wide, hitting Mitch’s shoulder as he
straightens. He recoils in mock horror, as though my fist
actually registered instead of just glancing off his bulk. I
swat him again as we begin a cool-down lap around the
track. Somehow a dead bug has made its way into my
mouth.
Mitch tugs his cap on. “I got an interestin’ email
yesterday.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a rumor Congress is gonna repeal Don’t Ask,
Don’t Tell.”
I scoff. “I doubt anything will come of it. It’ll take years to
reverse policy. If the bill even gets through.” And I don’t hold
much hope it will. The army policy on gay and lesbian
service members is clear. Keep it to yourself and do your
job.
“You never know, darlin’. It could happen. Then you can
invite Keane to come stay the night in your bed. I know
you’ve got a little crush going.” Mitch caught me eyeballing
Keane when we first arrived on base and he refuses to let it
go. He’s not wrong, I do have something, but it’s not just a
schoolgirl crush.
Rebecca Keane. My boss. Dimpled. Accomplished and
inventive surgeon. Owner of a number of very pleasing
physical attributes. Wearer of my favorite perfume. Flag
football devotee. Most certainly an excellent lay. Shorter
than me, I could probably pick her up and carry her to a
bed. Don’t start that shit again, Sabine.
Mitch is waiting, watching me with an eyebrow raised. I’m
so busy fantasizing that I haven’t responded to his teasing. I
fling my arm out to hit him. “Don’t even start. As if you
haven’t got your eye on someone too.”
Mitch stretches his arms up luxuriously. “The list is
longer’n my arm.”
I raise my eyes to the sky. Of course it is. We continue
walking without speaking—our friendship is long past
needing to fill silences with inane conversation. We’re
halfway around the track when the siren starts with a
persistent screech that reverberates through my bones.
Speakers across the base blare an “Attention on the FOB!”
message to tell us casualties are on the way.
Our FOB, Forward Operating Base Invicta, is a secured
area in a massive, miles-wide valley between stunningly
stark mountain ranges. We’re one of the smaller units and
the hospital is our most important feature, but you wouldn’t
know to look at it. It’s deliberately unremarkable—nestled
among the obligatory military structures of quarters, mess
halls and equipment sheds.
Everything at Invicta is laid out with pleasing symmetry in
uniform colors of cream, khaki and brown. Some buildings
are permanent, or as permanent as things get around here.
Others, like the mailroom, are plywood shacks that
amazingly never fall down when a hot windstorm blows
through.
All day and night the base hums with people at work
inside the fence, locals outside it, and transports coming
and going. In high wind, the razor wire and chain-link fence
encircling Invicta rattles and clinks. I live with constant noise
and dirt. I live with the omnipresent smell of diesel, dust and
aircraft fuel. I live with other people’s blood on my uniform.
The incoming alert keeps blaring. It reminds me of a
