(From Introduction)

“Where the hell is he?” The coroner should have already arrived. Years of chasing criminals in North Carolina had turned Pennica’s Midwestern accent into a gravelly drawl. Because of his olive-toned skin and black hair, people often mistook Pennica for a Lumbee Indian from nearby Robeson County. He grew up in a Sicilian family in Cleveland, where he attended Catholic mass every day. He became a Southern Baptist with an affinity for vinegar-based barbecue, boiled potatoes, and slaw, but his bulky frame never could adjust to the inferno of a windless, southern July afternoon. Pennica kept his arms akimbo, occasionally swatting the mosquitoes and deer flies swarming around his head. Sweat dribbled on his upper lip and seeped through his polo shirt. Acres of spindly longleaf pines, which form a buffer between Fort Bragg and Fayetteville, offered skimpy shade. In Fayetteville, where concrete and asphalt carpet everything, this was the perfect spot to bury a terrible mistake.

(From Chapter 1)

Much of the scrutiny is reserved for the commander’s wife, and it starts even before a commander and his wifeare transferred to Bragg. As soon as the news hits, the questions start flying: How does she act?  Where is she from? How many kids? Does she work? What does she look like? Is she overweight? What does she do?Thrift shop, PTA, or AFTB? Is she a Board Warmer? And the very first time she appears across Pike Field at the change of command ceremony, well, the rest of the wives are already guessing the bottle number her hair color comes from, wondering where she bought her dress, and assessing how she carries herself. If she isn’t smiling, why not? If she was, what does she have to smile about? Being a commander’s wife is fishbowl living, and there is no escape.

These days, when any of her friends’ husbands took command, Andrea Lynne gave the couples sympathy cards at their ceremonies. They would need the sense of humor. If the wife was pretty, her role was even trickier.

(From Chapter 2)

To me, Fayetteville has always been like the wise guy perched on the stool at the end of the bar night after night, you know, the one with the leathery skin and the scratchy voice from a lifetime of smokes. Fayetteville is the guy you always see, but never bother to get to know, because you think you’ve already figured his kind out. In truth, it takes time to understand this town. It’s a multi-layered, flesh-and-blood community with war heroes and crooks, garden club socialites and strippers all in close proximity. As Ski would always tell me, “I just like it here, kiddo.”

(From Chapter 3)

Everyone in the 82nd jumped from airplanes, a trait that bonded the bottle washers to the graying generals. The division’s artillery guns, two-and a half-ton trucks, and Humvees exited aircraft the same way the paratroopers did – by parachute.  On my first plane ride with paratroopers late one night high above Fort Bragg, I witnessed what makes these soldiers unique. As the aircraft’s engines slowed down to a rumble, the doors opened. I was now standing on a steel ramp a few feet away, strapped into a harness tethered to the floor. I was close enough to see each face, each set of alert eyes, and each ramrod-straight body before it plunged into a vacuum of darkness. For me it was one of those mystical life moments, the ones you don’t always share. All the things that permeate society, a person’s skin color, status, age, religion, and politics didn’t matter in the belly of that flying tin can. What mattered was trusting the guys around you, completing the mission, keeping everyone safe, and staying alive. Rita knew little about those details, only that her husband was gone a lot.