Chapter 2: Escalation in Paradise

Chapter 2: Escalation in Paradise

Three months later, the C-17 Globemaster descended through a blanket of Pacific clouds, and the familiar, lush green of Oahu filled the windows. The deployment to Thailand had been a resounding success. Alex’s company had performed flawlessly, earning accolades from the battalion commander and solidifying his reputation as a competent, level-headed leader. As the soldiers around him buzzed with the excitement of returning home, a quiet sense of satisfaction settled over Alex. He’d done his job. His soldiers were safe, sharp, and ready.

The feeling evaporated the moment he stepped back into his office.

The neat, orderly space he’d left behind now had a tumor growing on one corner of the desk: a stack of folders held together by a thick rubber band, labeled simply "VOLKOV."

First Sergeant Miller was waiting for him, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand and the same volcanic look in his eyes Alex remembered from the day they left. "Welcome back, sir. Paradise was not without its own little firefights."

Alex sank into his chair, the tropical air already feeling heavy again. "Start with the IG complaint, First Sergeant."

"Dismissed. Utterly," Miller said with grim satisfaction. "SFC Peterson had two NCOs with him the entire morning. They provided sworn statements that he never spoke a word to Volkov. The investigator saw it for what it was: a vindictive, baseless accusation. Peterson's cleared, but the stress of the investigation…" Miller shook his head. "It took a toll, sir. He didn't deserve that."

"No, he didn't," Alex said, his voice flat. He felt a flash of anger, hot and sharp. Volkov’s opening salvo had been a dud, but it had still inflicted a casualty. "And her end of the deal?"

Miller let out a short, bitter laugh. "Sir, she didn't just violate the deal. She took a flamethrower to it." He tapped the top folder in the stack. "Let's start with week one."

Alex opened the file. It was a report from the Military Police. A week after they’d deployed, Private Volkov had been caught by the barracks NCO on duty, hosting a party in her room. Not just any party. She had purchased a case of hard liquor and was serving it to three other soldiers, all of them under the age of 21.

"She was given a formal counseling," Miller explained, "and restricted to the barracks for two weeks. Her excuse was that she was 'lonely' and 'just wanted to make friends.'"

"She's a nineteen-year-old E-2. She’s surrounded by people her own age," Alex countered, flipping to the next report. "This wasn't about friendship. It was about seeing what she could get away with."

The next folder was from the base housing office. It was thicker. "About a month ago," Miller continued, his voice tight, "Volkov and her husband, a Specialist from the infantry unit next door, had a falling out. Normal stuff. But she saw an opportunity. She went to the housing office, claimed they were legally separated, and filed paperwork to receive her own Basic Allowance for Housing."

Alex’s eyebrows shot up. "That’s fraud. They’re still married. She’s trying to double-dip the government." A single soldier living in the barracks wasn't entitled to the substantial housing allowance given to married soldiers living off-post. By faking a separation while her husband was still receiving his allowance, she was attempting to illegally pocket an extra thousand dollars a month.

"Housing was suspicious," Miller said. "They started an inquiry. When Volkov found out, she went back and withdrew the request, claiming it was all a 'misunderstanding.' No harm, no foul in her mind. But the inquiry is on her record now."

He was beginning to see the pattern. Anya Volkov didn't operate on a normal spectrum of cause and effect. She threw things at the wall of authority, and if they didn’t stick, she’d just shrug and try throwing something else. There was no remorse, no lesson learned—only the next angle, the next gambit.

Alex closed the housing folder, a cold dread creeping into his gut. The honorable discharge paperwork he had dutifully initiated before leaving was still sitting in his outbox, waiting for his final signature upon his return. He had upheld his end of the bargain, trusting the system. She had repaid that trust with a bonfire of misconduct.

"It gets worse, sir," Miller said, his voice dropping.

The next report was another one from the MPs, this time flagged with a red "DOMESTIC INCIDENT" tag. The responding officer’s report was chillingly concise. Neighbors had reported screaming from the Volkovs’ on-post quarters. When MPs arrived, they found the husband with a series of shallow cuts on his forearm. He claimed Anya had come at him with a kitchen knife during an argument over money.

"She told the MPs he was threatening her and she was just defending herself," Miller said. "He refused to press charges, probably just wanted the whole thing to go away. The MPs couldn't prove who the primary aggressor was, so no arrest was made. But it's in the system. Violence."

Alex stared at the report. Underage drinking. Federal fraud. And now, a domestic dispute involving a weapon. Each incident was a nail in the coffin of their deal. The idea of signing off on an honorable discharge for a soldier exhibiting this pattern of behavior was becoming not just unpalatable, but morally repugnant. It was an insult to every soldier in his company who put on the uniform and did the right thing, day in and day out.

He pushed the stack of folders away, feeling a migraine begin to bloom behind his eyes. He had returned to a war, not on a foreign field with clear objectives, but in the bureaucratic trenches of his own headquarters. A war against weaponized stupidity.

"Is that all, First Sergeant?" Alex asked, his patience worn to a microscopic thread.

Miller hesitated, a strange look on his face—a mixture of disbelief and awe at the sheer, unadulterated chaos one soldier could generate. "There’s one last thing, sir. This one came in yesterday. It's… unique."

He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. It was a printout of an email.

"Private Volkov had a mandatory medical appointment yesterday morning. Standard follow-up. She didn't show. Her platoon sergeant couldn't reach her by phone. Per policy, after two hours, we had to mark her AWOL—Absent Without Leave."

"So find her and bring her in," Alex said, exhausted.

"We were about to send the MPs to her quarters, sir," Miller said, pointing to the email. "And then your office phone rang. It was a woman from a temp agency in Honolulu. A Ms. Albright."

Alex read the email, a summary of the phone call taken by his company clerk.

Ms. Albright from Aloha Temp Services calling to verify employment for an applicant, Anya Volkov. Ms. Volkov listed her most recent employer as the U.S. Army, stating her reason for leaving was 'seeking new opportunities.' Can you confirm her dates of service and provide a reference?

Alex read the email twice, the words refusing to form a coherent thought. Then he looked at Miller, whose expression confirmed he wasn’t hallucinating.

Private Anya Volkov, while actively serving in the United States Army, while on the duty roster for that very day, had skipped a mandatory appointment to go to a job interview. And in that interview, she had used the Army—her current, active employer—as a past-tense reference on her application.

It was breathtaking. The sheer, galaxy-brained audacity of it was almost a work of art. This wasn't just breaking the rules; this was a complete detachment from reality. She wasn't just a saboteur. She wasn't just a liar or a cheat.

She was a master of chaos, a walking whirlwind of self-destruction.

Alex looked at the stack of incident reports, then at the honorable discharge form waiting in his outbox. The deal was based on the premise that he was dealing with a rational actor who wanted to get out of the Army. He now realized his fundamental error. He wasn't dealing with a troubled soldier. He was dealing with a force of nature, a hurricane of bad decisions. And you don’t make deals with a hurricane.

You board up the windows and prepare for impact.