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Duct Tape Dies Hard
Rain spilled from the speaker. Die Hard sat idle on the menu screen.
“Don’t overthink it. Just hit play.”
The duct tape roll Ben had left was still in his lap.
He carefully peeled a strip from the roll, his left hand fumbling with the adhesive. His right, barely able to assist, kept it from slipping.
It was harder than it should have been, but he continued, folding the crumpled strip into a small, uneven square.
The texture was rough and familiar as he closed around it, the weight settling into his palm.
It was the first day of the Rescue Qualification Course.
Matt stood to the side, gear laid out with precision as squads were being assigned.
Too much noise, too little order. Exactly the kind of mess he hated.
“They told me I was getting someone serious. I didn’t realize they meant this serious.”
Another trainee stopped in front of Matt, wearing his uniform like it was optional.
“You’re Ralston, right?”
“And you must be Hartfield. Ben Ralston.” He let his hand fall when Matt didn’t take it. “So what’s the system? You assigning sectors or just glaring until I figure it out?”
“The plan is to focus. This isn’t a game.”
“See? Instant rapport.”
Matt went back to his work. Ben dropped beside him, already taping the handle of his flashlight like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“What are you doing?”
“Improving it. Duct tape makes everything better.”
“We’re supposed to follow protocol, not mess around.” He frowned.
“Duct tape is protocol. You’ll see.”
Matt woke mid-fall, heart pounding, breath short.
He felt along the blanket for the square of duct tape he’d left there. When he found it, his grip tightened. The tape bit against his skin as he forced his focus onto the rain.
In, out. In, out.
The falling slowed.
His eyes went to the DVD player. He reached over and hit play.
The movie filled the room. Airport voices, movement. Gunfire cracked later, followed by running footsteps and shouted orders.
His body was still tense, but no longer trembling. He held on to the square.
“Squad Nine! Obstacle simulation, go!”
Matt and Ben sprinted through the course, navigating the muddy terrain and clambering over walls. Matt barked clear, efficient orders, his every move methodical. Ben ran hot, improvising at every turn and ignoring Matt’s attempts to keep things orderly.
They came to the final section, a mock rope bridge suspended over a simulated “ravine.” One of the ropes had been cut, leaving the bridge unusable by design.
“We’re supposed to signal for backup and wait,” Matt said.
Ben held up a roll of duct tape like it was the answer to the universe.
“Or we could fix it ourselves.”
“You can’t fix a rope bridge with duct tape.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Before Matt could protest, Ben began binding the frayed ends with tape. Matt watched, torn between frustration and reluctant admiration.
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“Only if it fails.” The grin said enough.
Within minutes, the rope was patched with a dense wrap of overlapping strips. Against all odds, it held. When the instructor waved them through and praised their speed, Matt couldn't decide if he won or lost.
The course ended in mud and exhaustion. Near the edge of the field, Matt checked his equipment while Ben lay flat on his back, staring at the sky.
“You know,” Ben said, “you’re intense as hell, but you’ve got it.”
“Got what?”
“Drive. Control. The rest of these guys are showing off. They want to be noticed. You’re just… dialed in. I don’t know if it’s stubbornness or something else, but it sticks.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “You’re... not bad yourself. When you’re not messing around.”
“Messing around? That’s tactical adaptability.”
“You’ll still need to follow a plan if you want to keep up.”
“Maybe. But let’s not pretend your plan got us across that bridge.”
“Fine,” he admitted. “The duct tape worked.”
Ben sat up, entirely too pleased with himself.
“See? We’re already the best team here.”
“We’ll see.”
Matt stirred against the screen’s glow as daylight seeped in. The white noise speaker played on.
His hand lay loose against the blanket, the tape still caught between his fingers. He lifted it to look. The edges were worn smooth from the night.
The fall didn’t get him. Not last night.
Guess you’ve still got a few tricks, Ben.
His mouth twitched. Just a little, and only for a second.
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