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Raider GL Side Story #2: The Space Between Orders
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Transcript
Raider GL Side Story #2: The Space Between Orders
It was just past 0600 when Armstrong rolled out of bed, the soft buzz of his watch alarm barely audible over the morning stillness in his home at 4109 Meyers Rd, in Triangle, Virginia. Outside, the gray light of early spring filtered through the pines that bordered the property, casting long, slender shadows on the dew-slicked grass. The neighborhood was quiet—the kind of quiet Armstrong liked. No frills. Just space to breathe.
He moved through his modest, well-kept home with a purpose that had nothing to do with urgency. He lived close enough to Marine Corps Base Quantico to get there fast, but far enough away that he could pretend the world didn’t run on radios and briefings when the uniform came off.
In the kitchen, the coffeemaker clicked on, filling the room with the rich, familiar smell that did more to wake him than any alarm ever could. He poured it black, drank it slow, leaned against the sink as the caffeine worked its way through the last traces of sleep. Through the window above the sink, he could just make out the dull gleam of his 1991 Ford Ranger parked in the gravel drive, still crusted with road dust and speckled with last week’s pollen.
It was Saturday, but that didn’t mean much to Armstrong. He didn’t do “off days” the way most people did. Routine was its own kind of therapy.
By 0700, he was outside, tossing a duffel in the bed of the truck—not because he had somewhere to be, but because he liked to keep it packed. Just in case. His boots kicked up gravel as he walked around the side of the house to check on the gate. The latch needed oil again. He made a mental note.
A few minutes later, he was on Route 619, headed toward Route 1, the roads still mostly empty, the radio playing low. Not music—talk. Old sports commentary, some A M station that barely came in half the time. He wasn’t listening to the words, just the cadence. Something about it made the town feel like it stretched farther than it did.
He pulled into Triangle Plaza and parked near the corner of the lot, away from the storefronts. The diner had been open since 0530. He stepped inside, nodding to the owner, who already had the coffee ready and his usual order in: eggs scrambled, sausage, no toast. Armstrong liked predictability. The place was filled with familiar faces—locals, retirees, and the occasional active-duty regular from the base.
He didn’t talk much, but when he did, people listened. Not because of rank or volume, but because Armstrong didn’t waste words.
He read the paper while he ate. The stories didn’t matter. He liked the way the ink rubbed off on his fingers, the way the pages rustled. An analog ritual in a digital world.
After breakfast, he hit McDade Boulevard, weaving through side streets and old neighborhoods where the homes had more history than siding. He stopped by a small feed store off the main road—not because he needed supplies, but because the owner was an old friend, a former combat engineer who’d swapped demolitions for hay bales. They talked for twenty minutes about nothing that mattered and everything that did.
By noon, Armstrong was back home.
Around mid-afternoon, he grilled out back—just for himself. A steak, no marinade, seared on cast iron. He didn’t believe in complicating something that already worked. As he ate, the low rumble of traffic from I-95 rose and fell in the distance, like an ocean too far to see.
He kept the evening slow. Cleaned his guns. Sharpened a knife. Checked the oil in the truck. He laid out his uniform for Monday, even though it was only Saturday. Everything had a place. Everything had a reason.
As the sky turned amber, he sat on his back porch, beer in hand, the wood creaking beneath his weight. From here, he could almost forget the briefing rooms, the compartmentalized knowledge he carried like quiet ballast. No one here asked questions. No one cared about the letters stamped on a file or the codes scribbled in notebooks that never left the base.
Here, he was just Armstrong.
And for a man who’d seen more than his share of complexities, that simplicity was the rarest freedom of all.
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