The Long Night

by Jessica Scott

  Sam dropped his assault pack near a chair close to the back of the room. Recess lighting created a soft mood, one that beckoned him to pull a blanket over his legs and enjoy the last few hours of comfort. He settled back in the chair, plugged his headphones into his ears and picked up a copy of Psychology Today from the side table.

  He flipped through the pages absently, until an article on schizophrenia caught his attention. They'd had a soldier thrown out of the Army for that right before they deployed. Goodman. The kid had been a known drug user, but he'd told his squad leader that the voice told him to kill Britney Spears and eat her heart.

  Sam had been sure he knew what normal was, until he'd met Goodman. Goodman had sworn the devil was real and whispering in his ear.

  Sam’s commander had thought the kid was bullshitting to get out of deployment. The doctors had diagnosed him as a paranoid schizophrenic and that had been Goodman's speed pass out of the military. Sam wasn't sure whether the kid had been telling the truth or not, but he'd freaked Sam the fuck out every time he was around him. Something about him had just not been right.

  He was damn glad that fucking lunatic wasn’t on this rotation; that was for damn sure. What Goodman was doing now, Sam had no idea. He hoped whatever it was, it involved Goodman taking his meds.

  What was it like to live with that kind of crazy? To look at the world and see things not like everyone else. Who was the crazy one?

  The next thing he knew, a thin woman with too much makeup was jiggling his boot. "Sir?"

  He opened his eyes, tugging one ear bud out of his ear.

  "Sir, you need to catch your flight."

  Sam squinted, then glanced at his watch.

  He bolted upright. "Shit." Slinging his assault pack over his shoulder, he dropped the magazine and headed for the door. "Thanks," he called over his shoulder.

  He made it to the gate with five minutes to spare. Which meant he hadn't stopped for a piss. He slid into his seat, stuffed his pack under the seat in front of him and prayed that he would not be smooshed between two big fat majors who smelled like burritos and grease and day-old body odor. If he was really lucky, the flight wouldn't be full and he'd have an entire row to crash out in.

  He had one Ambien pill he was planning on having a deep and serious affair with as soon as the plane took off. He needed to take a piss first, though.

  His wish was denied when the skinny kid from the Admirals Club swung into the seat next to him.

  "Hi, Sergeant."

  Sam blinked. He hadn't been called Sarn't in almost two weeks. Two blissful weeks of pretending he was a civilian. He'd almost forgotten that to the people he'd left in combat while he went home to fuck his girlfriend and get shit-faced drunk—not necessarily in that order—his first name was Sergeant.

  Sam grunted. He hoped the kid wasn't going to chew his ear off the entire flight.

  "Are you heading back from R&R?"

  "Roger that." He paused, not wanting to be a complete asshole. "You?"

  The kid shook his head, giving Sam an eyeful of the inside of his pores. "I'm new. I'm supposedly linking up with my unit. They're in a place called Tangi. Tongi."

  "Taji," Sam said. "It's a big logistics base north of Baghdad. What unit are you going to?"

  "Black Knights? It's a fuel company. I think."

  "Are you a fueler?"

  The kid shook his head again. "No, Sergeant, I'm a radio specialist."

  Sam frowned, but it wasn't for him to decide the machinations of the Army personnel management system. Or to figure out why this kid was on his own with obviously no idea where he was heading. "Oh."

  The kid’s skin flushed with relief. At what, Sam didn’t know. A smile teased at the edge of the kids’ lips as he flipped open his book. Faint gold letters were etched into the worn leather: King James.

  Sam ran his tongue across his teeth, bracing for what he guessed was coming next.

  The kid didn't disappoint, staying true to stereotypes that Sam had both grown up with and grown to hate. The kid turned a thin, tan page softly and started reading out loud. And not quietly, either. "Because if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved."

  "Don't do that, man." Sam tried to keep the irritation from his voice. That verse was too familiar. Sam didn’t read the Bible—he was Catholic after all, even if he was highly lapsed—but he knew that particular verse because Chaplain had been arguing with one of the captains in the TOC about it one night. According to Chaplain Cloud, the Book of Romans was all hellfire and brimstone. Too much Paul, not enough Jesus.

  But Chaplain Cloud wasn’t here to stop the kid from proselytizing and Sam damn sure didn’t feel like spending his entire flight listening to this kid read out loud.

  "Why not?" The kid seemed genuinely shocked.

  "Because other people have to share this space with you, and not everyone shares your beliefs."

  The kid tipped his head, his skinny neck bending at an angle that made Sam think of a goose. "You find my faith offensive." It wasn't a question.

  Sam answered without thinking. "Yes. I do."

  "Why?"

  Sam took a deep breath and counted to ten. It was either that or throw the kid out of his seat. "Because your God doesn't exist," he snapped.

  The kid's eyes went wide, then narrowed to a dangerous glint. "You've been to combat. How can you say that?" He folded the Bible reverently against his chest. "There are no atheists in foxholes."

  "Get another sound bite." Sam stretched his legs out in front of him, tucking his feet around his assault pack. His Snickers bars were probably mashed into paste at this point.

  The kid looked down at his Bible, his voice less certain than the words he professed. "Why are you so bitter?"

  "I'm not bitter." Of course not. "I'm a realist. People say there are no atheists in foxholes like there's some kind of religious transformation that happens the first time you get shot at. The only transformation you're going to go through the first time a round hits the wall next to your head is whether or not you shit yourself."

  The kid opened his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off. "You don't get to sit there and preach the gospel out loud and drive everyone batshit crazy. Shut your mouth, get some sleep and start thinking about what you're going to do the first time shit pops off. Because when the first round goes live is not the time to arrange your world views on pulling the trigger."

  The kid sniffed. His index finger rubbed across the spine of the leather. Up and down. Up and down. "I know what my world views are on killing, Sergeant."

  Sam looked at him. A fanatic’s glint lit the kid’s eyes. "Do tell."

  The kid puffed up with pride. "‘For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’"

  "Great, so you can read."

  "I'll do my duty when necessary, Sergeant."

  It was unnerving, hearing him say the full world ‘sergeant’ as opposed to the abbreviated ‘sarn’t’ like everyone else who had been in the military for more than a day did.

  "Will you? It's one thing to sit in the pews on Sunday and listen to what some preacher tells you. But when you're staring down the barrel of that weapon? Or worse, when you don't have time to think about taking that shot?" Sam looked at the kid with his bad skin and over-sure eyes, so certain about the way of the world. "Your religion won't save you over there. Nothing your Sunday School teacher taught you means anything in a firefight. There are no good choices. They're all the same: they all turn out bad."

  "Jesus will guide my hand."

  Sam leaned forward into the kid's face. The kid flinched, and Sam felt a twisted flicker of satisfaction. "You don't get it. Jesus abandoned you the minute you got on this plane. He's not guiding your hand, he's not watching your back. You're on your own, kid, and you better figure out what you can live with
and what you can't. Right now. This flight. Before you get to the desert and before you ever think about going off the base."

  The kid licked his lips and leaned away from Sam. His thumb slid over the leather. "There is a higher purpose," he whispered.

  Sam shook his head. "There is no higher purpose. Even the good choices you make in war come back to bite you in the ass."

  "‘Be strong and bold; have no fear or dread of them, because it is the Lord your God who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.’ Deuteronomy 31:6,8." The kid looked over at him, certainty in his eyes. "We are but servants in service of the Lord."

  "I'm in service to Uncle Sam. Now take your religion and keep it to yourself. I get enough of that shit from my mother."

  "Your mother —"

  Sam held up his hand, silencing him. "What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ do you not understand?" He balled his fist in his lap, fighting the urge to grab the kid by the collar and twist until the words died in his throat. "Now, if you would like to talk about the Patriots—or maybe the Broncos?"

  The kid looked down at his Bible.

  Sam sighed. "Great. I'm sitting next to Jesus' sidekick." Sam leaned forward and dug the Ambien out of the front pouch of his assault pack. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when we get to Kuwait."

  It was a long trip, making it back to Iraq. Pity there wasn’t a direct flight from Baghdad to Bangor. That would have made life easier.

  "You don't want to deplane if we stop somewhere?"

  "Not if it means I've got to get a sermon," Sam said, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes. Goddamn but all this talk about Jesus pissed him off.

  Fucking idealists heading off to war, thinking they were serving some part in a giant cosmic plan.

  More like a cosmic clusterfuck.

  He still had to piss, but they hadn't even closed the front doors of the plane. He'd go once they'd taken off. If he was still conscious.

  "You really don't believe that God has a plan for you?"

  The drug gently gripped his consciousness and pulled him under the heavy darkness.

  "There is no master plan," Sam mumbled. It was only one step away from there is no God.

  * * *

  "The chow hall is out of regular Cokes again." Hale's voice penetrated the haze caused by too much wind and not enough rain.

  The dust was everywhere. Ground into his pores. The crack of his ass. Beneath his toenails. His lips were chapped. He bit a piece of loose skin and tasted blood as it tore free.

  "Diet Coke sucks balls," Lewis mumbled.

  "You suck balls." Hale's fist shot up in the air. The entire formation halted.

  Sam dropped to a knee, waiting for Hale to assess the intersection. A long moment hung in the haze. Then, he motioned for their squad to continue.

  He expected Lewis to start bitching about having to walk to their objective. Lewis hated walking. He was fond of reminding everyone that he was in the Cav, which meant he'd planned on taking a tank or a Bradley wherever he needed to go.

  Walking had not been part of his life plan.

  Lewis was a husky kid with black hair and meaty fists and a temper that often needed defusing. Sam knew the power in Lewis' fists all too well. They'd gone a few rounds in the combatives ring, and Lewis had damn near knocked Sam's teeth out more than once.

  He didn't dare let Lewis and Hale go at it. At least not without Hale having a mouth guard in. Hale thought he was tougher than he was, and Lewis had him by at least thirty pounds of pure mean.

  "Ladies, will you shut the fuck up about Diet Coke?" Sam hissed. "I'm more concerned with getting to our objective on time."

  Lewis shot him the bird. "Someone's panties are in a bunch. Don’t be pissy just because the chow hall is out of Butter Pecan Baskin Robbins."

  Sam flipped Lewis the bird back as Hale's fire team moved down into the alley, leaving Sam on point with Lewis' fire team. Sam inched to the edge of the building. The haze had swallowed all but the faintest shadow of Private Pillow's fat-ass head.

  Shapes twisted in the haze. The wind whistled over the top of the building, stirring the haze.

  The team’s whispers carried on the wind behind him. The radio was silent. His heart pounded in his ears.

  A dog barked in the distance, a hungry, desperate sound. A boot crunched against the dirt.

  Hale’s team was lost in the darkness, swallowed by the desert.

  He called over the radio to Hale. The response came back broken. Unreadable.

  "Chaos Red. Chaos Red."

  Silence greeted his call. He keyed the mic again. Static.

  He motioned for the remainder of the squad to get to their feet and sent two dudes to cover their rear while Sam and Lewis headed down the alley.

  Side by side, they stepped into the haze.

  A sound like a claw scraping against concrete grated through the air.

  Something made of shadows and hate burst out of the haze.

  * * *

  The plane's tires skidded onto the asphalt. Sam jolted awake, his heart slamming against his ribs. His lungs refused to expand to allow a full breath.

  His skin was stretched too tight over his bones. He closed his eyes. Focused.

  And breathed. A deep, full breath of recycled air, but it was a breath so he was happy.

  The seat next to him was empty, the cabin dark. His Bible-thumping seat companion was nowhere to be seen. Which was good, because it meant his nightmare had gone unseen. Always a plus not to have the soldiers around you wondering if you were crazy.

  He was perversely glad that little fucker wasn’t there to see it. Undoubtedly Jesus’ sidekick would have told him his immortal soul was at risk.

  The pilot braked and the plane slowed dramatically. Sam's body strained against the seatbelt. He reached for his cell phone to call Faith before he remembered that it wouldn't work other than as an alarm clock for the rest of the year.

  He wanted badly to turn it on and see a missed call from her. Or better yet, a voice mail. Anything to remind him that there was still good in the world.

  The plane slowed to a stop and everyone stood and started pulling down their bags. Sam watched, not anxious at all to get off and back to the shit and the grime and the dirt of the desert.

  A young female soldier shrugged on an assault pack with a stuffed pink unicorn in the straps. Another kid, who looked like he was about twelve, had a video game guitar hanging out of his pack. Must be nice to have that kind of time, to play video games. It was probably the reason the network sucked so bad that he couldn't get a decent video call through to Faith.

  He could only imagine the sheer amount of shit that Lewis would give Hale if he caught him playing with a pink unicorn or a music video game. Or worse, if Hale caught Lewis playing with the unicorn. Sam smiled faintly, the tolerant smile of a tired uncle. Lewis and Hale fought like siblings but in the end, they had each other's backs. That was never a doubt in Sam's mind.

  They started debarking the plane and Sam stood, stretching until his spine popped and his knees protested from sitting for too long. That sleeping pill had been no damn joke. Which was good, because it was probably the last good night's sleep Sam would have in a while. Like seven months.

  He fiddled with the time on his watch while he waited, setting the time zone to Iraq time. He'd slept the entire flight. Which was awesome, except for the nightmare. That had sucked. And it wasn’t even entirely a nightmare. One of the benefits of combat-induced insomnia was no nightmares. Had to sleep for that to happen and they were always too fucking busy to get more than a couple of hours here or there.

  He finally took a deep breath and slung his pack over his shoulder and prepared to shuffle off the plane and onto the bus for a short ride to stinky porta-potties and then another ride to Camp Buehring for processing. It would be a day, day and a half until he ended up back at his base near Taji, depending on how the roads were.
>
  He hoped Hale hadn't gotten the squad in any trouble. Hale was next in charge when Sam wasn't around because he couldn't count on Lewis to keep his temper in check with the platoon sergeant. Find out if he’d managed to fuck the girl working the call center with the pink hair.

  A cold edge curled around his guts and squeezed tight. He tapped his thumb against his thigh as he waited in the line to get off the plane. Anticipation rolled through his fingertips. He fucking hated it here, hated the war, hated the goddamned people.

  But yeah, that was excitement running through his veins now. The pure fucking adrenaline of the fight. He was looking forward to seeing what kind of shit Hale had gotten into.

  The war was the one thing he was good at, and no matter what he told Faith or his parents or anyone else, the futility of it didn't matter when you were shoulder to shoulder clearing a building. The only thing that mattered was the man next to you.

  And there was no higher calling than that.

  7

  The familiar sign of the Green Bean Coffee shop was the first thing he saw when he landed at Taji, and it was a welcome sight indeed. Sam briefly considered genuflecting in front of the green and white lettered sign, but figured the skinny kid with the Bible might take offense. Wherever he was. And why the fuck was he still thinking about that little shit stain?

  He still had a good fifty minutes before he could expect to get his duffle bag from the mountain of duffle bags at the back of the plane, and then who knew how long before someone from his unit would show to pick him up.

  If he was lucky, it would be someone in a base runner instead of a shitty three-mile ride in a gator, where you felt every fucking pothole and speed bump. Yes, Iraq had speed bumps — big ones meant to slow down Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles so they wouldn't run over their own soldiers. The potholes didn't really do much other than tear up the suspensions of the non-tactical vehicles used by anyone who could get their hands on one. Anything was better than walking in the ungodly heat.