Just blood and sand.
In front of me, I have eyes on seven guys, but I’m sure there’s more. I take a deep, painful breath, and frown as a strange sensation washes over me. All around me, time feels like its slowing down. But not like before, when I was assessing things. This is different. It’s as if I’m moving faster.
The sound of every bullet leaving my gun echoes slowly in the surrounding silence. As I circle back round for a better view, I take out three more men.
Shit… what’s that?
I snap my head to the side. I’m sure I saw something… The slightest movement in the corner of my eye. I quickly look around, but see nothing.
Hang on… yes, I do!
Fuck me—it’s Bloom! Where the hell did he come from?
He’s kneeling with his M72 raised on his shoulder, aiming toward the two trucks.
Oh, please God, Bloom, don’t you miss this!
He fires. His body lurches back from the recoil, and the whooshing noise of the rocket fills the air. Less than a second later, the vehicle farthest from me vanishes in another explosion.
I feel the blast hit me with a wave of heat, but I stay standing. I punch the air and point over at him. “Yes! Bloom, you fucking legend!”
Time erupts back to normal speed and I drop quickly into a crouch, firing again and hitting another man just ahead of me. I glance over to Bloom, who’s trying to reload his weapon. There’s a guy walking toward him, his gun leveled and ready to fire.
Shit… he’s not spotted him!
I turn and set off running to intercept. “Bloom!”
I drop my gun and pick up the pace, sprinting across the road to the far side. I don’t know how many guys are left, but there can’t be many. I don’t care how many, to be honest. I’ve just watched four of my friends die, in the most tragic and horrific ways imaginable. I’ll be damned if I’m losing a fifth.
I dive through the air as the attacker stops to line up his shot. I collide with Bloom as the gunshot rings out, dragging him away with me. We roll away and stop next to each other.
I don’t pause to check if we’re okay. I scramble to my feet and charge at the guy who fired, knowing I have to reach him before he gets another shot off. I do, and grab his wrist as he raises his gun. I push it high in the air and jab him hard in his throat. He drops his weapon and staggers backward. I quickly scoop up the gun—a pistol of some kind, I’m not sure what model—take my aim, and fire. I hit him squarely in the chest. Once… twice… I keep firing until the hammer slams down on an empty chamber. The man’s body falls backward, hitting the ground lifeless and hard.
I cast the empty gun aside and drop to my knees, looking back at Bloom, who’s on the ground, but alive.
I hear a noise and look around, back at the remaining vehicle. I can’t see anyone, except the small child I spotted earlier. He’s maybe eight years old. The boy’s skin is as black as coal. In his tiny hands, he’s holding a gun. The kid can barely lift it—I can see his under-developed muscles straining all the way along his skinny arms.
I look him in the eye, but see nothing staring back. No emotion, no… idea what he’s doing. I glance over at the empty gun, resting in the sand next to me.
If it was still loaded, would I use it?
The boy takes a step toward me. I see his finger tense on the trigger.
Oh, no…
I hold a hand up. “Kid, please, just put the gun—”
BANG!
6
January 8, 1991
11:16 CDT
I slowly open my eyes. The light hurts, and I squint while I adjust to it. I can make out blurry shapes moving around me, and as the world slowly falls into focus, I realize those shapes around me are people—doctors, more specifically.
I try to sit up, which sends pain shooting all around my body. I grimace and lie still, waiting for it to subside. A doctor rushes to my side. “You need to rest, soldier.”
I frown. “Where… am I? What… happened?”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Just rest. There’ll be plenty of time for questions later.”
He busies himself with my charts, and then leaves me alone. I relax, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how I got here. I glance over at the clock on the wall opposite, which displays the date in the center of the face.
It’s the eighth? I’ve been out five days… what the hell?
I look around and gradually begin to recognize my surroundings as the field hospital ward at Fort McCoy. There’s only one other bed occupied, in the opposite corner of the room to me, and the guy in it is asleep.
The smell of disinfectant stings my nostrils as more of my senses gather themselves. The fluorescent lights buzz harmlessly overhead, and from outside the ward entrance, I can hear the clacking of heels on tiled flooring.
I let out a heavy sigh and close my eyes.
13:33 CDT
The dust and sand is hurting my eyes. I can’t hear anything over the noise of bullets. The M16A2 assault rifle in my hands is heavy, and I can’t lift it to aim. All around me, men form a circle, their guns pointing menacingly at me. I look down and see myself sinking slowly into sand the color of blood. I look up again and see my unit gazing back at me. Imes, Newman, Travis, Temple… they’re all staring at me with dead eyes, devoid of emotion, watching as I sink deeper and deeper into the desert.
I reach out to them, but they’re too far away. “Help me…”
They ignore me.
“Help me!” I say again, screaming this time.
Still nothing.
I look down once more and see I’m waist-deep now. I struggle, twisting and turning, but it’s futile—the more I move, the faster I sink…
At the top of my voice, I shout, but no sounds come out. The words catch in my throat. I start to breathe faster, feeling the onset of a panic attack, knowing I’m about to die.
“Please… Please… I don’t wanna die! Please! I—”
I gasp, taking in a short breath, as my eyes snap open and my body jolts in bed. I quickly look around me, breathing fast.
I’m still in the hospital. I was dreaming.
Holy shit.
“How are you feeling, Private Hughes?”
Startled, I turn and see Lieutenant Colonel Hock standing at my bedside. Next to him is Brigadier General Lewis Ford. I focus my mind quickly, and try to sit up and salute, but Hock places his hand gently on my chest, forcing me to lie still.
“At ease, soldier.”
I take a deep breath. “Sir… what happened, sir?”
Ford steps forward, looking down at me, smiling professionally but with no emotion behind it. “Son, five days ago, you came under fire from Iraqi forces crossing the border into Saudi Arabia. Four members of your unit were killed during the attack. Private Bloom survived because you saved his life. By all accounts, you took out close to thirty soldiers single-handedly, while trying to protect the rest of your unit. It was an impossible task, Private, and what you achieved is more than anyone could’ve expected under the circumstances. By the time air support reached you, everyone was dead, except for a little boy holding a gun he had no business knowing how to use. Our guess is he was the one who shot you.”
I nod weakly. “I remember talking to the kid, asking him not to shoot me… I’m guessing the little bastard didn’t listen… sir.”
He smiles again, friendlier this time. “No, I guess not…”
“So, sir, why am I back home?”
He nods. “Everybody from the 2nd Battalion is back at Fort McCoy, Private. You were taken to a field hospital near your base, and then flown stateside after surgery, along with the rest of your unit.”
“What happened, sir?”
“It appears the attack on your unit acted as somewhat of a tipping point… a catalyst, if you would. President Bush is looking at more direct methods of intervention on behalf of Kuwait, so we’re all waiting for the next orders to come through. Some U.S. forces have been pulled back until fur
ther notice, including what’s left of the 27th Infantry.”
I let out a heavy sigh, remembering the friends I’ve lost, and the horrible nightmare. I look first at Hock, then at Ford. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them, sir. I did the best I could.”
Ford nods. “Private, that’s why we’re here… Can you stand?”
Good question!
“I’ll… I’ll do my best, sir.”
I swing my legs tentatively over the side of the bed. I’m really not sure I can stand, but I can’t exactly say no to him…
I put my feet on the cold floor, slowly putting my weight on them. I place my hands behind me and push myself up, managing to make it upright before any of the pain in my body registers. I grimace as I stand to the fullest attention I can manage under the circumstances.
“I’m sorry this isn’t more formal, Private, but in the current climate, it might be a while before any celebrations take place. Along with Lieutenant Colonel Hock, it is my honor to award you these…” Hock hands him two small, black cases, which he takes, “…for outstanding service, above and beyond the call of duty, to our country, her allies, and your fellow man.”
He opens the first one and takes out a medal attached to a purple and white-striped ribbon. The medal itself is heart-shaped, with a gold trim, and a profile of George Washington in the center.
Holy crap! That’s… that’s the Purple Heart!
“Private Adrian Hughes, of the 27th Infantry regiment of the 2nd Battalion, it is my honor to award you the Purple Heart, in recognition of the injuries you sustained while fighting against an enemy of the United States.”
I’m speechless. I’ve never bought into the whole army thing—I never wanted to be here, and I’ve not particularly enjoyed it while I have been here… And now I’m being awarded one of the most prestigious medals a soldier could get! I don’t even think I deserve it. I mean, I’m basically receiving recognition for someone shooting me… What the hell? It’s nothing to be proud of—it hurts like hell, and it’s pretty embarrassing, given it was an eight-year-old kid who pulled the trigger.
He places it over my head.
I’m not sure what to do…
I salute. “Thank you, sir. I’m… I’m honored.”
“You earned it, soldier.” He places the empty case next to my bed and opens the second. “And… Private Adrian Hughes, of the 27th Infantry regiment of the 2nd Battalion, it is my honor to award you the Silver Star, in recognition of the outstanding gallantry shown in battle, fighting to save your fellow soldiers in the face of extreme adversity.”
He places it over my head, just as before. I take it in my hands and admire it. The medal is a large gold star, with a smaller silver star in the center of it.
I salute again. “Thank you, sir,”
Brigadier General Ford puts the empty case next to the first, salutes me, throws a quick glance at Hock, and then turns and walks out of the room.
Hock steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. He smiles. “At ease, Private.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”
I gratefully sit back down on my bed and swing my legs back up, shifting them under the covers. I look up at him. He seems proud, which would make sense. It’s going to look good for him if someone in his Battalion is awarded two medals as I have. But that’s not why he’s still here. No… it’s something else. His eyes soften.
It’s sympathy.
Which, again, would make sense, I guess. I’m a soldier, wounded in battle. But no, that’s not it either. He would want the best for his men, but he wouldn’t care this much, I don’t think.
I frown. “Sir, what’s wrong?”
“Son, I… I have some bad news.” He takes a deep breath. “Three days before you came under attack in Saudi Arabia, we received a communication at the base from your hometown of Omaha… from a George Barnes.”
I nod. “He’s a friend of my dad’s.”
“Adrian, I’m afraid your father passed away on New Year’s Eve.”
I feel a physical pain in my gut, like someone just swung a sledgehammer into me.
What…?
I frown to hold back the flood of tears and emotion that’s desperately trying to escape and run down my face.
“I… I don’t understand, sir. My pops is… is dead?”
Hock nods. “I’m afraid so, Private. He had a heart attack and passed away in the hospital not long afterward.”
I nod, to show I understand what he’s saying, although I don’t understand how it could possibly be true. My dad couldn’t have had a heart attack… I mean, it’s my dad! He was fine. I’m only here because of him. I was doing this for him… how could he have a heart attack?
I blink, causing one of the many tears welling in my eyes to roll down my cheek.
“I’m sorry to be the one to have to break the news to you, Private. Especially after everything you’ve been through. But I thought you should know as soon as possible.”
I sniff and wipe away the tear.
No. I’m a soldier. I won’t show my weakness. Not here. Not now.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” I couldn’t stop my voice cracking slightly with the sadness I’m trying so hard to hide.
“I’ll leave you to it. Rest up, Private.”
Hock salutes me, as Ford had, and walks away.
I look down at the medals hanging around my neck. Right now, they feel worthless…
Right now, so do I.
19:43 CDT
I open my eyes and look around. I’m still in the same hospital, in same room, in the same bed. But standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me with a bemused look on his face, is a man I don’t recognize. He’s wearing a fitted black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. His short, dark hair is a mess of tight curls, and his dark, mottled skin looks tough, like leather. He’s definitely not military. I frown, trying to remember if I’ve ever seen him before.
He smiles. “Hi there. Sleep well?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
The man moves to the side of my bed and takes a seat in one of the visitor chairs. “Not surprising. You’ve had rough couple of days—getting shot, losing your friends, finding out about your father… All that would take its toll on anyone.”
I look at him and narrow my eyes. “Who are you?”
He smiles. “I’m a big fan.”
“A fan? Of what?”
“Of you.”
“Huh?”
“Adrian Hughes—born February fourteenth, nineteen seventy-two. Joined the army in March last year, at the request of his recently-deceased father, in an effort to avoid going to jail for a list of petty crimes as long as my arm. Earlier today, you were awarded the Purple Heart and the Silver Star, in recognition of you kicking some serious Iraqi ass in the middle of the Saudi desert.”
I push myself slowly up, so I’m sitting in an upright position. My left arm hurts like hell—that kid’s bullet went straight through my shoulder, low down, but above my pectoral. It’s going to hurt for a good while, I imagine.
“Seriously, who the hell are you?”
He smiles again, politely. “Forgive me. My name is Julius Jones. I work, in some capacity, for the Central Intelligence Agency, and have done for a little over three years.”
“The CIA? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I think we can help each other out.”
“How?”
“In a few days, President Bush is going to launch a strategic attack on Iraq, under the codename Desert Storm, as a response, in part, to the attack on your unit—as well as the ongoing conflict in the region, obviously.”
I shake my head. “How can you possibly know that before anyone in the army does?”
“Because I was sat in the room when it was suggested to the president.”
“Oh… really? Jesus! But what’s that got to do with me?”
&
nbsp; “I’m looking for a particular type of soldier to come and work with me on a project. I’m putting together a taskforce.”
“For the CIA?”
“Ah… not quite. They’re paying for it, but it would very much be an independent operation. I think you’d fit right in.”
“Why me?”
“Because, as of New Year’s Eve, you have no family and no ties to the world beyond the doors of the U.S. Army. You’re clearly a brave and talented soldier, despite your reluctance to actually be here. I suspect after everything you’ve been through, heading back over to bomb the crap out of Iraq isn’t high on your list of priorities.”
“I’ll go because stopping them is the right thing to do.”
“Exactly. You think it’s the right thing to do. But what if you could do the right thing in a different way? You’re good, Adrian, but you’re young and very rough around the edges. I can help with that. I can train you, and when you’re ready, you won’t just be a part of my new taskforce—you’ll be leading it.”
I can’t hide my surprise at that last part. He’s clearly done his homework on me, so he must be serious about wanting me to work for him. I guess I feel flattered that someone would take so much time scouting me like this. But working for the CIA? Really? Why would they want a dumb kid who was shot by a younger kid while watching his friends die all around him?
I laugh. “Jones, right? C’mon, man… is this for real?”
He nods. “A hundred percent on the level. As real as it gets.”
I take a deep breath and stare into space, thinking about everything he’s said. It’s been one helluva day, so my brain isn’t working as well as it normally would.
Julius Jones stands, pushing the chair back with his legs, and puts his hands in his pockets. “I’ll give you some time to mull it over. Just… think about it.”
“I will, thanks. Do you have, like, a card or something?”
He smiles. “I’ll be back in touch soon, don’t worry.”
He leaves the ward, and I hear his footfalls echoing outside, slowly fading to silence.
A Hero of War--An Adrian Hell Novella Page 6