BOOM!
The sound rumbled through the city. Sounded to the south where the rest of the platoon was patrolling.
Time to go to work. “Chavez, Mossberg, nail those annoying fucks outta that goddamn window. Flick, Torres, grab some high ground!”
“What about the FNG?” Craig yelled around the rat-a-tat-tat of AK-47s.
Rifle snouts poking out of the windows on the second floor of a building started to retract. He spotted a gray tube being manhandled back in the shadows. They had an RPG. Well who didn’t?
He heard a dull da-tunk followed by another da-tunk from Chavez’s team to his right and the second story disappeared in a cloud of particles, showering debris on the Hajis below.
Young and Cujo reloaded grenades into their underslung M203s.
“Das’ Brooklyn baby!” Young trumpeted.
Young was from St. Louis. Whatever.
Screams of agonized Arabic hung in the air but no one paid much mind. That would come later.
“What about the FNG!” Craig screamed over the Fifty as he popped a couple shots.
“Keep your fuckin’ head!” McConnell snapped. “Reyes! Pass your traffic!”
“Blue-Two was blowed up at the Lollipop!” he called out from behind their lead vehicle. “Zero casualties!” he yelled anticipating his NCO’s next question.
“Still mobile?”
“That’s an affirm!” Reyes pressed the headset to his ear. “Oscar Mike to the CP …LT wants to know if you want him to call in a TIC?”
He slid back over to the Humvee, squinted at the Blue Force Tracker screen. The Lollipop was what they called the traffic circle near the market about a klick south. LT was on the far side, closer to the IP Station.
“I’d fuck a dead goat for a cold beer right about now,” Reyes added.
McConnell snorted. “Negative on the TIC. We’ll rendezvous at the IP Station.”
“Roger that.”
He let out a deep breath as the thinning stream of bullets whizzed and tinged.
Da-tunk, da-tunk. More explosions hit the building. Two walls collapsed. Screams died. What was left of the Haji began to retreat.
“Marsalama, bitches!” Natterly jeered.
Squirters today. Johnny Jihad tomorrow.
“Chavez, those are yours!”
To his right Chavez’s fire team pivoted and let loose targeted bursts. To his left Craig was still screaming himself hoarse for the MP. Hobbs had taken position behind the steps. He gritted down on a smile and gave a thumbs up on the hand that still had a thumb and McConnell gave him a nod.
Time to un-fuck the stupid goddamn cherry.
Lance Corporal Nielsen, Military Police, fresh meat out of Pendleton. His mission? To instruct on the new and improved policing procedures for Iraqi civilians that Rummy’s Dummies had conjured up during one of their morning circle-jerks. Went over as well as a shit sandwich considering they had been policing the sandbox for over a year, most of them on their third and fourth tours. And Nielsen was skittish which never went down well with a veteran squad. He had assigned Craig as babysitter. He had also given the FNG one standing order: “Shit hits the fan, stay close and do as I fucking say.”
First Haji fire Nielsen had panicked, abandoned his weapon and helmet in the Humvee and ran straight in the direction of the enemy. If McConnell had not seen it with his own eyes he would have called bullshit. Miraculously the MP avoided fire then slipped between buildings never to be seen again.
He bit down on his reservoir-valve and managed to suck up half a mouthful of tepid water. It tasted like camel shit and he spat it back out.
In his second Afghan tour they’d had the privilege of humping the Korengal. They had lost four, including Ron Raney whom he had known since boot. That had been hard. His third tour in Iraq the platoon had lost three and that had been hard, too. This go-round they had not lost a man. Gerardino had taken hot shrap in the face but they had saved his eye, and now Dino was home screwing his wife and, according to Nads, Hobbs’s girlfriend as well, the bastard.
A part of him felt he should play the odds. The goddamn kid had made his own bed.
Shit.
But that part tended to forget his other part had brought along his moral compass.
Fuck.
The squad had the zone well in hand. All three fire teams were in good position.
He rolled his stiff shoulders under his battle rattle and was rewarded with a sharp crack. “I’m goin’ for ’im!”
Craig finally shut up. “You goin’ Gunny?”
“You heard me, goddamnit!”
“Want me on your six?”
“Negative. Hold position. And clear this damn street.”
Someone threw a smoker and then another followed right behind it, clouding up the ten meters he would have to cross without cover. He gave the smoke a few seconds to stir and then sprinted into it.
He followed the MP into the narrow alley, rifle high-ready. It ran between buildings then widened and continued, dividing tall stone walls inset with metal gates and heavy doors, some opened, some locked. There were boot prints in the fresh Moon Dust and he followed them until they trailed into a tiled backyard then in an open door of a two-story house.
The gunfire behind almost all M4 now, the rare Fifty for punctuation. Good.
He sprinted over, took position next to the doorway.
“Nielsen!” he whispered.
Nothing. He cautiously slipped inside.
The occupants had left in a hurry. Half the furniture was draped in cloth and there were gaps in the picture frames on the walls. Cupboards were thrown open, their contents spilled out upon the floor. Knick-knacks, linens, dishware. The sound of flies buzzed in his ears. He found the source: A bowl of rotten fruit on the counter in the kitchen.
Other than that it, it was still as death.
He cleared the downstairs, then the up, whispering the MP’s name.
Nothing.
Fuck.
He paused at the foot of the short, dark stairway that led steeply up to the roof, its door slightly ajar. He would be a sitting duck for snipers out there.
Double-fuck.
He went up, pushed the door open with the snout of his carbine.
The roof was enclosed by a low wall beneath the wide-open miasma above. Plastic chairs and a table were stacked to one side beneath empty clotheslines. Just past them was a large water tank and huddled against its base was Nielsen, silently rocking back and forth, his dome-less red hair visible but his face buried in his arms. From the looks of it he had pissed himself.
He stepped out into the light, dropped to a knee, peered through his scope, pivoting in a steady circle. The only visible activity were Flick and Torres on a roof about two hundred meters back to the north. Torres was looking the other way but Flick was scoping back at him. They exchanged thumbs up.
He darted over to the distraught MP. “Nielsen!” he hissed. He reached for him just as he heard laughter from just beyond the far side of the roof that stopped him cold.
His first instinct was to haul Nielsen up and yalla the hell out of there. But if the MP fought or screamed…He pulled his hand back. “Hold tight.” He wasn’t sure if Nielsen even heard him.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, crouched low and scurried quietly over to the meter-high wall and peeked over the edge.
He exhaled in puzzled relief.
In the dirt street below were three white up-armored SUVs and a supply truck with “UN” in big black letters on its doors. A dozen non-mil in non-descript body armor were spread out, two standing at the back of the truck, one small and reedy, the other muscular and Latino with his foot on the bumper. Talking casually. The erratic fire caused a few to glance north but none of them looked like they were expecting trouble.
McConnell called down, “Hey! Incoming friendly! American!” He gave that a moment to register, then slowly revealed himself.
They were all looking at his position, their we
apons in various states of ready.
“What the fuck are you guys doing out here?”
The closest, beefy and bearded with his eyes hidden behind mirrored Wiley’s glanced over at foot-on-the-bumper who gave a curt nod. Beefy closed the few meters towards McConnell, his rifle Euro-ready. He gestured conspiratorially for McConnell to lean closer.
McConnell did and the man smiled, brought his rifle up and opened fire.
There was a burning in McConnell’s thigh, then his abdomen, then the crack-crack-crack of SAPI plates sprinted painfully up his chest.
If not for the wall he would’ve dropped to the ground. Not that it mattered.
“What the fuck happened?”
Someone was cradling his head. Smelled like Dentyne and Old Spice. Must be Mossberg. Mossy. Fungu! they called him.
“Shit! There’s too much blood!”
“What happened, Nielsen?”
Z-Pac hovering now, removing his IBA. He knew without the corpsman’s grave look it wasn’t good. He wanted to tell them who shot him. They needed to watch their six. Instead he choked and coughed up thick dark red strands that said something else entirely.
“Turn him over!” screamed Z-Pac.
Easy, Z-Pac.
They turned him over and something was pressed against the darkening, sticky wetness he knew was staining the MARPAT.
“Nielsen! Say something you fuck!”
“We need that MEDEVAC now, Reyes!” Z-Pac yelled.
“Bird’s eight minutes out!”
Eight minutes was forever in the sandbox.
He couldn’t feel his legs. What was it he wanted to tell them?
His head lolled in Mossy’s lap and he saw the FNG hunched discernibly apart from the warriors around him. Tear-streaks had wiped two tracks clean of the grit on his face.
His squad looked fatigued and pale. Even Mossy looked a little pasty in his upside-down, charcoal face.
Z-Pac was screaming directions, administering what little aid he could.
It’s alright.
The feculent cantaloupe glow of Iraq began to fade as darkness crept in at the edges. He should have called his mother more. And his brother—no fishing trip now. He had really been looking forward to it. Just fish away a couple weeks with his big bro like the old days with their dad. Catch up, bullshit. Tell him…Johnny would shit himself! He should’ve invited Grandpa, although he doubted the old man would leave the ranch. Moot point now. He would miss him too. And the ranch. And Katie. Geronimo…
But mostly I’ll miss those big blue eyes in Myrtle Beach.
He had never written a Death Letter. He was regretting that now. He’d thought he was ready for this day but now that it was here there was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to hear those eyes say.
He would’ve liked to have said goodbye to those eyes.
His mouth worked but if there were words in that saltiness they were lost.
“What the hell happened, Nielsen?”
It wouldn’t go well for him. But there was nothing he could do about that now.
On to the next battle. Oorah.
CHAPTER 8
MAY
Spokane, Washington
Hobbling to the bathroom in his underwear, leaning his hand against the wall, he urinated in a glorious, seemingly never-ending stream.
“Ahhh…”
When it did finally stop he hobbled some more into the kitchen.
Stiff ankles popped below wobbly knees and the length of his vertebrae cracked as he lapped up water straight from the tap, staring first at the accusatory empty bottles of Jameson on the counter then past them at the pictures on the fridge that Katie had made so long ago. His favorite the big yellow sun smiling down on blue-leaved trees with orange trunks and a grinning, purple dog next to a happy little girl holding hands with her equally happy dad. She wasn’t so happy now, neither was he, but they once were, apparently. He recalled that time. Vaguely. It was an age ago.
Out of the corner of his eye he spied that convenient innovation known as a glass, filled it and staggered into the living room, catching the two bastard cats staked out on the arms of his La-Z-Boy in triumphant repose.
“Move, you feline bastards,” he rasped, falling into the chair, sending them to take up roost on the sofa.
He hadn’t heard his cellphone ring in a while. Could be because he didn’t know where it was. Or the batteries were dead. Dead like his brother.
It had been Phil who had called. It had been a Thursday.
“John? Did I wake you? I’m sorry. It’s Phil. Phil Leland.”
He had been grabbing up his keys, wallet, slipping his laptop over a shoulder. “Phil, what’s up?” Phil never called. “Everything okay with my mom?”
“Yes, she’s…fine. Doctor Rosenthal stopped by and gave her something, she’s resting now, but she—she wanted you to know right away.” He cleared his throat.
“What’s she upset about now, Phil? Let’s talk later, I gotta—”
“They came by this morning, John. Your brother was killed in combat yesterday.”
He had been reaching for the door but now his hand couldn’t turn the knob. A ringing filled his ears.
“John? Are you there? Do you understand what I just said?”
The ringing intensified. Then abruptly ceased.
“John?”
“What time?”
“What…time?”
“What time did he die?”
“I don’t—I don’t think they said. Is—is that important?”
When he pulled out of the garage and into the bright sunlight he noted the lawn needed mowing.
He took Aubrey L White Parkway, which wound along the spring-swollen river towards downtown. Grass widows, larkspur and skullcap were budding among the rabbitbrush and dogwood that canvassed the slope all the way down to the riverbank. He rolled down the window. There was a nip in the air. He couldn’t breathe.
He walked into the building IPFusion shared with the accounting firm upstairs, sat at the table in the conference room. The others were laughing and bandying about the workday ahead. The smell of cheap coffee wafted like a defunct morgue. Sam offered him a Krispy Kreme. Rich priggishly prattled on about inconsequential things.
Why? Why was he here?
He stood up. “I gotta go,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Rich, a slim man with a slim moustache, frowned his thin lips. “Go? Go where?”
The joking, gulping, chewing and keyboard tapping stopped.
“Dude, what’s with you today?” Sam asked. Twenty-four and making sixty-thou a year in an economy that had a median income of eighteen. Probably made more money than his brother Sean did.
Had.
He became aware that he was falling. And this was no place to land. He wanted to throw up.
“I think you’ve had more than enough time off of late,” Rich said.
You were supposed to share about death. It’s what people did. He didn’t want to share, not with anyone and certainly not with these people. They weren’t his friends. Maybe Steve, he was John’s age, family man, balding, glasses, pudgy. All of them were rather round, even Sam. Save that peckerwood Rich.
“You don’t look good, man,” Steve said. “Maybe you should go home.”
Home.
“That’s not your call, Steve. John’s needed out at Rycoh to clean up Sam’s mess.”
“My mess?”
“He needs to go home,” insisted Steve.
Home. I don’t really have a home. Just a big, empty house.
He headed for the door.
Well. I’ve got cats.
“John, you leave today, you can consider it your last,” Rich assured.
He locked eyes with his boss until his boss swallowed and looked away.
“Go fuck yourself,” he reassured. And left.
Nope. Probably didn’t have a job anymore. Maybe that’s why his cell wasn’t ringing.
He asked Katie if she wa
nted to go to the funeral and she had balked, her voice wavering, finally handing the phone to her mom, shouting in the background how much she hated him through her tears.
Carrie said to just give their only daughter some time.
“You need to learn how to talk to people, John,” she sighed. “Sean doted on her. You know that.” It was true. He did.
Sean had spoiled his only niece with gifts and tales from faraway lands in his early military years. Katie had gravitated towards him, naturally. He was a lot more fun and cool than her old man, that was for sure. But as his time in war zones increased, the funny stories and ready smile weren’t as plentiful and Sean had pulled away, not unlike her father. To Sean’s credit, he at least had some justification.
His brother was dead. He was still a lousy dad.
He willed tears to flow but there were none. It had been the same with Anj. He had no tears. Not for them. Not for himself. Not for anyone. Maybe he was just broken.
He found his cell and recharged it. Took a shower, packed, wolfed down one peanut butter and honey sandwich and made another for the road and was out the door heading to his mother’s. To bury his brother.
He popped back into the kitchen.
“Almost forgot about you two bastards,” he said to the felines who had defiantly reclaimed their non-rightful thrones on the arms of the La-Z-Boy.
He ticked through his cell. Clients mostly. Hanging out with friends had become an elapsed pastime. Katie and her mother were out; he wasn’t up to dealing with that again. Desmond? Contemplating that dreadlocked lunatic loose in his house did not induce confidence; he wanted the cats fed not grilled on the barbeque, and a house to come back to, preferably with the copper still in the walls.
There was no one else. Except…
He thumbed through his messages, took a deep breath and dialed.
“It’s John. John McConnell.”
Her voice was soft but surprised. “I’ve been calling and texting you.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Marissa took her own deep breath. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. I have your sister’s cats.”
“My mom told me. Sorry I couldn’t take them, with school—”
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