To Light us, To guard us
By:Sean O’Connell
For my family, everyone who has ever been part of it. I love you all.
Prologue
Baghdad, Iraq
The office, chosen for its separation from the relative surroundings, was dark and dirty.
“Corporal Emmanuel Tyson, reporting for duty.”
No Response.
He cleared his throat loudly, sure that the balding officer must have heard him.
Sweat trails crawled down his sides while he held a salute.
The older man staid him with an upraised finger, staring intently at the screen of a well-used olive drab laptop computer, its bluish glow contrasted with the Arabian Nights decor.
Tyson stood stiff, at attention- so as not to irritate his newest superior on the first day of assignment. His eyes traveled slowly across the walls of the room, one of hundreds in a palace captured and commandeered by the first wave of Marines three years ago. A single small window overlooked what had been a grand plaza, now littered with debris and charred at the points of entry where lunatic attacks had failed.
A faint click from the computer punctuated the drawn-out silence and drew Tyson’s attention back from the window.
“At ease, son” The Master Sergeant stood and smoothed the sweaty wrinkles from his khaki camo-pants, offering a loose salute in return.
“Thank you, Sir.” Tyson relaxed his shoulders, feeling his damp uniform cling to his back as he shook the cement hand in his own dusty fist.
“I just got through reading your OMPF and transfer paperwork. I don’t have any questions for you. Do you have any for me?”
Corporal Tyson hoped his relief wasn’t evident. The images played out on the back of his eyelids were unpleasant enough without having to recount them over and over.
“No sir. No questions.”
Introductions in the military went like that, devoid of small talk and niceties.
Better that way. Emmanuel had always detested the awkward silences and weighted pauses of everyday social interaction.
The sergeant dropped his hand and got straight to the point.
“Good. The bad guys keep us busy around here. You’ll sleep, when you can sleep, on the floor below us now, an old converted dining hall.”
The officer’s voice had a hollow quality- monotone, but not without force. It sounded to Tyson like the echo from a garbage can.
“You’ve been in this hellhole of a country long enough to know the routine, drink when you can, sleep when you can, eat when you can, and maintain a level of suspicious alertness at all times with these people. Everyone wants to kill you in this city, even the damned kids.”
“Yes, sir” Indeed, Emmanuel Tyson had been in Iraq long enough to know the drill, and his experiences so far had only reinforced the horror stories his drill instructors related back in North Carolina during the weeks-long ordeal of shit and hell civilians called Basic Training.
“Staff-Sergeant Egan is your new C.O. Report to him immediately, he’ll get you set up.” If he didn’t know better, Tyson would have guessed by his tone that the sergeant was bored. Near sleep.
“Yessir.”
“The other men haven’t been told the reason for your reassignment here. I wanted to leave that up to you.”
“Yes, sir”
“That will be all Corporal. Welcome to the Triple Deuce.”
“Thank you sir.”
Emmanuel Tyson, never fully at ease, reached down to heft his duffel easily onto his shoulder, spun on one heal and half-marched out of the makeshift office toward the stairs.
At the bottom of the staircase, from a massive doorway yawning in an even more massive hall; came the familiar din of soldiers. Beehive bass notes of male voices punctuated by a few shouts.
Tyson reached the open double doors of the massive room serving as home to his new company. The expansive space stood half-filled with a mix of olive and khaki gear. Cots, heavy footlockers, ammo cases, and the various sundries of military existence.
A light haze of dust, cigarette smoke, and musky body odor drifted to his nostrils, oddly comforting. High above, a magnificent chandelier of what could only be authentic crystal hung over the middle of the room, clashing with the rough possessions of the rough men strewn about the chamber.
He stared at the thousands of tiny prisms, waiting to be acknowledged.
This room was not yet his territory, so he wouldn’t just stroll in to claim a spot. No reason to start a new assignment with a pissing match with the obligatory loudmouth in the room...
As if on cue, a voice chirped from behind him
“Who the hell are you?”
The source was a tall, stringy soldier, still buckling his belt from a visit to the latrine.
Emmanuel’s gray eyes searched the other man’s uniform, scanning for stars, bars, chevrons or any other mark that might dictate the etiquette of his own response. Finding none, he opted out of pleasantries and got directly to the point.
“I’m looking for Staff Sergeant Egan.”
“In the corner.” String-bean grunted. Indicating with his prickly chin the corner in question.
“You the new guy?”
“I am.”
“Good to meet you then. I’m John Collins” Tyson took the proffered hand, realizing that the man wearing a Han Solo grin was not going to be any sort of problem.
“Emmanuel Tyson.”
“Alright Tyson, let me introduce you. You can drop your bag there at the end of the line.”
He sloughed the heavy duffel onto the floor near the end of an orderly row of standard- issue cots. The absence of his burden almost made the soldier in him feel uneasy. That wide strap had been digging its groove into his shoulder for weeks, transported along with him like a symbiotic lump, from hospital to hospital.
Checkpoint to Checkpoint.
Convoy to convoy.
Until today, when the tanker truck he’d hitched a ride on pulled up in front of the wide Persian gate of Sadaam’s former palace, in the heart of Baghdad. Ground zero of the mess that had embarrassed his beloved country and poisoned the political waters for who knew how long? Still, none of that mattered to Emmanuel Tyson.
Until a few weeks ago, he’d been happy to carry the heavy packs, endure the blistering days and freezing nights. Even the endless sand and dust and chafing hadn’t bothered him.
Emmanuel Tyson was a man.
Not just a man.
A Marine.
Until two weeks ago, that was all that mattered.
Until two weeks ago…
Suppressing the nightmarish images welling behind his eyes, Tyson decided to focus on the men in the room, sizing them up mentally.
They too were Marines to the hilt.
All undoubtedly capable in combat. But not even all Marines are created equal. He tried to find the best of them.
Two men smoked in the corner and stared at the ceiling, mumbling back and forth, tired.
Not them.
A thickly muscled red head, cleaning his AR-15 meticulously, nodded as Tyson and Collins passed.
Maybe him.
Another three played cards on top of a footlocker.
No. no. no.
Collins stopped in front of a young man seated in a massive plush chair, another throwback to room’s previous purpose. Planting his feet at a relaxed attention, Collins addressed the baby-faced officer.
“Sir.”
He gestured toward Emmanuel’s own dog tags. “Emmanuel Tyson. The new guy. Here to replace Conway.”
Tyson, followed suit, but with more formal posture, snapping a crisp
salute to his superior. Marines rarely found cause to salute indoors, but meeting a new C.O. was occasion enough.
The Staff Sergeant stood, his oversized chair squeaking slightly.
The man’s bulky frame seemed unfit for his childish face, but the voice giving orders was quiet and deep.
“Corporal Tyson, you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for another week.” It was a statement, but the question was implied in his tone.
“Yes sir. I hate hospitals sir.”
The Staff Sergeant’s eyes, patriotically blue and bloodshot, traveled up and down his new charge, sizing him mentally.
Emmanuel Tyson knew he measured up. Twenty-three years old. Solid. In his prime.
His chiseled frame and features provided him the advantage of passing an eyeball test at least.
“Fine with me, where are you from?” SSgt. Egan said
“Dubuque, Iowa sir.”
“Iowa?”
“Yes, Sir”
“Are you a Christian?”
Tyson was slightly taken aback by the politically incorrect question coming from an officer in their first conversation. He hoped his small hesitation was not perceived as a failure.
“I try to be sir”
The Sergeant snorted, out of derision or amusement, or a little bit of both.
“Good to have you then.”
Tyson decided not to respond.
Every officer he’d ever met, trained, or served under carried a quirk or nursed a pet peeve. Religion for this one.
“Collins, will show you where to bunk.” With that apparent dismissal, Egan seated himself and commenced his reading.
Fair enough.
Tangerine light filtered in through the palace windows, fragmenting on the huge chandelier and dancing over the walls like motes from a disco ball. Collins led Tyson back through the maze of equipment and soldiers toward the row of cots. Introductions were made along the way, brusque and brief, as they always were with men, and Marines.
“Red there is a little crazy, but he’s the best man in this bunch.” Collins explained as they moved through the room together.
“The chubby guy –Brewer, is our medic. City boy, rich parents, thinks he’s funny, but he’s not.”
“SSgt. Egan, is a great officer, but he won’t treat you like a friend. He’s lost too many in the last three years.”
Tyson nodded understandingly, noting the genuine sadness in Collins’ face as he spoke of the dead. Despite their mutual youth, both men had buried many they would never be able to forget. An unfortunate place to find common ground.
Together, the two set up Emmanuel’s bunk in silence as the orange light settled to deeper red. Around the cavernous room, other men bunked down as well, their sighs and snores blending to create a makeshift melody in the dry desert air.
Collins whispered huskily in the fading light to others as he moved, bidding them goodnight, almost fatherly despite his youth. Tyson decided he liked the man. That much was positive, at least.
“Glad to have you here E.T. (that’s your name now) we’ll be out of rack at oh-five-thirty. The Triple-Deuce is gonna help our Army boys escort General Bauer through some hot spots to Green Zone tomorrow.”
Emmanuel Tyson watched his new friend’s sweat-streaked back retreat toward his own bunk, slinking skillfully through the rucks and ammo boxes.
He took one more look around the large hall, at the men he would now have to live and die with. It took effort not to think about the path that had led him to here.
The recruiters back home hadn’t lied about one thing at least. Being a Marine was certainly an adventure.
Not a pleasant one. But an adventure nonetheless.
Tyson settled himself onto his bunk, mind racing.
Tomorrow would be his first day soldiering in some time. Too many days and nights in a hospital bed. He was eager to get back to it. He needed this. It would be an important and exciting duty, escorting one of the military’s most charismatic and competent leaders through dangerous territory.
He looked forward to sunrise, said a prayer, and closed his eyes…
…..
Corporal Tyson woke violently, his ears ringing, background noise muffled.
Impossibly, he was outdoors, but still in his bunk.
An inky black storm cloud, devoid of rain or lightning, roiled above. Hot, gritty wind forced the sulfurous smell of fireworks into his nostrils, reminding him of the fourth of July days he’d spent in his hometown of Dubuque. There, the fireflies and cool summer evenings offset the muggy uncomfortable days.
The dirty light filtering through the smoke above told him this place could not be Iowa.
An angry red sun labored its way off of the horizon and into the boiling sky, straining to push light through the chaotic gloom. Tyson cast about, trying to make sense of this nightmare. Everywhere he looked was fire, smoke, dust.
So much dust in this damn country.
The rubble around his bed made no sense, and his left side was hot and sticky. He was alone. That made even less sense.
He couldn’t be alone.
He was a Marine. As a rule he should be surrounded by other young men.
Emmanuel Tyson desperately fought to contain his fear and confusion as bile rose in his throat. Something in his peripheral vision drew attention.
The gleam of shattered glass. Not glass. Crystal. Fragments of a magnificent chandelier resting in the rubble. The ceiling it once hung from no longer there.
I’m in Hell, this is a nightmare.
No. The muffled chatter in the background could only be gunfire, approaching his position, fast. The flash and concussion on the wall, far to his right, was an RPG.
He was at war. He was a Marine.
Move.
Tyson forced himself to breath, to focus, hearing the anguished cries of men buried in the rubble, the furious shouting of masculine language, not in English, coming his way. He flipped aside the cot blanket.
I’m still in bed for God’s sake!
Scrabbling under the cot, his hands fell on his rifle, ammo belt, and sidearm. One boot.
Damn, where is the other?
The nonsense jabber of Arabic was just on the other side of a half-standing wall now.
He was alone, perched on the knife edge between panic and calm. He jammed a clip into the gun, comforted by its lethal and familiar weight.
He pressed his cheek to the stock and sighted down the barrel at the point where he expected his enemy to appear.
Emmanuel Tyson was prepared for this.
A Marine should be prepared for this.
He refused to die here, already in Hell.
Two-week-old memories rushed into his head. The survivor’s guilt, sadness, and hatred for these camel-riding bastards came back fresh.
What about General Bauer?
His country needed that General. Emmanuel thought he must be safe, secure somewhere with a special detail of the best protection in the Corps to go along with Army SF…
The first enemy appeared, scrabbling and shouting over the scree.
Exhale. Squeeze.
The man fell, shot through the hip.
His companions, six? Eight? scrambled for cover as Corporal Emmanuel Tyson steadily pumped rounds their way. Three more went down and did not get back up.
Then the return fire came.
Tyson rolled to his left, scrambling to get his feet underneath him, one booted, the other collecting bits of shattered stone in its bare sole.
He stood and ran.
Rounds whined off of the broken bricks, spitting fangs of grit to bite at his feet and legs.
Behind a large chair, vaguely familiar for some reason, Tyson knelt to empty his clip in the direction of the enemy.
He slammed another home as more hostiles approached from his right flank. He needed grenades, support, ammunition, something.
He was alone.
More rounds tore into and through the chair as his pursuers zeroed in on hi
s position, pinning him.
No! I’m a Marine!
Extending his arms around cover, Tyson blindly squeezed off suppressing rounds and prepared to run.
Too late.
More of the enemy rounded the corner and opened fire on his unprotected side. He turned to engage.
Damaged ears failed to hear his own defiant roar as he unloaded both rifle and side arm into the charging ranks of the enemy. His fingers still jerked the triggers on both weapons even after they stopped bucking. If only it were possible to will more ammunition into them, he could survive. Or even win.
Sudden, burning impacts into his chest and right leg pulled his body in conflicting directions.
Over-correcting, he toppled forward into powdered masonry and rebar.
Tyson rolled to his back, staring at the turbulent sky. More heat and sticky moisture spread from his left side. Blood, he realized.
Shaking hands probed all around for his knife, ready for hand to hand combat.
The knife was gone, lost in the rubble near his bunk some thirty yards away.
Only then did he resign himself to the fact that he would die here.
In this burning palace of the devil, in a burning country.
Forgive me Lord.
For what? No matter.
For everything.
The enemy was all around him, but they didn’t shoot, didn’t end it.
Distracted, his murderers looked elsewhere, pointing at something in the roiling cloud overhead. Shapes moved there.
Smoke twisted unnaturally, pushed and pulled by something within.
Emmanuel Tyson thought he saw something.
A bird? a man? a dream?
He heard frantic and furious words. Blinking sluggishly, Emmanuel Tyson strained to penetrate the gloom.
What is this?
Out of the smoke fell a bloody mass of limbs and dark organics. Impossibly large wings, stuck to something equally impossible crashed to earth, scattering more of the chandelier’s once-precious crystal.
Blood loss… hallucinations.
Several of the enemy soldiers dropped immediately on their faces. The fear and shock in their voices clear even through the language barrier. It was almost enough to make Tyson believe that he was not seeing things. Almost.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 1