One Year to Forever (Halos & Horns

by Lori Leger

  “I mean, hell, I loved being a U.S. Marine. I did most of the time, anyway. That is, when I wasn’t being shot at, or shriveling up from dehydration in the desert heat, or seeing shit that turned my stomach.” The Stallion’s huge brown eyes settled on him, seeming to wait for his closing statement. “I know, right? How pathetic is it that it was the best time of my life?” Captain shook his great head back and forth as though trying to communicate with him.

  “Are you trying to tell me I have better things to look forward to?”

  The horse froze; his huge eyes locked on his, then jerked his head up.

  Tex laughed and slapped Captain on the neck. “From your horse mouth to whatever God you believe in, Cap.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Fear the Reaper

  Ben sat cross-legged in one of two patches of vegetation on a hill, looking across at the all-too-familiar compound ahead of them. Pinned in by the same river and canal that would be impossible to cross with gear if they had to perform an E an E. The thought had him groaning in frustration, and then issuing a low curse. “Man, I hate this place.”

  Badge gave a snort. “Seems to be the consensus—Afghanistan sucks.”

  “I mean this position. There’s nowhere to run except straight into the worse fucking choke point in a fifty mile radius.”

  His buddy shrugged. “Life’s a bitch and then we die.”

  Ben jerked his head up to glare at the fellow sniper. “Not me, I got a girl waiting on me, and a shit load of ice cold beer to drink.” He shook his head and peered into the scope of his M110 SASS. “I refuse to die in this shit hole.”

  The patrol base located two miles north of Ben’s team had been getting brutal peppering of Taliban fire. Their mission to find the shooters and stop them had revealed nothing. For the past three weeks, the bastards had refused to show themselves again.

  The Aerostat blimp assigned to their area of operation had recorded frequent comings and goings from a small mud hut nearby, good indication of a weapons cache. Two snipers from the second team sat on a hill above the hut, with suppressed M4’s, ready to light up any Taliban members attempting to go for weaponry or ammo. Ben and Badge had surveillance on the village below. The remaining four members, situated in another abandoned compound at the bottom of the hill behind them, watched their backs and kept good communications with main.

  It had been another long-ass, three weeks since he’d spoken to Haley or any of his family. Always for the same reason—the SAT phone being at another PB by the time his team made it in from missions. They had to be worried sick. Especially since one of the guys in their battalion recently hit an IED and ended up as a double amputee. Due to Facebook, once the family got the news, word about the wounded traveled fast.

  Shots rang out to the north, a lot of them, grabbing everyone’s attention. Main came on the hook reporting shots fired at the base. Through the weeks, the teams had pushed the missions further south to find the Taliban. The current problem? They were possibly too far south to see the shooters.

  Badge whispered beside him. “You see anything, Bones?”

  Ben peered into the scope of his rifle set up on the tri-pod. “Nothing, yet.” He scanned the fields and nearby villages again. Detecting movement to the south, he checked his scope. “I got a guy in a brown man-dress, looks to be mid-twenties, standing in the middle of the field. He’s talking into a radio, looking towards the PB being fired upon. He’s bound to be either spotting for the shooters or giving the orders. Call it in.”

  As Badge made the call, the shooting escalated, and the man’s gestures grew more animated, one arm raised in the air victoriously at a particularly loud round of fire power. Ben pulled out his small radio and spoke to his Team Leader. “Hey Sarge, I’ve got sight of a son of a bitch who seems to be giving the orders. Request permission to engage.”

  The TL came back instantly. “Sending request.”

  Corporal Bonin waited, his senses increasing to heightened levels, his heart pounding in his chest as the rush of adrenaline kicked in. The thudding grew louder in his ears, too loud; so loud, that surely his target down there could hear it, too. But he didn’t. He was too busy shouting in the radio as he looked out toward the fired-upon patrol base.

  He waited for word from the TL, never taking his eyes from the asshole down below. Three years of training, more training, and repetition of training, of blood, sweat, and tears … it all came to a head as he waited for permission to engage.

  Ben looked down his scope, held his reticle steadily on the Taliban fuck. The suspect continued to point in the direction of the distant patrol base and spoke animatedly into the radio. The firing grew heavier in the distance, accompanied by an even louder blast. The man raised a fist in the air. Ben’s stomach turned, hoping none of his brothers had been hurt. Hopefully, no kid lost another parent today.

  Ben used his range finder to get an exact distance. Anticipating the okay, he turned to Badge. “405 meters.” They set their scopes to 400 meters. The guy was walking away from them now, his back perfectly exposed, and heading toward a water pump shack to the right of the village. “Badge, you hold at his lower chest. I’ll hold to his upper. That way if one of us is off, we’ll know whose shot is whose and we can make our own adjustment for reengagement.” The mirage in the field didn’t show much wind activity. We adjusted our scopes to accommodate a slight south to north windage.

  What the hell was taking Main so long to respond? Here we were, ready to drop this guy and they were taking their sweet time.

  The radio crackled with a sudden reply. “Main said you have permission to engage.”

  His body pumped adrenaline at a ridiculous rate, as his training kicked in. It was almost as though he’d transformed into the spectator, watching his subconscious-self take control of the situation.

  “Okay, Badge. You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Safety off, condition one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ok, we are going to do a frame shot, and I’ll count down to the T of two.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Five…four…three…two.”

  Two shots released. Ben quickly recovered from the recoil to catch the impact of the rounds. One round skimmed over the fuck’s left shoulder, another brushed his left hip. The guy looked like he’d shit himself, completely unaware of where the shots had come from. He jumped to the wall of the water pump shed, crouching down with his back against the wall. He was facing north now, and still completely exposed. He’d turned sideways though, cutting the target size by half. Ben aimed low and right off of his hip and sent another round that had the asshole dragging himself behind the building. He knew he’d hit him but would have to wait to see how serious the shot was.

  Another individual came from the village to carry him off as ten more men emerged from huts in the village. A field worker approached the abandoned compound at the base of the hill and looked over the wall. The worker stared at Ben and Matt’s location for a minute. He walked about 10 paces, pulled out a small mirror and began signaling the group of men gathering in the village.

  “Badge, we got a spotter.”

  “Where?”

  “Right behind the compound at the bottom of the hill.”

  “Okay, I see him.”

  “Zero out your scope.”

  “Got it.”

  “On the T of two…ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Five…four…three…two.”

  Ben would never forget the distinct sounds of impact. Two soft whispers from their suppressed rifles and an instant later, two loud thumps. They’d been taught that if two rounds impact at the same time, the body cannot handle the stress and shuts down immediately. No shit. The target fell face forward into the mud, completely limp.

  The gathering of men in the village hopped on their dirt bikes and started driving toward the suspected weapons cache. The second team, situated with the automatic M4’s, rained lead down upon them. They fel
l, tried to run, and screamed for their lives. The last one tore off across the field. A few shots from an M4 later, and he fell like his brothers. Deathly still and lifeless.

  “And that is why all Scout Sniper signs are Reaper,” Badge murmured beside him.

  “Roger that. Fear the Reaper, you sons of bitches.” Ben’s own words, scratched on a slip of paper in a moment of boredom, suddenly filled his mind as he gathered his gear and prepared to haul ass the two miles back to base.

  “… Death is our brother and he spares our souls for the exchange of another … We are the reaper.”

  Within a minute he had well over a hundred pounds of gear packed and strapped on. The two teams converged, and Ben led them out, running as fast as he could, considering the extra weight on his back. He approached the small dirt bridge, hated the thought of crossing that son of a bitch … that same fucking choke point situation again. As usual, no other option showed itself. The canal was too deep to cross with their gear and the eight of them had to RTB in a hurry, or else they’d all be at risk. The small abandoned compound to the left made him uncomfortable as all hell. It stared down at the bridge, its deep dark holes used as windows, glared out like soulless, black eyes. They approached this particular compound with caution knowing it was commonly used by the Taliban to fire upon Marines. He got to the bridge with his team close behind him, already winded from the sprint.

  Extremely wary of an ambush situation, he began making his way across the bridge. He ran as fast as he could while keeping his rifle pointed at the compound and continuously scanning the area. Despite the bridge being a mere twenty yards from end to end, it felt like an eternity crossing the damn thing. Ben made it to the opposite side, no big comfort when seven more team members still had to cross. The optimum time to spring an ambush would be when the middle man was crossing. He’d been told not to hold back to provide cover, but to move out, and fast.

  So Ben hoofed it north toward the safety of the patrol base. He chanced the first backward glance. Two guys had crossed and were hauling ass behind him. Ten seconds later he cast the second glance back. Another crossed and no shots fired, always a good thing. Ben faced the front and stepped up the speed. Five shots rang out in a quick release. He snapped around, his weapon up … fully prepared to see one of his men lying face fucking down in a bloody mess.

  Thorny, the second team’s radio operator, stood there with his rifle pointed at a dead dog at his feet.

  “What the fuck?” TL yells.

  “It wasn’t stopping!” Thorny yelled back at him. “He was coming at me fast.”

  “Keep moving,” Jeff shouted.

  Ben started trucking it again, thinking that dog looked like the same one that had threatened to attack them the previous night. Afghani dogs were mean, savage-looking creatures, and a large number carried the rabies virus. He didn’t blame Thorny for killing that son of a bitch.

  He picked up speed, knowing the Taliban would be extremely pissed and out for revenge. The PB was only 2 miles away by road—but roads littered with IED’s. He lead his team by way of muddy fields instead, an exhausting alternative which slows them down tremendously.

  Ben glanced back once more, verified that everyone had cleared the choke point. The other seven men were lined up ranger file behind him, and all hauling ass. He ran, scanned the horizon in a continuous back and forth motion, scrutinizing every shrub for a possible threat. Eight men running in an open field … nothing like being an easy target for American loathing members of the Taliban.

  “We got movement at our six.”

  Ben spun around to check it out. Dozens of people were starting to gather, all dressed in black, and carrying the dead bodies. Voices echo from the speakers of the mosques as a burst of shots rang out. The impact of rounds drew a parallel line in the dirt, to the right of their team’s formation. The eight member team whipped around, simultaneously taking a knee, their weapons raised and ready. The shots had come from two Taliban men with one automatic rifle. From the rear, Scotty returned fire at the two men until they hauled butt in the opposite direction. Ben and the rest of the team stood as one, and continued with the task at hand, to get their asses back to the PB.

  As soon as the team crossed into friendly lines, the tension between the eight members slid from their shoulders in discernible waves. Their return to base revealed a squad of Marines readying themselves to provide reinforcement, now unnecessary.

  After running off of pure adrenaline for two hours, Ben walked up to a hesco wall. He dropped his pack, propped his rifle, and sat his ass down.

  Now that his body was physically exhausted, maybe his mind would have a chance to process what had happened.

  He wouldn’t find out until later that the first man he’d shot that day was the son of a high-ranking member of the Taliban. One whose plans to follow in his father’s footsteps had fallen far short of the goal.

  “Bones, catch.”

  He reached up to catch one bottle of water, then a second thrown by his TL.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good work out there today.”

  Ben nodded. “Hey Sarge, you know if the SAT phone’s on our base?”

  The man shook his head. “Not at the moment. But I just sent for it. It’s been a month since I spoke to my wife.” He jutted his chin forward. “Get some rest, Corporal. That’s what I intend to do. By the time we wake up, it damned well better be back on our end.”

  “Roger that, sir.” By the time he made it back to his sleeping area, he’d drained both bottles of water and still hadn’t quenched his thirst. That didn’t stop him from stripping off his gear, and collapsing onto his cot, exhausted, and covered in more than the usual amount of grit.

  Ben wasn’t able to track down the SAT phone until nearly 23:00 hours, which would have made it around noon in Louisiana and East Texas. He called his mom first, knowing she’d be in the middle of a school day. She answered on the second ring.

  “Are you okay, Benjamin?”

  “Hey Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Thank you, God.”

  He smiled, knowing she’d accompany her standard reply by crossing herself. “We haven’t been able to get to the sat phones lately. Every time we hit the PB it was somewhere else.”

  “That’s okay, Ben. We all knew you’d call if you could. Haley and I have been keeping tabs with each other.”

  He heard the school bell ring on her end, accompanied by her low curse. “I know you’ve got to go, but I wanted to let you know I’m fine over here.”

  “Okay, Son. I love you. We’re all praying for you. Are you going to call your dad, or do you want me to let him know you called?”

  “Let him know, please. I’ll Skype him when I’m back at Delhi.”

  “And Haley?”

  “I’m about to call her.”

  “Good, she’s been sick with worry.”

  He heard her pause, waited for the follow-up.

  “She’s a wonderful girl, Benjamin. She cares about you a lot, and that’s good enough for us.”

  “Thanks Mom. That means a hell of a lot to me. I love you.”

  “I love you … We all do, sweetie. You take care of yourself.”

  “Always.”

  “See you soon, Son.”

  “See you soon, Mom,” he said, in keeping with the cardinal rule never to say “goodbye”.

  He pushed the end call button and dialed Haley’s cell phone number immediately. His stomach grew squeamish as it rang several times with no answer. Ben ended the call, found a partial wall section to prop himself up on. Resting his head against the wall, he dialed again, taking a moment to pray she’d answer this time. A saying of his Pa Pa’s came back to him, something about there being no atheists in foxholes. Nor within the confines of Afghanistan patrol bases, apparently.

  One ring, two rings, three rings—

  “Ben! Don’t hang up!”

  His head popped up, her voice sounding like music to his ears. Maybe he’d caught her in the
shower again? No, he heard the sound of traffic in the background.

  “Oh my God, I was in the middle of a crosswalk, but I’m back at my car, now. Talk to me, baby.”

  “Damn, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  “I’ve been so worried, Ben. We all have. We’ve all been following the story of the Sergeant in your battalion …”

  “A different unit. I’m sorry, babe, I know. Every fu—flipping time we’d RTB the SAT was gone. I knew y’all had to be worried sick. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing for something out of your control. We all know. Sometimes no news is the best news, Ben. If Ms. Monica or Mr. Paul had received another kind of phone call …” Her voice cracked.

  “I’m fine, Haley.” She paused, obviously to pull herself together. When she spoke again, her resolve had returned.

  “I know you are, but I was going through withdrawals from not hearing that sexy voice of yours.”

  It made his day to hear her teasing. God knows it beat the hell out of tears. “I hear that. Did I catch you on your lunch break?”

  “Yep, I don’t have another class for an hour. Are you still in possession of all your body parts?”

  “Mm … the important ones.”

  “Benjamin—”

  “Yes, I have all my body parts.”

  “The originals, right?”

  He smiled, hearing the laughter in her voice. “Roger that. Listen, they’re saying we may have one more mission here before we head back to Delhi.”

  “One more mission? And then you’re done?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I can’t believe it. All this time, and you’re nearly finished. Have you really been gone for nearly seven months already?”

  “I wish I could say it flew by, but the closer I get to leaving, the slower time seems to pass.”

  “Please be careful, Ben. Don’t do anything stupid over there to get yourself hurt before coming home. Do you know where they’re sending you?”

  “Probably Dwyer in a week or so. I’ll be the first filthy son of a bitch to jump in a shower to wash off this grit.”