Three Promises

by Bishop O'Connell

  Then everything goes black.

  “Kid, can you hear me?” someone asks.

  I can hear the voice, but it’s miles away. My brain is a jumble. I’m not sure where I am or what’s happening, but I know I shouldn’t be lying down, or sleeping, or whatever the hell I’m doing. Sarge will kick my ass if he catches me.

  Why the hell can’t I get up?

  “Nonresponsive,” someone else says.

  “Three, Six, provide cover. We’ll get the wounded inside,” the first voice says.

  His tone is one I know well, a commanding officer. Even in my brain-­scramble, I find myself trying to follow his orders.

  “Yes, sir,” two voices say in unison.

  “Four, soon as we’re in, I want wards up.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Move, now!”

  At first I think maybe this is an exercise. But only until someone grabs the drag handle on my vest and hauls me across the rough ground. Pain surges through my body, worse than anything I’ve ever felt, and I hear someone cry out. A moment later, I realize it’s me.

  I’m almost sure I learned in my training that that’s not good.

  It takes all my focus, but I manage to kick my brain into gear and open my eyes. The world is a stuttering blur of dust and dirt and blood and fire, like a movie with half of every second frame missing. There are two guys, I think they’re friendlies, but they’re not wearing standard Army Combat Uniforms. Their ACUs are all black. They’re taking cover behind a seriously mangled Humvee, but they’re not holding any weapons. I see the rest of my detail all around me. None of them are moving, some of them aren’t even whole. A few of those who are, are being dragged by more of the men in black.

  In an odd moment of clarity, my brain latches onto my training when I spot a rifle. I grab it, though the movement sends even more pain through me.

  I look back to the two taking cover behind the Humvee wreckage just as I’m being dragged into a building. I’m pretty sure no one uses flamethrowers anymore, and I don’t see a tank on either guy’s back, but one of them is spraying a jet of flame forty feet long out of his hand. They must be spec-­ops, right? Some kind of new weapon system the grunts haven’t seen yet? All things considered, it shouldn’t be surprising if they had three heads.

  As I’m dragged over a doorway, my body bounces. I wince and grit my teeth. For a moment, everything goes white and I have to fight to get my senses back. But I never let go of my rifle.

  Sarge would be proud of that much, at least.

  Where the hell is Sarge?

  I hear a voice through the pain.

  “Can you hear me, kid?”

  I nod, since I can’t seem to get anything out from my clenched jaw. It feels like a month before I get the upper hand on the agony running through me. Someone props me up against a wall. I take a slow breath, then open my eyes. I’m in one of the many buildings lining the street; old and gutted, typical for this area of Iraq.

  “I know that look,” a voice says, and I recognize it as the one giving orders outside. “That’s a good sign, son.”

  I look up and see one of the guys in black ACUs standing over me. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he has a hood as part of the uniform, so all I can see are some scars.

  “You’re hit, but it’s not bad. We’re gonna take care of you. Don’t worry,” he says.

  “My squad?” I ask.

  “Looks like three others are alive. They’re in rough shape, but I think they’re going to make it if we can get an evac.”

  He doesn’t mention the other six. I don’t have to ask what that means.

  “Who are you guys?” I ask through gritted teeth. Anger is making it easier to push back the pain and I’m noticing more details around me. I scan his uniform for patches. There’s no branch or rank detail. There’s just a unit patch, but it’s nothing I recognize. It looks like concentric circles with a star inside and a bold “1” in the center of it. The space between the circles is filled with odd script I don’t recognize. I think the star is a Star of David, but I didn’t think the Israelis had anyone here. But these guys sure sound like Americans. I look, but don’t see a flag patch anywhere.

  “We’re friendlies,” he says, noticing me checking his uniform.

  I haven’t been out of boot long, but I know “you don’t need to know” when I hear it. I’m also smart enough to know when to shut up and appreciate someone pulling your ass out of a fire, especially a literal one.

  I almost jump out of my skin when I hear what sounds like a freight train strapped to an A-­10 outside. It’s followed by an explosion that shakes the whole building. Dust falls around me, and I grip my rifle, waiting for the walls and roof to follow suit.

  The team leader moves away, speaking into a throat mike and listening to an earpiece, but I don’t see any cords or radios on him. I look around and see four others, all in the same black, hooded uniforms. One is, well, it looks like he’s drawing something on the walls with white chalk, more circles and strange letters. The other three move out of the room, back out the way we came in. I look away, and that’s when I see Johnson, Mitchell, and the Sarge lying nearby. They’re not moving, and they’re covered in blood. Johnson’s right arm looks mangled, and his face is burned. I can’t bear to look at him for long. I look at Sarge. He’s cut up and burned too. I just stare for a long while. He’s in his forties, late forties, with weathered brown skin that looks more like leather, and he’s the toughest man I’ve ever met. I sort of expected bullets and shrapnel to just bounce off him. Seeing him like this does more to rattle me than anything else so far.

  I check my rifle and my ammo supply. Weapon status red, ready to fire. Deep breath. I’ve got two magazines on me. Not much ammo, but I’ll make it count.

  “Get Three and Six in here,” the team leader says over the sound of gunfire outside. “Then I want full wards up around the room. All elements covered, just in case those bastards have a mystic with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” says the one drawing on the walls.

  There’s the sound of a huge electrical arc followed by a boom of thunder that shakes the building again. I move to cover Sarge from the falling dirt from the roof, but my body doesn’t respond.

  Moments later the team reassembles on the far side of the room. I count seven of them, and notice each has a different number on his unit patch.

  “Sitrep,” the team leader, who has a “1” on his patch, asks the one with a “4” on his.

  “The rest are angel, sir,” he says. “I count at least five IEDs used, all Monday, and at least a dozen RPGs. These guys didn’t have a chance. This was a damned meat grinder. Frankly, it’s a miracle any of them are still—­”

  I grit my teeth. “You don’t have to talk like I’m not—­”

  “Settle down, soldier!” One says. He looks at me, then at my name tape. “Collins. I’m sorry for your squad, but you’re in the middle of shit you can’t even begin to process, son.”

  His tone does more to shut me up than the words themselves.

  “We’re going to do everything we can to get you and your squad out of here, all of them. But you need to sit back and let us do our job.” His eyes go hard and bore into me. “Do you understand me, Private?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say more out of instinct. In a moment of panic, I’m back in basic training and calling the drill sergeant “sir.” One doesn’t glare or scream at me that he works for a living, so he’s probably an officer.

  He nods, then turns back to his team. I can hear them speaking, but it’s too quiet for me to make out now. And that’s when I notice something missing from their gear, and my stomach drops through the floor.

  “Christ, you don’t have any weapons!” I say without thinking. None of them has so much as a side arm.

  One glares at me, and I go silent again. I can’t tell you why, bu
t I now know this guy doesn’t need a rifle, or any kind of gun, to bring a world of hurt down on someone. I think he could call an airstrike from sheer force of will. He scares the shit out of me, and he said he was a friendly.

  “Are the wards up?” One asks without looking away from me.

  “We’re sealed tight,” Four, the one who’d been drawing on the walls, says from the doorway.

  I blink and stare, but nothing changes. The odd writing that covers the walls now also covers the doorway, but there’s no door, so the symbols just hang in the air.

  What the hell are you guys? I want to ask, but have enough sense not to. I’m dense, but I eventually learn.

  One nods, then walks over and crouches down to look me in the eye. “Listen up, Collins. I don’t know who the hell sent your convoy through here today, but rest assured I will make sure they receive an ass-­chewing about which epic poems will be written. But you’re here, we’re on the same side, and we’re gonna help.”

  “I sense a monster but coming, sir,” I say.

  He nods and smiles a little. “But, you can’t ask any questions. Suffice it to say, we don’t exist.” He looks at me for a long while. Through the shadow of his hood, I see his dark eyes; they almost look to be filled with swirling white clouds. “Try not to move. Our medic is gonna see to you and your squad, then we’ll try to get you out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. When in doubt, shut up and follow orders.

  He stands, turns to Two, and nods at Sarge. “Check him first.”

  “On it,” Two answers, then pulls a bronze pedant with a vividly clear and bright blue stone set in the center from a utility pouch. He wraps the long chain, of the same metal as the pendant, around his hand a ­couple of times and crouches over Sarge. With care and gentleness that seems at odds with the circumstances, he places the pendant on Sarge’s chest. A blue light surrounds the still form of the massive man who put the fear of God in me every day, and who I thought was invincible.

  A moment later, I remind myself to keep breathing.

  “Shrapnel in eight places, second-­ and third-­degree burns, and some internal bleeding,” Two says. “I can stabilize him.” He closes his eyes and slowly turns the pendent. After a moment, the blue glow around Sarge gets a few shades lighter. Two smiles and opens his eyes. “Check, he should be okay.”

  “Good,” One says, then turns to Five. “Any sign of Sierra Novembers?”

  “That’s a negative, sir,” Five says from a window, a hint of Louisiana bayou in his voice. “I see Monday forces only.”

  I stare, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, but I can’t. Five is just standing there, right in front of the window with no cover at all. But somehow, he isn’t drawing any fire.

  I dig through the addled recesses of my brain to try and remember if I’ve heard of Sierra Novembers before.

  I look at Sarge, still glowing, and the pendant on his chest. Then I think back to the flamethrower. That’s when I realize that Five wasn’t saying “Monday” like the day, he was saying “mundane.” A chill runs through me and I start breathing fast. This has to be the result of serious head trauma. Or a dream, a truly messed-­up dream. I feel One’s eyes on me. When I look up at him, I figure it out, and the words just pop into my head. I’m not able to meet his eyes, but I know I’m right. Sierra Novembers: supernaturals.

  In the middle of shit you can’t even begin to process, he’d said. Talk about the understatement of the century.

  “This one is in rough shape,” Two says as he looks over Johnson. “Aside from a shattered humerus, he knocked his head pretty bad, possible cerebral hemorrhage. I’m going to pause him till the mundane medics can get here. Even so, we need to get him clear.”

  I watch as he traces his finger over Johnson’s chest, leaving white symbols behind like glowing finger paint.

  “They’re closing around us,” Five says.

  “Sir, if I can get on the roof, I can rain some flame down and thin the buggers out,” says the one with a British accent and a “3” on his patch.

  One nods. “Light ’em up.”

  Three turns and runs out of the room.

  “This one isn’t so bad.”

  I see Two kneeling over Mitchell. Two pulls another pendant out, this one silver with a yellow stone in the center, and sets it on Mitchell’s forehead. “Just blast damage, he’ll be fine.” Two stands and comes over to me.

  “What’d you do?” I ask, looking at the others. Sarge still has a glow on him, Johnson still has the symbols on him, and now Mitchell seems to be glowing like the Sarge, but instead of blue, he’s yellow.

  “No questions, soldier. You heard One.” I see a smile from the shadows of his hood. “Hold still.” He passes a hand over me.

  I feel a jolt of cold and flinch. I haven’t felt cold since I got to the sandbox. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

  “Three, no, four broken ribs, pulled muscles, and some light shrapnel damage to your left deltoid,” Two says. “Do you feel any pain?”

  “A twinge here and there,” I say through clenched teeth.

  He chuckles. “Okay, just keep breathing, that’s the secret to staying alive, you know.” He reaches into another pouch and pulls out a green clump. It looks like something a horse would leave behind. He pushes it to my mouth. “Eat this.”

  “It looks like horse shit!” I protest.

  “Tastes like it too, but it isn’t. It’ll help with the pain.” He holds it in front of my mouth.

  After a bit of consideration, I decide that even if it is horse shit I don’t care, as long as it helps the pain. I open up and he pushes it in. I’ve never tasted horse shit, but it’s how I imagine it’d taste. I swallow and immediately, truly immediately, I feel the pain fade. I look at Two, dumbfounded.

  “Told you,” Two says and stands up. “Causalities are treated and stable, sir.”

  “Good,” One says. “I imagine this is confusing as all hell, Private. The only thing I’ve been cleared to tell you is we’re with the American military. I’m One, that’s Two, our medic. Three is on the roof with Seven, and that’s Four, Five, and Six.” He motions to the three other men in the room, who nod in turn.

  “How many of you are there? Can I ask that, sir?”

  “Seven, always seven,” One answers.

  “Well, I’m glad you were there, sir. We’d be dead by now if you hadn’t been.”

  One doesn’t answer, he just nods. It’s obvious he’s still upset we were here at all, but that’s one ass-­chewing that’s above my pay grade, thankfully.

  After a few minutes of sitting quietly, I decide to try getting to my feet. I move slowly, waiting for the pain to hit me, but it never does.

  “Whoah! Take it easy,” Two says, coming to me. “Just ’cause you don’t feel it, doesn’t mean you’re healed.”

  “I can’t sit here anymore, sir,” I say. “Please.”

  One nods and Two helps me stand. I walk to the window and look out. It’s the first I’ve gotten to see the situation. The line of Humvees are still burning and nothing but a barely recognizable pile of twisted metal. I try, and fail, not to see the bodies still in them. I turn from the scene, trying not to notice the smell. That’s when I see a small group of hostiles come around a corner. On instinct, I raise my weapon.

  “You don’t see me. I’m invisible to you,” I whisper and feel a familiar sensation of pressure around me.

  When they look my way, I put my finger on the trigger and watch them closely.

  They seem to look right through me. No one shoots, or even raises their weapon.

  “Hold fire,” One says.

  “Sir?”

  “I said hold fire,” One says again. “You open up and it’ll draw them right to us.

  The hostiles continue by like I wasn’t twenty feet away with them in my crossha
irs. When I look up at One, he and Two are staring at me.

  “What were you whispering?” One asks.

  I shrug. “I call it my Jedi mind trick, sir. It’s stupid. Just something I do.”

  “If it’s stupid why do it?” Two asks.

  I look from him to One and back. “I don’t know, sir. Superstition I suppose. Sometimes it seems to work.”

  “Like it just did?” One asks.

  I furrow my brow. “That was your doing, wasn’t it, sir? I’ve seen others of your team standing in clear view too.”

  “Can’t say,” One says, but he’s smiling a little now. “Sorry.”

  He and Two exchange a glance, and I can tell there’s an entire conversation behind it, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Not that it matters because at that moment I see flashes of red out of the corner of my eye. I flinch back behind cover. When I peek around the window’s edge, I see small streaks of flame raining down from the sky into the street. They look like little comets, dozens of them. The hostiles that just went by come running back and join a larger group. The meteor shower pours on them, each little comet exploding on impact. The blasts send the hostiles flying in all directions.

  Soon there are shouts coming from all around us and I see more of the mini fireballs raining down behind other buildings.

  “Who’s your radioman?” One asks me.

  “Sir?” I ask, not looking away. My brain doesn’t seem able to accept what I’m seeing. It must be some kind of new air support weapon, but I don’t hear any planes overhead.

  “Your radio,” he asks again, more force in his words. “Who has your radio?”

  My head snaps back to him and I answer without thinking. “Cruz, sir. Lance Corporal Cruz.”

  “Four, Six,” One says.

  “Sir?” they answer in unison.

  “We’re out of time,” One says. “They’re starting to close in, we need to evac the wounded. Get out there and see if you can find that radio, and if it’s still operational.”