by Deacon Rie
"Well, yeah. I mean, of course we will." Stephen sensed her distress and decided to not broach the topic any further, "But we don't have to talk about it for a while. Definitely not before I get back from this deployment."
"Will we talk about it?" Sarah asked with a thinly veiled bitterness.
"I just said we would."
The conversation paused in a stalemate for several prolonged seconds before Sarah, absorbed by an awareness of the challenges she was going to face in the months to come, finally yielded to the discomfort of silence. "You never answered me.”
“What?” Stephen grunted.
Her voice was nearly a whisper, “Is it going to be like this when you get back?"
I just told you, the Army…"
“I’m not talking about the Army.” Sarah's interruption was demanding, "Is our family going to be like this when you get back?"
"Well, Hailey's going to be a lot stronger once she gets off all these meds."
"I meant you and me." Her voice trailed off, not so much defeated as simply not finding the argument worth continuing.
Stephen paused and caught his wife's questioning look. The fullness of their silence stagnated the conversation more than before. Dropping eye contact with her, Stephen reluctantly answered, "I don't know, Sarah. I just don't know."
Stephen knew the strain on his marriage could hardly reach across their house, much less the other side of the world. Saying goodbye to Hailey was devastating even with her cancer in remission, but leaving Sarah was noticeably easier. It wasn't a future he was too excited to consider and he looked forward to the less complicated life of the combat zone. Perhaps Mayweather wasn't so crazy after all.
"Way to go! You're so awesome! You guys are heroes!" The supportive words came from a lady who was extraordinarily alert for someone standing alongside a curb in her robe and slippers cheering on the passing marathon runners. She had a two handed grip tightly wrapped around a steaming cup as if it were there for medicinal purposes. Unaccustomed to feeding off the praise of others, Stephen was surprised at how the lady's encouragement snapped his mind back to the race he was in the middle of running. He smiled at her and felt an added lift spring from his next step.
Stephen had been praised by crowds before. With the return from each deployment he and his fellow service members had been thanked so many times it caused him a discomfort. The one he felt the greatest discomfort with was being called a "hero." It wasn't that he opposed someone linking the term "hero" to a service member. To him, nothing could be more true. He just didn't agree with the label being linked to him. In Iraq, he had done his duty. It was something he had voluntarily committed to doing long before he was asked by his country to make wartime sacrifices. He didn't feel it was a matter of heroics. It was a responsibility and following through with the promises he had made. The compassionate citizens of a grateful nation, in their determination to undo the sins of a prior generation's disdain for returning troops, had overwhelmed their brave warriors with an abundance of heartfelt and genuine praise. It was an embrace that he, like many who returned with tattered uniforms or minds stolen by a preoccupation with the ones who didn't return, had struggled to accept. The status of hero became a burden he was certain he could not live up to.
Nevertheless, the cheers of the early morning well-wishers along the roadside seemed different. The praise was not born from the mix of personal emotions determined to elevate those willing to do what others wouldn't, but instead he felt the encouragement came from an appreciation. This was an appreciation for a commitment of training and effort towards a goal which he was in the process of bringing to a completion. The crowd continued to applaud runners as he passed by. Stephen took in every positive word he could. Their words reached him deeply and before long he felt their words were accompanied with a different type of expectation. They were words that commanded one foot to continually be placed in front of the other. The cheers evolved into a rhythmic cadence as if his former drill sergeant were steadily prodding him along, though with much more encouraging words than he ever remembered his drill sergeant using.
Stephen received their optimistic spirit despite his own frustrations with how the race had begun. Their cheers reminded him that he had made a choice to cross that starting line and it was a decision he intended to fulfill. He charged himself forward, declaring with each step that there was no way he was going to let this crowd down. It wasn't long before he caught himself making eye contact with people in the crowd in a self-serving hope to solicit motivation toward him personally. In most cases it worked, and he returned their inspiration with a wave and a smile to cover his guilt of having being so dependent on their generosity. He felt proud to be there, inspired by the applause. He was motivated.
It quickly became evident to Stephen that the crowd had a personality of its own. It was one thing to get up at a ridiculous hour before the stars had even faded. It was an entirely different thing to get dressed, endure the cold weather and stand for several hours cheering for people you've never met and furthermore, would likely never see again. He was impressed by the crowd's commitment and touched with gratitude for the adrenaline boost he was receiving. No longer feeling the insecurity of a rookie runner, he obligated himself to return their praise with thumbs up and a heartfelt, "Thank you for coming out this morning." Touched with an unfamiliar twinge of euphoria, Stephen was feeling very much like the ambassador of running.
Unbeknownst to Stephen, the gel pack was working its magic and replenishing his carbohydrate stores. The gel, having made its way through his digestive system, sent a rush of random endorphins coursing through his body. For the first time he could genuinely admit to himself that he was actually enjoying the run. He had spent so much of his race in silent sarcasm over the early part of the morning that he hadn't yet let himself realize the joy of the journey. He drank the crowd's encouragement and savored every drop, straightening his back and lengthening his stride. The thrust of his arms had a renewed swagger to them. His heart beat stronger and his legs became lighter with each lift. Warmth filled him and he began to stretch his stride even farther. Without regard to his own speed, he began weaving past other runners, sidestepping and plotting his path two and three bodies in front of him before making his advance. As his pace continued to increase he kept a close proximity to the far right hand side of the course where he could repeatedly drink from the invigorating well of assurance the crowd so graciously served up.
Almost as suddenly as they had appeared, the sideline crowd thinned out. Stephen looked ahead and saw a long, inclining straight away as concrete seemed to continuously rise above the brightening horizon. Instead of a crowded field, he observed the sparse files of runners as they approached the incline at varying paces. He glanced back to see the fading crowd with their distant but unending cheers. He wanted to stop and tell them how much he appreciated them. He considered the idea of hopping onto a street bench and making a public announcement. "Thank you all for coming out today. We really appreciate your support and sacrificial efforts. You've all been great. And while you may want to stay here to cheer on the other runners, have your breakfast and coffee or possibly even be tempted to go home and tuck yourselves back into bed, we ask that you instead get in your cars and drive alongside to continue your unceasing praise for the remainder of the race!" He chuckled to himself at his entertaining idea and delivered his own self-assurance at realizing how good he felt and what a good run he was going to have.
The giant bulb in the sky had risen above the horizon and effortlessly broke the last ounce of will in the morning's briskness. Clouds which previously held dominance now crumbled into smaller formations, accepting without dispute their singular purpose of drifting towards an inevitable fade. The sea of bodies shifting among the road compelled him to forego his speech and instead push forward to the upcoming challenge with a moderately suppressed smile. The rising peak of the road's overpass before him seemed no threat to the strength and speed surging from e
ach step of his elongated stride. Glycogen from the gel packet made its way into Stephen's muscles and propelled renewed strength in his legs which powered him up the road's prolonged incline. Each time his feet hit the ground another charge of energy pulsed through his body and caused the fibers of his leg muscles to demand more and more oxygen to keep up with his rising pace. Every breath brought vigor and durability to his laboring lungs. Yes, the ambassador was feeling good, really good.
He looked ahead beyond the overpass to see the reveal of office buildings. It was strange to him how buildings in a distance, pressed against the horizon seemed to have a similarity to them regardless of where in the world they had been erected. He was comforted by the fact that the buildings he ran toward were fully intact and free of crumbling debris as he had seen in the desert years before. He forgot the road and let his mind drift again, releasing all of the cares of the moment, which including any concern for the lactic acid steadily building within his legs.
Mile 8
Stephen's fire team made its way around the city's perimeter buildings. Their unit had been called in to provide support for Operation Phantom Fury, the battle which had begun just a week before to take back the city of Fallujah from insurgents who had entered and oppressed the city. It was Stephen's second trip to Fallujah, though only the first time he had actually stepped foot in the dense city. This time there was no daydreaming about visiting the nearby lake or enjoying the cool breeze. The trip into the city had been a horribly tense ride as their convoy stopped several times in order to respond to the several improvised explosive devises left by insurgents alongside nearly every road. When they finally reached the city, the best he could do was to see past the remnants of buildings which had been reduced to rubble. He tried to breathe without choking on the ash still floating above the smoldering city.
The violence against American forces had escalated in Fallujah. The Marines had taken over local operations in an attempt to quell the growing anger from the more than 300,000 residents in the city along the Euphrates River. Insurgents from around the region saw the city as a stronghold and turned the population against their occupiers. After only a couple of months of American management, things began to really fall apart. Somehow it was decided that the local politicians could do a better job of discouraging the insurgent influence. Marines moved out in April and set up an extended perimeter to prevent new insurgents from entering. The plan failed miserably. Fallujah, also known as "The City of Mosques," had over 200 mosques that were located throughout every community within the city. A plethora of devotees, combined with blatant anti-Americanism from nearly every spiritual leader who had a flock, made the city a battleground for influence. The seven-month period without any American presence gave insurgents the freedom to gain support and recruit throughout the city's mosques. They not only brought external reinforcements and weapons but they also amassed thousands of volunteers to their cause. By the time November came around, the foreign insurgency had complete control of the city.
The battle to wrangle the city back under coalition control had been a difficult one. Those among the insurgency were well-prepared for an American offensive and they knew how to convert the city into a giant labyrinth with traps and obstructions at nearly every turn. They even went to the trouble of repositioning stolen concrete barriers to limit the movement of tanks and armored vehicles. Those imbedded fighters had not been the locally converted farmer turned soldier, but instead, they were committed extremists who had been battle hardened from multiple wars in the region. Even worse, they were well trained and well supplied by Iran so its regime could wage a proxy war against the "American infidel." Major hostilities ended with its inevitable conclusion; better training, better equipment, better leadership and an overall better battle plan won out. This along with the fact that America upheld its reputation for showing up to knife fight with a bazooka. In Fallujah, that translated to the US forces bringing nearly four times the number of experienced warfighters than the insurgents had. An American victory was a foregone conclusion even before Navy SEALS infiltrated the city and turned out the lights.
"Cleaning up pockets of resistance" was the politician's way of saying America had won so the media could move on and shift their efforts back to educating the stateside public about the latest celebrity breakup. To Stephen's squad, who entering the city just a couple of days after the main force achieved its primary objective at Highway 10 in the center of the city, it meant the part-time resistance fighters had either given up or been killed. Now it was time to flush out the hard-core fighters left behind by the initial strike force's breakneck pace to retake the city. Those insurgents who dug in and remained were true believers in their cause. They were among those who were ready to die and just wanted to take out as many Americans as they could in the process. It wasn't clean up. It was nothing less than full-throttled urban warfare.
Stephen's lead fire team moved ahead in a single column. Since Rodriguez had the point position he was the first to emerge. He sprinted from his area of cover across an open road and disappearing behind a large pile of rubble. When his rifle emerged from behind a mass of rocks, Waters and Stephen simultaneously dipped the muzzles of their rifles and made a quick but cautious pursuit. Dropping behind the rubble, Stephen joined Rodriguez in using telescopic scope of his M4 carbine short barrel rifle to scan the broken out windows of nearby buildings. They searched for any movement, especially the ever faint shimmer of the sun reflecting off the lens of a sniper's scope. Feeling only a moment's comfort, he nodded to Chelp on the other side of the road.
"That's us," Chelp whispered to the remaining team. He gripped the two ammo belts which were harnessed over his shoulder and slapped Hooper on the helmet as he leapt past him. Hooper rose to his knees, collapsed the tripod to the base of his weapon and took off in a crouched run just behind Chelp. Once they were on the other side, Hilton and Tomlison left their cover and sprinted across to join them.
Stephen looked at his battle-tested team. The last two days had taken them through more than a dozen of these buildings. When the initial strike force came through they had been on the hunt for enemy fighters. They had moved past buildings which didn't show signs of an enemy presence. Unfortunately, that left Stephen's unit with the responsibility of cleaning several houses rigged with explosives but vacant of fighters. The work was slow moving, with most buildings locked down and never knowing when a door was wired to explode on contact or an insurgent hold-out waiting on the other side for his moment of suicide by glorious jihad. Stephen could only imagine the death trap that the initial strike force must have walked in to.
Twice they engaged the enemy. The first time Stephen's team was a bit unnerved and had presented what he later described as an overabundance of fire. The team had moved into an open clearing behind a building that actually turned out to be a cafe which had lost its rear wall to artillery shelling. It was completely accidental when his squad stumbled upon the young sniper sprawled out on a cafe table peering for unsuspecting soldiers. The sniper didn't even get a chance to aim his single shot bolt-action rifle in the direction of the team. Stephen estimated that each man on his team had unloaded half their magazines at the sniper. While it was a justifiable kill, Stephen wondered how many of those shots were the result of months of anger and anxiety being expressed through itchy trigger fingers.
The second contact with the enemy also came during a building clearing. They were in the process of entering what looked to be a school cafeteria. An insurgent on the second floor was either inexperienced, impatient or just plain scared out of his mind. He tipped off his men's concealed location by firing an errant round with no target in sight. Had that discharge come half a minute later, Stephen's team would have been left stuck in the large open cafeteria facing a heavily armed enemy who had positioned themselves in a well covered and elevated defensive position. It was excellent planning and the cafeteria was staged to become an effective kill box. The insurgents were not lacking in experie
nced planners familiar with guerrilla tactics. But they did have a significant shortage of discipline. So instead, Stephen reversed his team out the same door they had entered and called for an artillery strike. The building was little more than pea gravel within minutes.
Those experiences had gotten out the jitters and sharpened the team's senses. By this third day, their movements reflected the precision of a fine point drill bit driving to its objective without obstruction. They were focused and all business. They entered rooms with a dominating presence, moving in smooth controlled pairs; never in a hurry and recharging ammunition every time they had a breather. The awareness Stephen was beginning to see in his men's eyes gave him a shot of courage spiked with adrenaline.
Stephen observed the chain fence that ran alongside the buildings. Maps were close to useless as the fighting had left most landmarks unrecognizable and streets provided new access ways that didn't even exist before mortar rounds, rocket-propelled grenades and tank divisions pounded them. On the other side of the fence was a train station which separated the city from miles of sandy nothingness. Aerial intelligence indicated insurgents had been using the train routes as cover to move supplies and reinforcements into the city. The fence separating the train tracks from the main city provided circumstantial evidence as it had several purposeful holes cut into it. The detail of what was done or how it occurred was beyond Stephen's pay grade and not something important to him at the moment. His job was to lead his team and clear the three buildings directly perpendicular to the train station while other teams from his platoon, including the rest of his squad, concurrently worked through the buildings parallel to their position.
Stephen placed his hand on Rodriguez's shoulder and firmly gripped a mix of uniform and dirt speckled neck. He pointed an extended hand towards a brick red building along the northern edge of the city and spoke with a distant stare. "That's our next target."