Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  The all-business voice of an inbound pilot came next, the unmistakable sound of turbine rotors in the background. “Spicoli two-two, Damone here, inbound to your position. Say status.”

  “Damone, Spicoli Two-Two…In contact, but secure right now,” I said, amazed my voice remained somewhat solid, with my mouth dry as the dust around us. Plus, I think I'd pissed myself. “Wait one.”

  I looked again at Pat, slowly shaking his head, but saying nothing. I paused and addressed the Iraqis a few feet away from us, separated by the rocks both protecting and trapping us here. “Iraqi soldiers...We have a number of Apache gunships coming in to get us,” the turbines sounding like the whine of an Apache to me over the radio, anyway. “They will kill everyone but us. This does not have to go any further. You do NOT need to die here.”

  I paused to let my words of warning sink in, and tightened up my grip on the AK. My earpiece chirped again.

  “Spicoli Two Two, Damone. Pop red smoke. Repeat. Pop red smoke. Repeat. Pop red smoke.” We carried two colors of smoke canisters for rescue ops, red and green. The rescue leader had ordered me three times to set off the red smoke, which meant I was to use the green. If red smoke appeared, it meant the enemy controlled the smoke canisters, and us.

  “Damone, Spicoli Two Two. Wait one.” I replied.

  “So, what's it going to be?” I called to the Iraqis. The answer came almost immediately, in the form of a metallic clatter, I identified a second later as a hand grenade. I dove to the ground, not sure where the grenade landed, dropping the AK-47 as a wave of something I suspected was sound, but had so much more mass to it, seemed to flatten me, pushing my face into the dirt.

  The only sound in my world was something halfway between buzzing and ringing, over a constant roar I understood later to be the blood rushing through my head. Where was I? What is this gritty, coppery, horrible tasting sludge in my mouth? The answer, turned out to be mud. Well, dirt, mingled with what little saliva I had left, and blood from the impact of my face against the ground.

  The buzzing/ringing got a little louder, and I became able to start to pick out the different elements contained in the noise. Voices. Foreign language, angry and frightened became clearer. Another sound, more familiar, yet not a human voice fought for my attention, but I didn't recognize it. Finally connected to my body again, I rolled over to the right, but stopped when I started to gag on the dirt and mud in my mouth. I spent the next several seconds trying to spit it all out, not getting nearly enough, when a shadow to my left attracted my attention. The shadow had a voice, and the figure resolved into a soldier who was yelling something at me, jabbing an AK-47 in my direction. In that moment, I have to admit, I was still too confused and disconnected from myself to be afraid, even though the man holding the rifle, pointing and thrusting the weapon toward me was clearly terrified. In my mind, I can still see the whites of his wide-open eyes as the strange yellow/white flashes popped from the end of his AK.

  I have no idea how the Beretta got into my right hand, but it did, and somehow, in one fluid motion, I pointed it at the screaming Iraqi soldier who stood less than five feet from me, and pulled the trigger. For as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of his head snapping back, a huge volume of dark matter painting part of the rocks behind him an obscene black. His body responded to the violence not with theatrical twisting, turning or flying backwards like in the movies. He became a puppet, strings cut, animation gone, as if the puppeteer decided, in the middle of a performance, to go to lunch.

  One of the colorful explosions from his rifle seemed somehow different though, and I was falling backwards to the ground. The sound had left me in peace, and it felt good just to close my eyes, so I did.

  Waking up, clearing the new quantity of sludge from my mouth, becoming human again, and finding my bullet damaged flight helmet might have taken thirty-seconds, or thirty minutes. I don’t know. Where the dead Iraqi’s friends were, I had no idea.

  I looked the sky, now a surprising bright blue. When did that happen, I wondered as my ears were assaulted by a tsunami of sound that washed over my little cul-de-sac of rocks in the Iraqi desert. A black helicopter flew directly over me, 20 millimeter cannon ripping the air, and Hellfire missiles hissing malevolently off their tracks, let loose against those who a mere two minutes before, held an overwhelming advantage against Pat and me.

  Time to go.

  I have no idea how I found the strength to heave Pat's body onto my shoulders, but I wasn’t about to leave him in this tiny, horrific slaughterhouse. Mercifully, his helmet had twisted around on his head enough to hide my friend's face, so I wouldn't have to deal with that particular reality for a short time. Pat was dead, of that I was sure. He had been way too close to the exploding grenade to survive the concussion. Patrick Maney had been a tough little bastard, but an Iraqi fragmentary grenade had been too much for him.

  Fuckers.

  I'd like to write that I ran out of the circle of rocks with Pat on one shoulder, one-armed firing an AK-47 and mowing down Republican Guard troops Rambo-style, but I had dropped the AK in the grenade's explosion, and I have no more idea what happened to the Beretta I had killed the Iraqi soldier with, than how it had gotten into my hand in the first place.

  I did run, though, staggering out from the shelter of the rocks, confronted with the sight of an Apache hovering two hundred yards away, pointed toward a building another hundred yards or so further, and behind me. We had sheltered so close to the building, but hadn’t seen it in the dark of night. The Apache seemed to be waiting, and seeing me, launched a Hellfire that leaped off the rail and streaked toward the building, as if to say watch what I do to the bastards who killed your friend. The missile obliterated the low adobe-like building in a tremendous blast of sound, fire and heat consuming the structure and anyone unlucky enough to be inside, in less than a second. I looked around. The concussion of the grenade attack had killed my comm unit, so I had no idea what the play was, and even though I had assumed, because of the presence of the Apaches, that rescue had arrived, I now was uncertain. The attack choppers only had two seats, so I knew they weren’t my lift out of here.

  Pat still draped over my right shoulder, I turned around, and witnessed the most beautiful sight I could imagine. A Blackhawk helicopter settled into the dust 100 yards away, and I realized what, in addition to Pat and me, the Apaches protected. Head down, I started toward the Blackhawk. I'd gotten maybe ten steps toward the bird, when to my horror, the door gunner opened up with his Browning .50 caliber machine gun. In an instant, a flash of fear, confusion and anger cycled through my mind. Didn’t they recognize my flight suit? What the hell? But those thoughts disappeared almost as soon as they arrived, as understanding swept them away. I could hear the whine of the .50 caliber rounds whipping by me, rather than at me. The machine gunner shot past me, firing on Iraqis who were trying their best to kill me.

  Later, I reflected on how brave and insane it had been for the Iraqi soldiers to keep shooting at us, when this small band of Iraqi grunts, armed with AK-47s, a few hundred rounds of ammo and several hand grenades, found themselves confronted by two American Apache gunships and a Blackhawk, in all probability, filled with Special Forces troops looking for blood.

  Screw brave, let's go with insane.

  The rounds kept whipping by in both directions as I ran, with my pilot and best friend hanging over my shoulder, dead, the Iraqis behind me shooting at everything else. A small constellation of sparks jumped from the side of the Blackhawk as some AK-47 rounds hit the body of the helicopter, at the same time a pair of Hellfires lurched away from one of the Apaches. Almost as if the missiles were a cue, three crouched figures jumped out of the Blackhawk and start sprinting toward me. None of them were in uniform, the first to hit the ground wearing fatigues, with sunglasses and a baseball cap turned backwards. He veered to my left, advanced a few yards and kneeled, raising his M16 carbine, outfitted with a fore grip and fired, sighting through a combat scope. Another of the
men veered to my right, and grabbed some cover behind a rock, kneeling and firing what looked like a heavily modified H&K G3. The third figure made making a beeline straight for us, and he wasn't wearing sunglasses or a hat, but had a checkered shemagh scarf around his neck and what appeared to be at least two weeks of beard. This Special Forces Operator shouted something at me, and motioned with his hand for me to get down, but I wasn't about to slow my pace toward the Blackhawk.

  With all the noise and chaos, I guess it’s surprising the sounds of the rounds hitting Pat's G suit bladder, opening the trapped air pockets registered in my ears. I didn't have long to think about what it meant though, as somehow, out of nowhere, amid flying lead, the smell of cordite and the sound of several jet helicopter turbines, a huge Iraqi soldier came up behind me out of nowhere, holding an enormous two-by-four which he swung at me. The unseen lumber-wielding Iraqi connected with the back of my head, and for a fraction of a second, I thought who brings a two-by-four to a gunfight? before everything went…

  The song sounded familiar, even though I couldn't quite hear it, as if I walked down a hallway, passing an apartment with a radio playing inside. Just as I seemed to pass beyond the point where the sound disappeared, I recognized the tune as “Rubber band Man.” Hadn’t I been listening to that song recently, I thought?

  I smelled flowers, the sharp, moist fragrance almost overpowering me, as I strained to understand where I was and how I came to be there. Warmth spread through my body, but didn't seem to be radiating from any single point. The fleeting thought of being in the tropical forest in Hawaii again floated by, and heard the crystal-like sound of my own laughter. My thoughts drifted, whether for a second or for a hundred years, I couldn't tell. I found I'd been trying to visualize the structure of cause and effect, and frustrated in a weird, happy way, because there had been a time when I could draw the symbols of cause and effect and show how they interacted.

  I know this doesn’t make any sense now, but did when I was inside the thought. I wish I possessed words to explain it all.

  Then, I wanted to sleep. So I did.

  FOURTEEN

  Return

  The first thing I became aware of seemed to be an insect buzzing around my ear, which later proved to be the transformer for some electronic device plugged into a wall socket not far from the head of my bed. An intense light pierced my eye, which blinked, unable to withstand the onslaught. A decidedly Middle Eastern face, olive colored skin and a dusting of beard, formed as it moved away.

  As my sight fully returned, and the face disappeared, a darkened room took shape around me. Not much light emanated from the few, inconspicuous fixtures scattered throughout the room, but it also became apparent I had been under the influence of some narcotic. Several minutes passed before I saw anyone, but there was activity just outside my range of vision. The restraints that held me were snug, but not painfully so, and I wondered if some pain medication was still in my system. Why would the Iraqi doctors waste painkillers on an enemy combatant? Whatever the answer to that question, this was not a good situation, not good at all.

  Pat's death came back to me in a rush, bringing with it some of the pain the meds had been holding back, as well as the memory of the weight of his body across my shoulders as I carried him toward the evac chopper, and the air pressure of the .50 caliber MG rounds whipping past me, in search of my pursuers. I had said a word of thanks to the designers of the Browning machine gun for their skill in creating a weapon so powerful, yet so accurate and reliable that a gunner could fire past me without hitting me, as I dug into the hard packed desert running hard for safety. But the designers of the AK-47 were pretty good, too, and I remember the sounds and pressure of rounds hitting Pat's G-suit bladder, and other parts of him as well. He had already been dead, but the fact that these bastards would fire on me while I carried a wounded or dead comrade, infuriated me. It was then I realized it hadn't been a fast Iraqi with a big two-by-four who had whacked me across the back, but a round from an AK. My mind, not wanting to process getting shot in the back, filled in the blanks and created a huge man with a two by four. I didn't remember anything after getting hit, except the confusion and wondering about what had happened. Well, warmth. I remember the spreading warm sensation, but nothing more.

  As I tried to figure out how, with two Apache attack choppers, the Blackhawk, with its door gunner making his .50 cal Browning sing, and at least three serious looking special forces operators bent on retrieving me and Pat, I ended up a hospitalized prisoner of war. The Middle Eastern face returned, appearing above me, a smile that seemed weirdly genuine on his face. But when he spoke in heavily accented English, the reality of my situation came back.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Girrard,” he said, reaching in his lab coat pocket for something, and then turning back toward a table out of my field of vision. When he returned, he smiled again, shining a small flashlight into my eyes one at a time. He said, “Follow the light with your eyes.”

  I decided against cooperating, choosing instead to hold his gaze as the flashlight arced from left to right and back again. His smile changed from confident to concerned.

  “Are you able to follow the light, Mr Girrard?” He asked again. His English good, if accented, he had to be no more than 28 or 29 years old, five years or so younger than me, his deep olive skin smooth and blemish-free, through the one or two day growth of beard starting to sprout. Yea, I'll bet you haven't had time to shave, Hadji. Been keeping you busy,haven't we? From the first time I experience the Gulf War, as a civilian watching on CNN, I remembered the A-6 pilot shot down over Baghdad, roughed up a bit and made to tape a criminal confession played on television all over the world. I knew his name, and had found his squadron information. Operationally, my being here probably wouldn't change events enough to keep his ordeal from happening in this timeline, so I was determined not to give the Iraqis two forced video confessions from A-6 pilots.

  I held the Iraqi doctor's gaze a moment longer before responding.

  “Fuck...You.”

  I'd seen my share of war movies, most of which included at least one interrogation scene, and my response a pretty standard one in this situation. A captured American officer insulting the enemy doctor treating him wasn’t standard at all in real life. In fact, our training stressed being professional and polite, respectful of officers and doctors, but given the fact these people had killed my best friend, and apparently shot me in the back while I was carrying his body to the evac chopper, I wasn’t feeling much motivation to be respectful, or even polite.

  The doctor's response didn’t remind me of a scene from any war movie, though. I expected either a flash of anger, or a resigned acceptance at my insistence on playing the tough guy, but got neither, as the young doctor recoiled a couple steps, confused and intimidated by the anger in my voice. Despite the fact I was restrained and unable to move at all, he kept his distance, but didn't leave the room. The startled expression on his face changed to concern, his eyes flashing toward something above and to my left, which I later discovered to be a panel showing my vital signs. Regaining his composure, he returned his attention to my face and asked “Are you uncomfortable, Mr Girrard? Are you having a lot of pain?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Commander Richard Girrard, doctor,” I corrected, and gave him my serial number, all the information the Geneva Convention required me to disclose. “The term 'mister' is only appropriate for you to use in reference to me if you're in the United States Navy, which I assume, you are not.”

  “No...I am…not,” the doctor replied slowly, the puzzled expression returned. “I’m sorry, I didn't realize you were...in the Navy.” He consulted a few pages from his clipboard and before turning to leave, said, “My apologies, sir.” He left my field of vision, but was talking to someone, moving away at the same time, the sound fading. Though I couldn't make out what he said, it seemed to be in English, not Arabic, which struck me as slightly odd.

  The doctor returned a few minutes later, not say
ing a word, his eyes not meeting mine. My peripheral vision revealed him checking the IV device by my bed, faint beeps indicating he was inputting some information into the device. Within a few seconds, a fog begin to descend, and I thought how nice it would be to close my eyes for a few seconds...

  The room was lighter when I once again became aware of my surroundings, the noise level higher as well, and I could tell from the light it was daytime. My sleepiness melted away, and I realized I could move my head a bit, though I remained restrained in the bed. I turned to look out the window to my left, and observed it was a clear day, vivid blue sky and puffy white clouds visible through the vertical blinds. The tops of leafy trees ended about halfway up the window, and I calculated I was probably in a room on the second floor of the building.

  Wait a minute. Leafy trees? I looked again. I couldn't tell a maple from an oak tree, but didn't believe either variety grew in Iraq, or anywhere else in the Middle East, for that matter. What the hell?

  “You're awake,” came a familiar voice. A voice as familiar to me as my own, but one I hadn’t heard in 15 years. “How are you feeling, hon?”

  My head turned to the right, my mouth wide open in disbelief, as I gazed at her beautiful, long, deep chestnut brown hair, framing a perfect face.

  Molly. She was alive, which meant I was back.

  Molly was alive.

  Later.

  Alone again for the first time since I woke up to see my wife looking down on me. Once the shock of seeing her subsided, the stress and fatigue on her face, all because of me, was apparent. After being notified of my accident, Molly had flown to Cincinnati, hardly sleeping during the three days I lay unconscious. My waking up and telling the doctor, a young resident from India, I was a Naval officer and that he should “fuck off” didn't reassure my wife everything was OK.