Nick is telling Heath about that day in Iraq. It’s uncomfortable to hear it from his point of view because it sounds like everything I did was so goddamn heroic.
I grab my beer, then think better of it and grab another. Instead of going back to the conversation I was having upstairs, I find a quiet, shaded alcove near the engine room on the opposite side of the boat, where I won’t be disturbed. As I tip back the first beer, I look out on the blue water meeting rough Texas limestone, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember.
* * *
Three years ago
Fuck, it’s hot as balls out here. Yes, I know that I’m in the desert, and saying that it’s hot is redundant and reductive, because it’s not just hot, it’s windy and there’s sand everywhere, in every crevice. I’m a Navy man, and yeah yeah yeah, Sea Air Land, whatever. I prefer twenty-foot swells over this bullshit. After a couple of painful experiences, I’ve had to enact a blow jobs-before-back door rule for all of my beautiful fuck buddies here in the sandbox. It’s not pleasant getting sand in your mouth, but it’s a hell of a lot more pleasant than getting sand in your ass. Just take my word for it—a little grit on the teeth is better than a sandblasted hole any day.
Last night we were invited to a diplomatic party with the Peshmerga team that have been shadowing us for weeks, while other teams are mere hours away, trying to wrest Mosul from the hands of ISIL. It felt like a bad omen to enjoy local delicacies with strong, black tea as a civil war raged on just outside of our operation.
This afternoon we’re with the same team, chasing another wild goose in the desert, preparing the team for a prolonged push against an enemy who has them outgunned more frequently than not. When we go into these little townships, we try to be especially respectful of the locals, because it’s not their fault that any of this is happening.
Sometimes we get spit on, sometimes we make new friends, it’s really a coin toss. Today was more of a spitty kind of day, and that always makes us nervous. Not that I blame anyone, not really, but if there are ISIL elements here, then we won’t find them, or worse, wewillin the worst way possible.
Thankfully, our combined team is able to conduct the sweep without incident, and we’re all heading back to the armored vehicles so that we can get back to base before the sun starts going down. Everyone’s been on edge because there’s been a series of ambushes over the last several weeks, with some of our fellow sailors and soldiers and trainees getting dead for no goddamn good reason. I know that our joint intelligence teams are on it and are working as quickly as they can. I’ve heard rumors that some of the more shadowy elements of our intelligence community are on it as well, and that makes me feel a helluva lot better. I swear, there are days when I feel like a flag snapping about in the wind, so I feel better knowing that there are people out there somewhere trying to have our backs.
Nick’s the commanding officer of our unit, and he’s been on edge for days now. I suspect he has access to a bit more of the intelligence than we do, and whatever he knows isn’t exactly making him relaxed and happy. Not that Nick is ever known to be relaxed and happy, but there’s a little extra juice to his anxiety these last few days, and I’ll be glad when this round of searches is over and we can head back to the carrier.
The teams are piling in to their respective armored vehicles, and Nick and I are the last in as usual. Billy Boy is wiping down his face with his lucky handkerchief as he waits to jump in, and a blast of heated desert air grabs the handkerchief from him, tossing it down the road. Nick motions for Billy to stay at the truck and takes off down the dusty street after the errant bit of cloth.
I keep my hand on my rifle just in case anyone thinks they’re going to try something funny. Nick stomps down hard on the handkerchief, stopping it in its tracks. He’s nimble as he leans down and picks it up, waving it in the air, a rare smile on his face as he starts jogging back.
That’s the last thing I remember before everything goes to hell. Nick, smiling because he’d bested a handkerchief and the wind.
Suddenly, the wall next to him blows out in one enormous chunk, and I see a jagged edge of it hit his knee so hard that he’s slammed to the ground, pinned by the falling wall. Just as quickly, a janky-looking 4x4 starts tearing ass down the road, and I turn to the team, screaming in English and broken Arabic, “Get them! Get those motherfuckers!”
My heart is a caged bird, beating wildly in my chest as I race to my cousin’s side, blinded by the powdery gray air. My knees hit the ground, and my breath is weirdly loud in my ears, which have been ringing since the explosion, and none of it is fucking helping. I take all of that panic and fear and grief, every fucking bit of it, and I seal that shit up tight.Lock it the fuck down, Martinez.
My training kicks in, and I begin to assess the damage. His leg is mostly trapped under a slab of concrete blocks spiked with steel rods. I’m pretty sure it’s toast, and I can’t tell if he’s got a concussion or if he’s been run through.
“Quédate conmigo, hermano,” I say softly into his ear.Stay with me, brother.
“Oye,primo, don’t be so fucking dramatic. I’m not dead yet.” Nick laughs on a grimace, his hair and face coated in concrete dust and dirt, nearly white, cracks visible where the squint lines around his eyes indicate pain.
I haven’t found any other broken bones, and the steel rods seem to have gone out of their way to miss him, but the amount of blood he’s losing from what’s left of his leg is no fucking joke. It’s a lazy swirl of red on the ground, a sharp contrast to the dust-coated tableau. I peel the handkerchief, that goddamn fucking handkerchief, from his grip and wrap it around his leg as tightly as I possibly can.
We both hear small weapons fire in the distance, which means that our team is in a firefight with whoever did this to him. An explosion makes the ground tremble and my stomach lurch. “Roly, you need to get the fuck out of here. We’re sitting ducks. You need to run. Right now.”
“You’re right, let’s go.” I test the handkerchief, which is mostly slowing the flow of blood, but when I try to pull him away from the building, he screams in agony and I nearly lose my balance, dust cascading off me.Fuck.His leg is still attached. Barely, maybe just by sinew and skin, but I can’t pull him away cleanly.
I remember the 9/11 documentaries, and the concrete dust here feels just as catastrophic. It’s making it impossible to take a deep breath, threatening to undo me.
I’m sorry, Roly can’t lose his mind right now, please try again later.
I pull my knife from my vest and shove the clawing grief and choking insanity into a box that I’ll never open, numbing agent for the task at hand. Someone who looks a lot like me severs what’s left of Nick’s leg from the rest of his body and pulls him into an alley, out of the way, dust trailing us in shifting plumes.
I feel myself return in the shadows, numb but present, thankful for the ability to give myself over to my training. Fear tickles at the edge of my brain, but doesn’t overwhelm.
“Roly, you’ve got to get the fuck out of here, man. Leave me here, they won’t find me.” Nick’s words are bullshit, but his voice is flinty, weaker than he’d sounded just seconds ago.
“The team’s gonna take care of those motherfuckers, and they’re gonna come back and pick us up, so I need you to focus on not bleeding so much. Because if I go back to Texas without you, both your mother and mine will send me back here in a body bag.”
“Primo, please.” Nick’s pupils are dilated with fear, something I’ve never ever seen my cousin show before. I ignore his plea and take off my own bandanna, tying it farther up the leg. I retighten Billy’s handkerchief above where Nick’s knee used to be, and pray that it is enough.
I remember my comms and call for backup and medical assistance, giving them my coordinates in a voice that doesn’t sound familiar. Billy gets on the radio. “Lots of vehicles, man. An ambush. The Iraqis… the trainees… they took out two before they got blown up, and we got the rest. Coming back in. Stay low.”
Stay low.It’s an inside joke, because I’m the shortest one on the team, but it’s also his way of trying to keep me calm in the middle of all of this. It’ve been hard not to miss the sound of guilt in his voice, and I knew that blaming him wasn’t going to help me right now.
