Lights Out
Officer Andrews pointedat the map as he described the mission. Bravo team was to move a load of equipment from the U.S. base to a newly-established police unit in a village twenty miles north. The defensive equipment and weaponry would make the convoy a prime target for theft, so Bravo would need to move quickly and keep an eye on the hillsides and any dwellings they passed on the road, wary of sabotage.
The U.S. troops had been working alongside Afghani troops and local law enforcement for several years, helping establish police stations and security posts, and train locals to protect residents from the Taliban insurgency. Sergeant Rogers had formed close relationships with the Afghani men he worked with, and he knew they’d been looking forward to receiving the new equipment that would help them establish a foothold in a region where opposition to the Democratic leadership was as common as grains of sand on a beach. The equipment had arrived by plane from the states yesterday, and they’d spend the next few months teaching the police how to use, maintain, and secure it. Grant liked teaching people how to protect themselves almost as much as he liked helping protect others, and so far in his career with the military, he’d kept both his troops and the local residents safe. He knew it was hard on his grandparents to send another Rogers boy off to the military, but he hadn’t given them much choice when he’d disappeared with a suitcase and his savings, and his father and brother’s purple hearts tucked into his bag for inspiration, courage, and luck. He was doing far more good in their memory here than he would be selling power saws and ice melt back in Lark.
“We have reports of increased insurgent activity in the hills surrounding the village. They’ve been actively recruiting local men in the streets and mosques. A few have been arrested, but not enough to make a dent. It is our belief that they are unaware of the shipment we received yesterday and its intended destination, but we’ve had moles before. Stay sharp out there,” Andrews said.
“Ready to ride?” Private First Class, Axe, slapped Grant’s back as he strapped his gun to his back.
“Lock and load,” Grant said, his voice muffled behind his cloth face mask. The global Chorivirus pandemic hadn’t spared even the most secluded regions of the world. He slid his sunglasses over his eyes and fastened his helmet’s strap beneath his chin.
“Don’t get yourself blown up,” Axe said. “I’m winning my money back from you at poker tonight.”
Grant smirked. “You’ll try and you’ll fail, brother.” He headed out into the heat to check that his Humvee and all the other vehicles in the convoy had been properly loaded and fueled up.
Grant hadn’t lost a man yet on his team and he intended to keep it that way; he wouldn’t let any spouse, sibling, or child lose the soldier they loved overseas as long as he was alive to help it. He knew the pain of a loss all too well. Not to mention he loved the men under his charge, too. Without a wife, kid, or sibling back home to miss or call on holidays, all he had to sustain him were the friendships he’d made in the military. He’d had his shot at love back in the tiny corner of the world that was his hometown. He’d decided long ago that he could never cause her the pain he’d felt when news of his father, and then brother reached him. In the Army, all he had to do was be the best, most dedicated team leader and non-commissioned officer he could be. Every day he woke up he set out to be nothing less, refusing to think about the sacrifices he’d had to make over the years to achieve that goal.
He inspected flak jackets and rifles before dismissing his men to start their engines. Grant climbed into the driver’s seat. He knew insurgents would salivate over the gear packed into the back of the seven U.S. Army vehicles behind him right now, but they wouldn’t get a chance to take a crack at it; Grant had no intention of tarnishing his perfect safety record. The convoy rolled out of the gates and onto the high desert highway. He cracked open the window just enough to let dry air and heat that reminded him of Colorado summers stream through the Humvee’s cab. Afghanistan was beautiful in the same, mountainous way Colorado was, just with more potential danger lurking behind every boulder and hillside. Like his father and brother before him, he dedicated his life to this profession. He was considered one of the best soldiers and had the respect of everyone in Bravo company. He sent money back to Lark to help keep the hardware store afloat when it was still in the family. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d made the right choice all those years ago.
He’d been back three times since leaving; once to visit his grandparents, the second time for his grandfather’s funeral, and the third for this grandmother’s. All three times, Faith, the girl he’d left behind, had been away studying. He’d tried his hardest not to ask about her, but without much else going on in town, he still heard more than he needed to know about how her life was going. Not too much, but enough to form a picture of how she’d changed over the years – a degree in chemistry. A job with a major pharmaceutical company. She’d wanted to go back to Lark to be a doctor, but she’d gone the pharmacy route instead, developing drugs that would save lives. In that regard – working to save lives – their paths were similar.
She was always brilliant; too good for a small town. Too good for him. He’d done her a favor by leaving. He’d done every woman he had brief affairs with over the past ten years a favor by not committing. He saw how hard it was on the wives and girlfriends left behind when the troops deployed. Grant was glad he didn’t have to put anyone through that. Now that his grandparents were gone, the Army was the only family he had.
* * *
The first shotinto the Humvee’s door came in fast and loud. Machine gun fire pummeled the doors and windshields of the convoy as Grant and his men rolled out the vehicles and into defensive positions.
“Shots incoming from northwest corner of the hillside!” a member of Bravo team shouted above the din.
“Stay down!” Grant commanded. He tore the cloth mask off his face so his orders wouldn’t be muddled. Grant rounded behind the Humvee’s tire and fired at their attackers. He signaled his men down the line to do the same over the tops of their vehicles as he shouted for backup into his radio. “Bravo team taking fire, ten miles north of base, requesting air support!” He threw the handset to the ground to return fire. This was his third tour in Afghanistan since enlisting in ten years ago, and not his first time taking fire from unseen insurgents.
Grant spit dust out of his mouth and waited for the current round of bullets to stop. He looked down the line of men he commanded, all sheltering behind tires and door frames, and grinned at Axe. They’d been through this before and come out unscathed. Today would be no different.
It was hot in his helmet under the early afternoon sun and he wiped sweat off his neck. Sweat was better than blood, he thought. Not that he’d give these guys the chance to draw it from him. The radio crackled that air support was en route to clear the attackers. Grant passed the message down the line so his men would hold fast. They’d arrive in less than ten minutes, and in another hour he’d be back safe on base, assessing the damage to his vehicle fleet. The bullet holes in Humvee doors made the hail damage he used to get on his truck back in Colorado look like fingernail scratches. He sometimes missed Colorado, with its quaking aspens, cool summer nights, and miles of pine forests with mother bears and avalanches as the only real threats.
He shook his head, clearing his mind before he could think about what else he missed in Colorado. A bullet grazed the top of his helmet, knocking him back into the present. He needed to focus or men would die. Ten minutes could be enough time to wipe out the entire company if they didn’t stand their ground and take out at least a few of their attackers. Grant dropped to his belly and pointed his rifle around the thick tread of the Humvee tire and fired. He glanced down the line to see his men alternating high-low shots, some over the tops of their vehicle’s hoods or roofs, others from below. Soft top canvas on vehicles had been shredded by bullets and flew in the wind, revealing glimpses of the crates that held what the attackers wanted inside.
The returning fire grew thinner. Grant figured no more than five minutes had passed. They’d come prepared, but it seemed their attackers outnumbered them greatly, which meant they knew not just about the shipment and the convoy, but about the number of men that would be escorting the crates and the firepower they would have on hand. There were only so many bullets they could pack for one trip, and if air support didn’t arrive soon, they’d run out. Grant’s heart pounded. He didn’t like close calls. He fired his rifle while the men next to him reloaded theirs. Grant had one more magazine. He signaled to his men to stop firing. If they could draw the attackers out instead of holding them off, they could pick them off before they reached the convoy. Troops hunkered down the line held up empty magazines; Grant didn’t know if they could make it another five minutes.
The pause in fire sent a few heads poking up over the hill where the insurgents hid. Grant fired, sending the attackers back into their stronghold. Two more minutes elapsed. The sky was silent. He checked his ammo, sweat mixed with dirt dripping down his face. The insurgents had known exactly where to attack to make it the longest wait for backup from either direction. Grant fired at the sight of more faces over the hillside. That was it, he was out of ammo. Down the line the guns went silent. They were spent. Grant’s men had no fire power if the attackers crested the hill. He tapped his belt for his men to see, then drew his combat knife, ready to wield it. The sound of metal swiping its sheaths as Bravo company swept them out of their holsters, preparing, swept down the line. Grant held his breath, ready to spring. Then, his favorite sound in the world: choppers.
Grant looked to the sky just in time to see the blades beating against the hot desert air, guns aimed at the attackers.
The choppers opened fire at the insurgents hidden behind the hill. Grant signaled for his men to take cover and hold their position as the hillsides got blasted to smithereens. The insurgents returned the volley, giving all they had as fire rained down from the helicopters. Grant was tired of the push back. He was tired of all the threats against his men – some of them barely more than boys – when they were only here to help. He crouched over the hood of his Humvee to see if the attackers were scattering.
“Incoming!” One of his man said.
Grant barely had time to tilt his chin before he saw an RPG whiz in the direction of his Humvee. He ran for cover when it exploded into the vehicle. The world shook around him as the shockwave threw his body into the air and scrambled his senses. Grant closed his eyes as his body fell toward the fiery debris. His thoughts turned to his men. As long as no one else got hurt, he’d have done his father and his brother proud. Suddenly, a face emerged from the ever growing darkness behind his eyes as he felt his consciousness slip away. The face he saw made his body relax – it was her face – Faith’s, and he hadn’t allowed himself to picture it in full detail in over ten years. Her dark hair fell in ringlets down her bare shoulders. She had pink lips she never put lipstick on. He thought he might fall into her eyes; a thought he’d had many times when he stared into them and she asked “What are you thinking?” and he’d be too embarrassed to answer. The answer was nothing, like right now, nothing on his mind except her and how beautiful she was. Faith’s face faded and he felt himself reach for it, his fingers open to the nothingness of air. If he was going to die, he was glad she would be the last thing he ever saw. He had no regrets in this life, except, maybe, for her.
