Fire and Forget (13 page)

The terp and I followed him to the ready room tent, a temple of light surrounded by deep, black still. The golden glow emanating from the doorway revealed outlines of devotees entering and exiting, donning armor, priming their souls, weapons in hand. I was one of these men, I reminded myself. I was a Ranger.

Sergeant Deke veered off to the side to join the other squad leaders and the lieutenant. With them out of earshot, I went on.

“You gotta understand, Omar, in our country, no one ever thinks about death. It's completely removed from our lives. At worst, it only registers as a slight speed bump before an even more perfect afterlife. But then we come over here and it's in our faces. Over here, death is life. So you see these big mother-fuckers like Sergeant Deke coming over seven, eight, nine times, you better believe they dig it. They love it. They worship it. Death.”

Omar frowned and shook his head. Even he didn't buy my bullshit.

“You've been deployed a couple times, too, Doc, haven't you?”

We walked on, the crunch of gravel underfoot providing cover.

“I re-upped back when I believed. These days we create more insurgents than we kill. I'm done. As soon as my contract is up, I'm out. Goodbye and good riddance.”

“That's a pretty story, Doc. You know, my people have been at war for thirty years. Thirty years. One thing you learn is some motherfuckers kill, and some motherfuckers die. You Rangers are on the killing side, most days. That's not bad.”

I had no answer to that. We got to the ready room, where all doubts were replaced by hustling, sweaty bodies and the metallic thud of magazines being slapped into place. The mission would continue with or without my approval. Omar just smiled and shook his head. I lost myself in the ritual of preparation.

* * *

The helicopters approached our waiting platoon, screaming their chorus of kill-kill-kill-kill through the darkness. I felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through my body. It was that time again.

I flipped on my night vision and the world turned green. We filed to the birds one at a time, counted in by Sergeant Deke. The helicopter shuddered under our weight as it strained to pick up, then found its rhythm, and we were off into the Afghanistan night.

Blood pulsed through my veins as we sped through the mountain passes to the HLZ. Tightly packed in on the floor of the Chinook, we looked to each other, energy passing from man to man. This moment was our one release. Together. I got the togetherness here. Once we got back things changed, but here, I got it. The mission. The only chance to leave the bullshit behind. Without women or alcohol, without cars or drugs, we had only this.

The three-minute call started at the front with the lieutenant and was repeated down the line. I mouthed a prayer as my eyes stared past the rear ramp at the jagged, sinister mountains behind us, their peaks cutting into the heavens.

“. . . the Power and the Glory, Forever and Ever, Amen.”

* * *

We finished the walk to the target compound. It must've been nearly eight kilometers, not an inch of it flat. We had left the highlands and entered a broad, tiered valley. In the distance, the ruins of an old fort rose on a faraway hill. Its weathered walls appeared like a sandcastle waiting for the tide to melt it back into the land.

“This is 2–6, I copy: isolation set, moving to the breach.”

The target house was on the near side of the village below. With disturbing speed and even more disturbing silence, the platoon separated into fire teams and set the trap—a standard point raid. Lasers danced on the walls of the compound, coming to rest on doorways and windows.

From an adjacent grove, on overwatch with the lieutenant and the rest of his gaggle, I waited for the ambush to unfurl. I
scanned the village, so mute and ignorant of the violence about to play out. I thought of the time in high school when that Jack Mormon dealer down the block got busted by the cops and we watched through the dining room window; my mom had been so upset. “His poor mother,” she kept saying. “His poor mother.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Omar lean against an ancient, gnarled tree and pick at his fingernails.

The deafening crack of the earth being torn apart echoed into the night. An instant of hopeful silence followed. Then a shriek. Shouts reverberated from cluster to cluster back to us. Even before I could make out the words, I was in full sprint down the valley.

“Doc!” “Medic!” “Man down!” “DOC!!!”

I skidded to a halt at the group of huddled, bent bodies, pushing them aside.

Just one, that was lucky. Most of his left leg was gone, the femur exposed. The right leg bled profusely. Must have been a pressure plate.

Clearing space for my medical pack, I grabbed the nearest Ranger. I couldn't tell who it was. Too many shadows, too many noises, too much going on. It didn't matter who it was.

“We need a tourniquet on the right leg too, have to stop that bleeding. Anybody working on the 9-line?”

“I'm on it, Doc.”

“Roger, sir.” When the hell had the lieutenant got here? “I think HLZ Rooster is closest.”

“No. HLZ Rock. Sergeant Deke's securing it now. Get him prepped for movement.”

The wounded's screams became moans and were accompanied by rifle fire and the shock of grenades from the compound. Third squad, bringing the fight to the enemy. Don't look at his face, I reminded myself. Don't look at his face. Don't look at his face.

“You lose him?”

“He's unconscious, sir, but still got a pulse.”

Both of the tourniquets were secure. My hands caressed the wounded's body, probing for tears, holes, lumps, any sign of further injury.

“Looking good, Ranger, looking good. Got those legs to stop bleeding, everything should. . . . Shit, shit, shit. FUCK.”

I felt a wet puddle just below his plate carrier. I pulled my hand away—my glove was completely red. Please God, I prayed, tell me it missed his organs.

“Doc, let's go! MEDEVAC's in a holding pattern, just waiting for the target secure call. We gotta move him.”

“Sir, I found another wound!”

“Roger 2–7, I copy: compound clear and secure, be advised I'm bringing in the MEDEVAC birds. DOC! Let's fucking go!”

I sat back on my heels as two Rangers stepped in and scooped the wounded onto a litter. In an instant he was strapped in, and the three of us sprinted toward the HLZ. The Rangers strained with the load until Sergeant Deke appeared and grabbed a handle. We ran faster then. I held the IV bag high, ashamed of its paltry weight.

I forgot myself and looked down. It was Peters. I found it strange that his screams had been indistinguishable from the others.

* * *

I approached the lieutenant's entourage in the courtyard of the target house. With the raid over, everyone had gathered to listen to the radio chatter.

“Line four: two EKIA, two AK-47s, two PTT radios, eight pressure plate boards,” the lieutenant reported. “One room with leather straps, chains, electric prods, pliers, hammers, saws.”

Two EKIA. At least the hunters would be happy.

“Line eight: Requesting HLZ Rooster for exfil, nothing follows. Over.”

What had it been, two hours? Three?

“Roger, I copy: Dead on arrival. We're moving to the exfil. 2–6 out.”

That was Peters. The mountains seemed to fade in the distance, like wine dissolving into water. Everything got tight on me, my armor, my face. When I found I could breathe again, I realized I couldn't look at the other Rangers, so I turned around and looked for Omar. He was off to one side, sitting on a stone ledge, arms crossed, watching the proceedings.

He must have noticed something when I came over and sat down next to him. “What happened?” he asked.

“Peters” was all I could say.

“God grant his soul rest. He was a warrior.”

“He was a motherfucking Ranger, you traitorous piece of shit.”

“Alright, Doc. He was a motherfucking Ranger.” Omar stood up. “You know what's funny though?”

I looked up at him, thinking what it would feel like to have his neck clenched in my hands.

“Charon 8.”

“What?”

“Charon split, Doc. We'll be back.”

“Fuck me. Who were the two EKIA?”

“Associates.” Omar smirked. “Some motherfuckers die.”

Then he walked off and I just watched him. Then the men moving around me. Then the stars glimmering watery in the distant, icy black, feeling the air go out again, amazing, the second time in one night. That was new. Then Sergeant Deke knocked me on the helmet and said time to move. The platoon filed out of the compound. I followed the body in front of me because I was a Ranger and that was what Rangers did.

We arrived at the HLZ. As if cast down, the heavy birds materialized from the pitch-black sky, singing their unearthly refrain. They were coming to take us home. Home, where Peters lay waiting.

T
HE HAT'S GOT THREE RIBBONS
embroidered on the front, which all pretty much get handed out to everybody now: a National Defense Service Ribbon, a Global War on Terrorism Service Ribbon, and a Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Ribbon. Though inside the tag read “Made in China,” I thought it looked kinda cool anyway. I especially liked how it read in bright yellow:
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM COMBAT VETERAN
. I went ahead and tossed it in my shopping cart and pushed toward the PX checkout.

Days later, as main post receded in the rearview one last time, I caught a look at myself in that hat. My blue infantry cord dangled from the mirror, somehow sad, like a limp-hanging flag. Was I making a mistake?

Fuck it, I thought, then turned on the radio. It was this song I'd never heard before, something about how there was this girl and everything was different now. I chuckled to myself, thinking about how my platoon sergeant kept hassling me those last months, trying to get me to re-up, always asking what kind of job I thought I'd get once I got out, if I was gonna put “shoot, move,
and communicate” on my résumé, and saying, “You'll be back. I was just like you once, I got out too, and guess what happened? That's right. You'll see.”

* * *

Six months later, I got out of bed and stumbled over to the window. Out on the street corner stood a little blonde-haired girl, dressed like she was on her way to Sunday school. Was today Sunday? I thought about that a minute.

Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, a black metal bracelet around my right wrist with some names and dates engraved onto it, and my dog tags, I watched the little girl as she started to cross the street.

Out of nowhere, a beat-up Ford pickup whipped around the corner and slammed on its brakes, smashing right into the girl and sending her flying onto the pavement.

The truck idled for a couple seconds, then started to move again. Slowly it turned onto a side street and drove off. I tried to catch the license, one of those old black-and-yellow plates, but it was too late. It was gone before I could make the numbers.

I looked back at the girl again, and stared at her lying there in the middle of the road. Then I felt kind of tired, so I got back in bed and went to sleep.

* * *

The next morning I woke up with a throbbing headache. I reached out and picked up my grungy cargo shorts and an empty beer bottle to use as an ashtray. Thank god I still had a couple cigarettes left in the pack half-crumpled in my shorts.

Just as I was starting to feel the smoke get inside me, my cellphone buzzed. The screen read RESTRICTED NUMBER.

When I pressed call, the guy on the other end said, “Hello, is this Specialist Dunson?”

I paused and said, “Let me guess, you're Army, right?” He laughed and said he was. He introduced himself and asked how I was doing. I told him I'd been fine until he called. “What you need, Staff Sergeant Jessup? You low for your quota or something, you gotta call up med discharges?”

I couldn't figure out what was so goddamn funny about that as he chuckled. Then he wanted to know how things had been going since I got out.

Now I'm pretty sure when this guy signed up, he didn't request to be put on that shit detail, so I let him do his spiel about inactive ready reserve and the National Guard and all that. When he asked me if I was in college or what, I asked him how he got put on this assignment.

He let out a sigh and said, “You know how it is.”

Yeah, I laughed. I know exactly how it is.

We went back and forth for a minute, but when he realized there was no way in hell I'd come back, he got all confrontational and started saying if I didn't sign up for the Reserves, the Army'd probably call me back up anyway, and if I didn't go then, I'd go to jail.

That was when I hung up on him. I stubbed out my cigarette and made my way to the window and stared at the street for a while.