Luckily it was October, which meant it was slightly cooler than the inside of the sun at night and only mildly oppressive during the day. The sandstorms were worse in the winter, which was why it had taken Sam two days to get from the base down south back to home station.
He ordered a large black coffee and grimaced as the bitter liquid scorched his tongue and made his taste buds want to curl up and die. He was reasonably certain he'd grown three more chest hairs from the strength of it. It was pure caffeine.
That was good, because Sam needed it. His head was still fuzzy from the sleeping pills. He’d taken another one last night to get over the jet lag. The fuzziness was why he didn't take them very often. He shifted his assault pack and walked outside into the haze. It swallowed the lights from the community events center, where Salsa Night was apparently happening.
Salsa Night. In the middle of the war. Good times. He sipped his coffee and contemplated crossing the courtyard to see about picking up a dog-eared paperback. Maybe he could find a new thriller. Maybe a mystery.
Who was he kidding? He didn't have time to take a shit properly, let alone read a full book.
He might have felt at ease at getting back into theater, but the truth was he could already feel the stress building in his shoulders. Nothing was simple here and yet, the routine of it all was something familiar. He knew exactly what would happen when he showed back up to work. His company commander liked to circumvent his platoon sergeant, which left Sam in the awkward position of having his commander's trust and stabbing his platoon sergeant in the back every single day. Not a good place to be, considering how many people were armed. Like, oh, everyone.
He dropped his assault pack onto a nearby picnic table and leaned on the nearby stone pillar, watching the headlights flicker through the darkness. Spectral shapes floated on the haze.
It was worse than his nightmare because this was real. He hated the fog. Night vision goggles illuminated the dark, but man had not yet invented a way to see through fog and haze and sand.
The brownouts were worse than the dark. Sam sipped his coffee as the shapes twisted and writhed on the mist. His fingers itched for the familiar curve of his weapon.
A conversation drifted closer as two troopers walked by. One of them had some frou-frou drink that smelled like cinnamon. It made him think of Faith and her flavored coffees.
"Blew a hole in the roof of the chow hall," the first one said.
"No shit?"
"Yeah. No backpacks in the chow hall anymore."
"Next thing you know, they'll be saying you can't wear bloody uniforms in the chow hall."
"You're an ass; you already can't do that."
"Saw the sergeant major doing it last week."
"Whatever. Sarn't Major is crazy. Chow hall guards don't want to get shot arguing with him."
Sam frowned as the conversation moved off and out of earshot. Which chow hall had gotten blown up? He tapped his thumb against his thigh, anxious for the air load team to get the pallets of bags off the plane. He wanted to get his duffle bag and get back to check on his boys.
After what felt like forever, the load master called them forward to get their baggage. Sam found his duffle bag easily from the big orange tag on the strap. He dropped it against the column and sat on it, leaning back against the cool concrete. He'd just sat down when a light blue pickup rolled into the courtyard in front of the airfield waiting area.
Sam stood, a slow grin spreading across his face as he recognized his ride. "Chaplain Cloud?"
"I am your faithful servant," Chaplain said, his eyes shining behind his silver, wire-rimmed glasses. "How was leave?" He lifted Sam's duffle bag before Sam could protest. It landed with a thud in the bed of the truck and Sam climbed into the back seat.
"Leave was good. How were things here?"
Chaplain climbed in next to his driver, then twisted in the seat. "Not so fast. You just got back. I want to hear about home before I start depressing you with news of war and rumors of war."
"Was that a reference to the apocalypse?" Sam leaned back against the stiff back seat, more relaxed than he'd been on the entire journey back to the war.
“The Book of Revelation, to be exact,” Chaplain Cloud said.
A couple of empty magazines bounced around on the floorboard. At least Sam hoped they were empty. "I'm good. Leave was good. Faith is pretty good. Baby is healthy."
"And how was your mom?"
Sam sighed. He’d opened up to Chaplain one night on a long walk around the perimeter of the base. He couldn’t keep his frustration with her bottled up any longer. He didn’t know how to get her to hear him when he told her he couldn’t listen to her sermons any more.
He supposed it was odd to talk to the chaplain about his lack of faith in God. But Chaplain Cloud was one of the good guys. "Mom was Mom. We argued my last day there. Then patched it up before I left." He opened his eyes. Chaplain's grey-blue eyes were warm and compassionate, so unlike his mother's judgmental gaze. How could two people claim to worship the same God and be so different? "Other than that it was good, Chaplain. Now what's this I hear about a chow hall?"
Chaplain's driver pulled them away from the airfield and headed down the gravel road, which was in desperate need of being graded. It was as if potholes were a point of pride for this fucking country. Sam's tailbone protested each time the driver steered toward the next divot.
"Suicide bomber blew up the chow hall a week ago."
"How?"
"Local national security force. They're still looking into how he got through the headcount guard."
Sam swallowed. "That's not good." It meant there was a hole in their security somewhere. It was the somewhere that had Sam worrying. A known hole they could mitigate. Unknown? It left them vulnerable.
"No. No, it's not."
Sam scrubbed his hand over his mouth. "So what's been going on out in sector?"
"More not good things. We're pushing into the cities and building walls around them. Small outposts. Trying to clear two neighborhoods and hold them."
It was the Surge – they were trying out this new thing called clear, hold and build. Some officers got their panties in a twist that whenever someone brought it up – clear, hold and build was not a doctrinal task or some bullshit. Sam didn’t really give a shit about doctrine beyond battle drills.
He supposed that was why he was a staff sergeant and not getting paid to be one of those big brained planner dudes.
Except it was the big brained planner dudes who kept stretching the force thinner and thinner. Clear, hold and build took boots on the ground – boots they didn’t currently have.
"We don't have the manpower to do that." A sick feeling soured the coffee in his guts. "Not to hold them, anyway."
Chaplain Cloud nodded, pushing his thin glasses higher on his nose. "Yeah. That's the consensus."
"But we're going to shut up and color, aren't we?"
Chaplain's smile was grim. "Of course."
"That's easy for you to say. You've got Jesus as your sidekick."
Chaplain laughed and shook his head. "And we're back. That didn't take long. Glad to see your sarcasm didn't stay on vacation." He twisted back around and focused on the dark road ahead of them. "You're going to need it."
* * *
"You coming to the fight?" Chaplain’s question caught him off guard.
Sam pushed his sleeve up and looked at his watch as the truck pulled to a stop in front of the life support area where Sam and his platoon lived. They'd taken over a bunch of staff officers' quarters when they'd conducted a relief in place. The officers' quarters were much nicer than the enlisted bays across the base.
"That's today?" He'd forgotten about the combatives tournament one of the Marines had coordinated. It had official sponsors and ring girls. Sam suspected half the reason everyone was so excited was because of the ring girls.
Okay yeah, probably more than half.
"Yep. And if I remember correctly, Lewis and Hale
are both in the ring."
"Why the hell are they both fighting?" Sam jerked his duffle bag out of the back of the pickup. "I can't have them knocking each other silly. It would leave Private Kadoush in charge of the whole squad."
Chaplain laughed. "It wouldn't be the first time the Wonder Twins got in trouble, now would it?"
Sam slung his duffle across his chest. "Nope. Leave those two idiots alone for two weeks and this is what they get into. Let me drop my gear and pick up my weapon from company ops."
"No weapons at the fight."
"Are you fucking serious?" He flushed with guilt at swearing in front of Jesus' right-hand man. "Sorry, Chaplain."
"I've heard worse. And yes, I'm serious. They tasked Delta Company with security. Everyone else? No bags, no nothing."
Sam's skin crawled. "Half the base is at this event."
"Probably more than that." Chaplain held out his hands, palm up. "Are you going?"
If the shit and the fan decided to have an orgy, tonight would be the night to do it. What could possibly go wrong in the middle of a hostile country with a war going on outside the wire? Did they honestly think they were safe inside the base?
"Oh sure." He didn't want to go anywhere near it. Nothing like mass chaos to draw the bad guys' attention. And having the majority of the base separated from their weapons was a bad, bad idea. What kind of fucking moron had made that call?
Probably someone already surrounded by his own personal security detachment. They weren't the ones who would be trampled in the chaos.
Sam climbed back into the back of the pickup and rode the distance to the fight in silence.
* * *
Chaplain was wrong. Half the base wasn't at the fight. The whole base was there. The crowd was thick, bunched up in pockets up a sprawling hill. The ring looked tiny from where the chaplain parked the truck. Sam pulled his cap on and waited for the driver.
"I think Tomas wants to stay with the truck."
Sam shrugged, scanning the hill for possible egress routes if he needed to make a quick escape. The porta-potties offered concealment but not cover. The stands where the colonels and senior enlisted guys were watching the fight would provide a small amount of cover. But the hill gave any shooter a massive advantage. It offered an unrestricted field of fire to take out the entire crowd. One crew-served weapon could do a shitload of damage.
Sam shoved aside his concerns as he descended the hill. The officers were paid a hell of a lot more than he was to figure out these things. If they figured no weapons was safe, then who was he, a lowly squad leader, to question it?
His rationale didn’t really help soothe his anxiety. Not at all.
His misgivings faded as he approached the pit where the fighters—and two of his team leaders—waited.
Lewis saw him first. He grinned and held up a hand in a closed-fist salute. Hale turned around and jerked his chin in greeting. The sun was slowly sinking behind the concrete barriers. The floodlights illuminating the ring worked overtime to penetrate the encroaching darkness. The crowd dotting the hill overlooking the ring ceased to be made of soldiers and instead transformed into shapes and shadows.
"Welcome back," Lewis said, pulling his mouthpiece out. "Just in time to see me whip Pussy Boy's skinny ass."
"Fuck you, Lewis," Hale said with a grin. "You might be bigger than me, but I'm quick."
"Gotta be pretty quick to duck one of his fists," Sam said, tucking his thumbs through his belt loops. He felt naked without his weapon. “You two are fucking idiots. If either one of you ends up on sick call for this stunt, I’m going to court martial your ass.”
“For what?”
“Damaging government property,” Sam shot back. But he didn’t mean it, and they all knew it.
“Whatever.” Hale shrugged and swiped his forearm over his mouth. "How was leave?"
"Too short."
"Isn't it always?" Lewis said. "How's the old lady?"
"Faith is good." He didn't want to talk about her. Didn't want to pull her out of the box where he'd locked away the soft and tender feelings that did him no good over here. "What's been going on back here?"
"Same old shit. You tracking the new mission that starts day after tomorrow?" Lewis took a pull from his water bottle and swished it around his mouth before spitting it into the dirt at Sam's feet.
"Ah, shithead, I literally just got back from the airport. What mission?"
"Battalion is the main effort for a raid into the Karadah district. We’re providing support."
Sam didn't get a chance to ask any more questions like what his platoon would be doing on this mission. He supposed he’d have time to figure that out after the fight. It sounded like they were sitting this one out, though.
The announcer called Lewis and Hale into the ring, leaving Sam alone with too many questions and an unsettled feeling in his guts that had nothing to do with his two team leaders beating the shit out of each other in front of the entire base.
The fight was over before it started. Hale hadn't been joking about being quicker than Lewis. Hale slipped around behind him and choked the bigger sergeant out before Lewis had even figured out where Hale had gone.
The shit-talking was never going to end. Sam spat into the dirt and scuffed sand over the glob as Hale celebrated and Lewis threatened to knock his teeth out.
The next few days were going to be oh, so much fun.
* * *
It was still dark when Sam finally gave up attempting to sleep. Dark, but not quiet. Nothing in Iraq was ever quiet. From the constant grind of the generators to the crunch of boots outside the walls of Sam's trailer, there was a constant whir of noise. The containerized housing unit’s walls were thin as paper. He heard every crunch of boots on gravel, every porno some ass clown four trailers down decided to play too loud.
He'd gotten used to the silence at home, he realized with regret. The silence and the warmth of Faith curled next to him. He rolled onto his back and scratched his stomach, staring into the darkness. He'd been lying there for three hours. He supposed he’d dozed? Maybe? He'd pay for that later, he was sure of it, but that did nothing to convince his body to go back to sleep. He wished he wasn’t out of Ambien.
There were a couple of ways to deal with the brutal jet lag. He could try to go back to sleep, which didn't appear to be a viable option. Or he could get up and head to the company ops to see what exciting stuff was happening on the night shift. The sergeant major had completely lost his shit when he'd discovered the night-time crew had been playing Risk in the ops. Sam couldn't say that he blamed him but then again, he'd pulled more than his fair share of night shift duty and sometimes it was boring as hell.
Still, he might get some good intel on the upcoming raid. Added bonus if he started to feel like he had a handle on things instead of feeling like he was still playing catch-up.
He rolled out of bed and got dressed, pulling on his pants and banging his boots on the ground before pulling them on to make sure nothing alive decided to take up residence in the dark. He cleared his M4 before slinging it across his chest. The weight was comfortable and familiar, like sliding on his glasses. Eye protection was their purpose, not style or comfort, but after months downrange, Sam just liked the feeling of them. After the foreignness of being home on leave, things finally felt like they were back in their place.
Sam stepped into the cool night air. The haze coated his skin in grit and he could practically feel the moisture being pulled from his exposed skin. He knocked his cap back on his head and looked around. The smells were familiar. Dirty, rough. Dusty. The dirt burned his nostrils.
He headed across the flat, dusty earth toward the call center. He figured he'd try to give Faith a call before he headed to the ops. It should be late afternoon at home. With luck he could catch her on her cell phone.
At least there was no line in the middle of the night. He slipped onto the smooth black stool and dialed the AT&T operator, then jammed in his calling card information. A
long silence stretched out in the ether before the phone started ringing. Two rings, then disappointment punched him in the belly when he was clicked to her voice mail.
"This is Faith. Leave me a message." Her voice sounded clean and fresh, out of place in the desert.
"Hey babe, it's me. Just trying to catch you before I head to work." He cleared his throat. "Miss you."
He hung up before he said anything else. Before the ache in his heart consumed him. He wanted to go home. He wanted to curl around her in their bed and feel her belly move beneath his palm.
It was sappy, but it was what he wanted. Lewis would bust his balls forever and a day if he knew Sam was thinking like that. ’Course, this would be from the guy who'd married a stripper, then bitched when he'd caught her blowing a guy behind a dumpster—literally—at a shitty dive bar back in Columbus.
He still called her, which baffled Sam to no end, but hey, there was no telling some guys. At least Sam had managed to keep Lewis from giving her Power of Attorney before he'd left. Some nights Sam wondered if Lewis had done it anyway and just hadn't told him. They'd find out soon enough whenever they redeployed, and Lewis checked his bank accounts. It wouldn't be the first time some girl had given a guy his first piece of ass and he'd given her his checking account. Poor dumb bastards came home from war and found their lives ruined.
Sam pulled his cap on and walked out of the call center, wishing he'd heard more than Faith's voice mail. He was lucky, he knew. Incredibly lucky to have found a girl like Faith. How she would adjust to life as a military wife? What would it be like, going home to her?
The moon was a sliver in the sky overhead, peering through the clouds every so often as Sam ducked through the maze of twelve-foot high concrete barriers on his way to the ops. They lined the roads, circled the buildings. Some were decorated with graffiti. Others bore wounds from encounters with military vehicles.
The Long Night Page 6
