The Long Night

by Jessica Scott

  There was always a first time.

  He glanced at that fucking envelope and wished that Hale had given it to someone else. He snatched it out of the dust and shoved it in the drawer and hoped he'd never have to take it out again.

  He paused before shutting the door. A deep disquiet slithered across the base of his spine. He should call Faith. He suddenly wanted very much to hear her voice.

  He glanced at his watch. He had time to swing through the call center on his way to chow. If he didn't get through to her, he'd have to wait until after the mission to try and call her again.

  He closed the drawer and slapped his patrol cap on his head. He stuffed a Nutri-Grain bar in his pocket in case the chow hall was packed. He hated hanging out in the lines and the crowds. He hated listening to the Fobbits bitch and complain when the chow hall was out of their favorite food even more. They had no idea how good they had it. Fobbits never had to go out in sector, never had to risk their ass to get basic chow. They never left the damn base.

  He headed back through the Jersey barrier maze that led past the company ops and back toward the call center. A massive armored vehicle rumbled past on the other side of the barrier. The new supposedly bombproof vehicles were still a rare sight. They were giant compared to the more familiar track vehicles, but according to the powers that be, they were more resilient when it came to withstanding blasts.

  Sam hoped they'd get more. Soon. The last thing he wanted to do was die in the coffin of a Bradley, especially if another vehicle could withstand some of the massive blasts they'd been subjected to lately. The bomb makers were getting more skilled. Which meant that even if Sam thought this mission was the worst idea ever, he was going to figure it out. Clearing out the bomb makers might mean one more of his boys or someone else's troopers would get to go home in one piece.

  He rounded a corner as the armored vehicle rumbled off. He glanced into one of the bunkers, then did a double take. The dog was there, lying in the shade. Her head was propped against the cement and her sides were heaving as she panted hard.

  He wanted to keep walking. He wanted to ignore her obvious hunger. But he couldn't look away from the abject misery in her eyes. Her paws were too big for the rest of her body. She probably weighed thirty pounds when she should weigh fifty. Pity, far too familiar, rose inside him. Goddamned pity was going to get someone else killed. He couldn't stop the sympathy from overwhelming his good sense. He felt bad for the damn dog. If she was mousing, she was working damn hard for any meals she might manage to catch.

  He pulled the Nutri-Grain bar out of his pocket. No one was around to see him break his own rule about feeding the stupid dog. He felt the weight of his own hypocrisy deep in his bones as he tore the thin foil wrapper open and shook the bar into his hand. It crumbled into his palm.

  The dog lifted her head, watching him warily. She looked like she'd been kicked one too many times. He wasn't about to get close enough to hand her the bar, that was for damn sure. He'd never hear the end of it if he got bit after bitching at Lewis and Hale about the friggin’ mutt.

  She tensed as he crept a little closer. He wanted to toss it into the bunker to keep anyone from seeing it if she refused the meal. He was sure one of the mice would drag it off if she didn't eat it.

  He hoped she didn't have any puppies. Starving puppies might send him over the edge of shit he couldn't deal with in this godforsaken war. It was a futile wish. She wouldn't have the empty sacs on her belly if she hadn't recently whelped. He inched closer until he was just at the edge of the bunker.

  She rolled over and crouched on all fours, her head down. Her hackles rose slowly, one by one, until her back was rigid and stiff. Fear closed off Sam's throat. He'd never get his weapon raised in time to shoot her. Forcing himself to move, he tossed her the bar and held up his hands. He backed away as she crept forward until the bar was between her front paws. Her lips curled. Her growl rumbled deep in her throat.

  He never took his eyes from her as he rounded the corner. He moved out at double time as soon as he was out of sight. He refused to look behind him, even as the back of his neck tingled with the primitive fear of being chased. His spine tingled as he ran, waiting for the sound of claws clicking on the gravel to announce his demise.

  He kept running despite the shiver that ran down his back and clenched his balls. He knew, knew, that if he turned around he'd see her loping behind him, a predator toying with her prey, her jaws opening to snap on his neck.

  He rounded a barrier and finally dared to look back. A shadow disappeared behind the cement, but he saw nothing else. No wild dog was chasing him. Nothing but shadows from the setting sun and dust dancing on the rays.

  He was safe.

  So why did he feel like he was still being watched?

  * * *

  "Hey, baby."

  Faith's image froze on the screen, her smile warm and welcoming and frozen. Her voice, though, came through clear and filled with energy. It pushed away the ragged fear that swatted at him.

  The air inside the call center was musty and stagnant. The air conditioner must have died hours ago. It reeked of balls and dirty socks, but none of that mattered now that he could finally see Faith on the line.

  He closed his eyes, letting the sound of her voice clear away the unreasonable panic over that fucking dog. He almost wished the chow hall had been packed so he could have avoided it, but he'd gotten there during a lull. He'd stocked up on Pop-Tarts. Always a good substitute for real breakfast in a pinch.

  "I miss you," she whispered as the video unfroze. She smiled and shifted so he could see her more clearly.

  "I miss you, too. How are you feeling?"

  She stood and showed him her belly. It hadn't been that long since he'd left her alone in the dark at the airport, but already her belly seemed a little rounder. Her hand slid over the gentle swell and Sam longed to cover her hand with his. He curled his fingers into his palms.

  She sat back down and leaned forward, smiling into the webcam. "I'm good. Starting to feel less tired."

  "That's good. Is Peanut being good?"

  Her laugh chased away some of the darkness in his soul. "Yes, she's being good."

  "Did you have the ultrasound already?"

  "No." She laughed at him again. He didn't mind. It was a fleeting moment of normalcy in this hellish place, where dogs growled at you for trying to feed them. A sick metaphor for this entire fucking war. "It's not for two more weeks."

  "Then why ‘she’?"

  She shrugged and cupped her face in one palm. "Why ‘he’?"

  "Touché."

  She said nothing for a moment and he watched her eyes move over her screen, studying him. "You're not sleeping, are you?"

  He lifted one shoulder, attempting a nonchalance he couldn't feel. "Not really. It'll be better soon enough. Jet lag is always rough." He shifted his weapon against his thigh. "Tell me something from home."

  He wanted to be there. He didn't want to be where he was, looking at his fiancée's belly through a webcam. Wishing he could touch her, feel her breathing while he slept.

  "A bird flew into the kitchen today."

  "A bird?"

  "Yeah. It scared the daylights out of me."

  "What kind of bird? And were you hurt?" He didn't like the idea of a bird dying in the kitchen. Birds carried diseases and well, damn it, he wasn't there to take care of it for her. Not that Faith had any issues taking care of herself, but still.

  "It was fine, but it was really nerve-wracking." She glanced over her shoulder, as though the corpse was still decomposing on the linoleum. "I think it was a sparrow? Not sure."

  He smiled. "You screamed, didn't you?"

  "You'd scream too if you opened the back door and a bird nearly took off your head." She did something on the keyboard. "It darted around the kitchen a little bit before it crashed into the mirror over the kitchen sink. It was so gross."

  He'd seen birds do that before. Back in ’04, the second year of the war and
his first deployment, he'd seen a small black bird that looked like a miniature crow flying around inside a hangar bay. The commander had been adamant that they needed to get the wildlife out of the bay, not because it was a potential vector but because he insisted that the bird was an Iranian spy.

  That commander had lasted a full 24 months in command, and had received a Bronze Star. Sam still couldn't believe that batshit crazy dude had lasted.

  But he remembered the day the little bird had panicked and flown into the wall when Sam had been trying to shoo it outside. Its neck had crunched like a pretzel before it fell to the ground. He hadn't wanted to pick it up, but he'd only been a private then. Its head had lolled grotesquely when Sam moved it. He’d thrown it in a rusted-out trashcan. He'd managed not to throw up when it had twitched. Barely.

  She smiled into the camera. "You're laughing at me, I can tell."

  He matched her smile with his own. "I'm not. Really." But he was, because it felt good. Like sunshine pouring into the emptiest part of his soul.

  "You are. You suck."

  "You suck." He adjusted the headphones on his ears.

  "And you like that."

  Sam coughed out loud. His damn dick perked up at her words. "Don't." His voice thickened. "I'm in the middle of a public call center. I can't walk out of here with a hard-on."

  Faith wasn't dissuaded. "I miss you inside me," she whispered.

  "Jesus, Faith." It took everything he had not to adjust his pants. "Knock it off. You're going to make me look like a sex offender."

  "Can I see it?"

  "No, you can't see it. What part of ‘public internet cafe’ do you not understand?" But his lips curled into a smile. Goddamn, he missed her. "I've got to get ready to go."

  She traced her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. Sam was going to need to stop by a Porta-Potty on the way back to his bay. "You're killing me, babe. Please stop," he whispered.

  "Tell me you love me." Her voice was low and husky. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her body beneath his, her breath on his skin. Clean sheets wrapped around them in the silence.

  "I do. More than you'll ever know."

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to the camera. "I love you, too. Promise me you'll get some rest? You look exhausted."

  "I'll do my best." The lie was smooth and easy, hiding the ugly truth.

  "I guess that's as good as I'm going to get, huh?"

  "Pretty much." He kissed his fingertips and held them up to the screen. "Miss you. Take care of Peanut, okay?"

  "I'll talk to you soon?"

  "I'll call again as soon as I can." His throat thickened.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  "I lov—" But the connection dropped, leaving dead silence on the line before he could answer.

  * * *

  He had to walk back through the barriers to get back to his trailer. Sam didn't think of himself as a coward, but he was damn sure considering taking the long way—a ten-mile walk around the perimeter of the base—back from the chow hall.

  Fear mocked him as he stood on the edge of the cement barrier. He reached down and rested his palm on the pistol grip of his weapon. Comforted by the ever-present weapon, he palmed a magazine as he prepared to enter the labyrinthine nightmare.

  The sun hung low in the sky. Dust danced in the sunset and reminded him of the deserts of Tattooine. The only things missing were the Evil Empire and the promising young farm boy. Sam was many things, but a naive farmer's son with delusions of grandeur was not one of them. No, the reality of the war was much, much worse than any teenage fantasy of glory.

  The base was hustling with the noise of moving vehicles and barks of laughter as groups of soldiers moved to chow and back again.

  Sam tapped the magazine against his thigh as he walked through the barriers and tried not to let his thoughts wander down the wormhole of what might be waiting around the next corner.

  He hesitated as he approached the bunker where the dog had lurked. Cold shame slithered down his spine as he slid a magazine into the weapon and charged a round into the chamber. He would be prepared this time. Pathetic or not, he would shoot that fucking dog if she was still there.

  Hate and fear did a twisted dance in his guts as he peered around the corner. He expected the starving mutt to charge at him, to attempt to rip his face off before he could fire off a single round.

  But the bunker was empty. Cold relief trickled down his spine. He exhaled a shuddering breath and cleared his weapon, catching the round as it popped free and sliding it back into his magazine.

  He didn't linger in the spot. It felt colder there, like something skulked in the shadows. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he moved through the cold spot and back toward the life support area where he and his boys lived.

  He scrubbed his hand over his mouth, irritated that he'd allowed himself to get so tired that he was jumping at shadows. He needed to try and get some sleep before the mission. They were supposed to roll the TAC out in the middle of the night before the main body. A couple of staff weenies were going with them to establish the communications relay. All in all, they had two squads to secure an area that needed an entire platoon.

  The weaknesses in the plan haunted him on the walk back to his trailer. They didn't have enough men, they were setting up near an orphanage, and the communications plan was about as weak as he'd ever seen. He felt the wrongness of the entire plan in his guts but the commander and everyone else were hell-bent that they were going to do this. The potential win—clearing the area of a major bomb maker and his associated minions—was too big to pass up.

  He said nothing as he passed a few of his guys hanging out at the smoke point. The pungent smell of local cigarettes permeated the dusty air. He nodded in acknowledgment and walked past, needing a few minutes alone to maybe close his eyes. Or at least pretend he was going to.

  Sam closed the door to his trailer behind him and sat for a moment on the grungy chair he'd stolen from some dickhead major's room when he'd first arrived. Man, one of the majors in the battalion ops had been pissed when he'd caught Sam taking off with it.

  Cradling his head in his hands, he wrestled with the frustration that burned in him. He flipped his helmet over and pulled out a picture of Faith. Her smile reminded him that she was his reason for going home. It pushed away some of the fear that clutched at him.

  He pulled out his banged-up green notebook. The empty page waited for him to fill it with words. Dared him to spill the fear, the uncertainty, the hatred of the war that wouldn't let him go.

  He sat for a long moment, letting the words germinate in his brain. Then he started to write.

  He wrote about how he'd wanted to be back here when he was home. He told her he was sorry for that. He wanted to be home with her more than anything and if he got the chance to come home, he'd make every single day worth it. He told her about the mission, broke all kinds of OPSEC rules and told her how screwed up the mission was. He told her about the bird that had died on his first rotation. Why he suddenly couldn't stop thinking about it. He confessed he worried about her and the baby. That he wouldn't be able to take care of her, but that he'd do his best. He told her about the school and the kids he'd seen. They were just like kids back home, full of life and hope in the middle of a hellish war. He left out the part he'd played in bringing that hell. He started to tell her about the dog. About the nightmare that seemed to be coming true.

  But his ratty, Army-issued pen froze, as if it had run out of ink.

  The word “dog” was half written, the “o” misshapen and empty. Incomplete, like his tale of this fucked-up war.

  He set the pen down, unable to admit what the war had taken from him. He had no idea what to write about the dog. The only thing that seemed to make sense was that he was losing his mind. He wasn't ready to confess that. Not yet, anyway. Maybe if he really lost his shit, he'd find the courage to write it down and tell the woman who carried his child that the m
an she'd pledged her life with had completely gone off the deep end, tumbling into Nietzsche’s abyss after the monster he'd sought to destroy.

  He closed the notebook, unable to record every fucked-up thing he felt like writing. He stopped, feeling better now that he'd gotten at least some of it out. Even if he'd never send her the letter.

  10

  The middle of the night was never quiet on a base in Iraq. Missions were always going on, twenty-four/seven, except on major holidays like Christmas or the Super Bowl. Even then, the base was a constant hub of activity. Guards needed to be posted, chow needed to be served.

  And on nights like tonight, when the base was ramping up for a major assault, the base was lit up like broad daylight. Generators pumped furious energy to a thousand lights. If the Iraqis didn't know they were coming, they were stupider than Sam sometimes thought they were.

  Sam's headlamp hung around his neck, the bright LED lights illuminating the darkness already pierced by the floodlights of their staging area.

  The Humvees felt small and incredibly fragile compared to the mighty Bradleys. He knew it made sense to take the Humvees even if it violated everything he’d learned as an infantryman who'd grown up around tanks and heavy units. The light fighters—crunchies, as the tankers called them—had no idea how good the concussion from the main gun of an Abrams felt when their asses were pinned down. That main gun could obliterate an enemy, leaving nothing but bloody dust behind.

  It was therapeutic, sometimes, to watch the enemy die a violent death. Sam didn't feel bad about the death of the enemy. It helped that he didn't know their names or have to see their faces too often. The tank’s guns blew them away before those memories had a chance to form, let alone burrow into his psyche.

  The noise of the vehicles deafened everything around them. Merrick's squad was nowhere to be seen. The guys from the TAC had arrived about ten minutes earlier and Sam was lining them up in the formation as Lewis and Hale focused on making sure everyone had enough ammo and water. Hale lit into Jinx and Jinx argued for a hot second before slinking off to fix whatever Hale had found screwed up. Probably not enough water in his CamelBak. Jinx was worse than a chick about drinking water. He claimed to have gotten a bad infection in his dick from backsplash from a Porta-Potty one time and ever since, he was a pain in the ass about drinking enough water on missions if it involved him pissing in less than pristine conditions. He carried around an empty water bottle for just that reason.