“Trevor’s gonna be looking for you in front of the school after sixth period.”
Stephen put his hands up defensively. “I don’t want to fight.”
“You think he cares?” Spencer looked Stephen up and down. “Whether or not you fight back won’t make a difference anyway.” With that he turned and walked away, passing through the crowd of teenagers that had gathered to watch the conversation.
Stephen looked around the crowd, his eyes moving from face to face, hoping to see some signs of encouragement.
He saw none.
Shaking his head, he turned to his locker, opened it, and withdrew his books, pausing with his face out of view behind the locker door. ‘Deep breaths, Steve. Play it cool,’ he told himself. Closing the locker door, he pushed his way through the crowd, trying in vain to shut out the hushed whispers about how Trevor was going to ‘beat the crap out of him’, and ‘probably put him in the hospital.’
Head down, he made his way to class, wondering what the heck he was going to do.
Trevor’s face broke into a wide, devious smile as Stephen shuffled through the front gate of the school, his hands gripping the straps of his backpack tightly.
Stomach churning, sweat beads forming along the top of his forehead, Stephen slowly made his way towards where Trevor waited. He felt himself shaking as he stepped onto the small street that marked the front of the school property, putting him outside of the protection the school provided.
“Come on, motherfucker, hurry up,” Trevor said, tossing his mostly empty backpack aside, letting it fall to the ground. He brought his fists up as he moved towards the freshman.
Stephen’s hands came away from the straps of his backpack, coming up in surrender. “Look, I don’t want to fight you. I’m sorry - ”
Trevor’s fist flew outward towards Stephen’s left eye, catching him at the top of his left cheekbone. Stephen’s legs crumpled under him as he fell to the ground, his backpack still strapped to his back. His hands came up, clutching the side of his face as his mind tried to deal with the sudden explosion of pain.
“Get up, fucker!”
Stephen rolled over onto his stomach, covering his face with his hands. He felt Trevor’s foot nudging his leg as the older boy implored him.
“Come on, Ball Licker!”
“No...stop it….” Stephen felt tears forming in his eyes as he dealt with the pain and humiliation he felt.
“Get up, Ball Licker!” Trevor said, kicking him harder.
A new voice cut through the noise, sharp and crisp.
“Hey, get the hell off of him!”
Stephen felt Trevor stop nudging him. Lifting his head slightly, Stephen saw him turn away, looking towards the voice.
“Stay out of this!”
“Negative. Leave the kid alone.”
In that instant, Stephen recognized the voice.
It was Eddie.
Rolling over, Stephen looked up towards his cousin’s voice. The young man stood there, tall and proud, dressed in his Marine Corps Dress Blue Delta uniform: a khaki shirt with blue pants that bore a red stripe down the side of the leg. His shoes were shiny black, reflecting the afternoon sunlight. His hat was gleaming white, the brim brought down low, barely above his brow.
Trevor stepped towards him, his fists clenched at his side.
“I told you to stay out of this! This doesn’t concern you!” He moved closer, not stopping until he was barely a foot away from Eddie.
Eddie remained unfazed, even though the other young man was slightly taller than him.
“Back up, buddy. I’m not here for a fight, but I won’t let you hurt my cousin.”
Trevor, cocky as ever, leaned in, leading with his face.
“Make me.”
Eddie lifted his chin slightly so that he could look Trevor in the eye. “I need you to back up.”
“Oh yeah? Whaddaya gonna do?”
Trevor brought both hands up and placed them against Eddie’s chest, pushing him backward. In the same instant, Eddie’s hand shot forward smoothly, connecting with Trevor’s Adam’s apple.
Trevor stumbled backwards, eyes wide in shock as his mind tried to process what had just happened. A strained, rasping sound came from his throat as he tried to breathe. Bringing his hand up, he placed it over his throat, holding it gingerly as he stared back at Trevor. He slipped down to one knee, his left hand coming forward to brace himself against the ground, his rights still holding his throat.
Eddie bent over the kneeling teenager. “Don’t ever mess with my cousin again.”
With that, he turned and walked to where Eddie was, extending his hand. “Come on, Steve.” Around them, Stephen could hear the hushed and mumbling voices of the crowd. They were still in shock and awe over what had happened. The sudden burst of violence from the previously stoic Marine had caught everyone off guard, but in retrospect, surprised no one. That’s what Marines are trained to do.
Taking his hand, Stephen rose to his feet, still fighting back the tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”
Eddie smiled. “No problem, cuz. I actually came by to pick you up from school so I could show you my new ride. Great timing, hunh?” He turned and began walking towards the street.
“Yeah,” Stephen replied, falling in alongside him. He could hear the girls in the crowd gushing over how ‘hot’ Eddie looked in his tight-fitting uniform. “Wait, new ride?”
“That’s right, check it out.” Emerging from the crowd, they stopped in front of a brand new, bright red Ford Mustang. It gleamed in the sunlight, polished and trimmed. Its wide, tall tires surrounded black and silver eighteen inch rims. The windows were tinted pitch black.
It was beautiful.
Realizing that he was standing there, mouth agape, Stephen shook his head, snapping himself out of it before turning to look back at his cousin. The young man stood there, tall and proud in his uniform, flanked by fawning young women, looking like a beacon of American patriotism. “Whaddaya think?” Eddie asked, smiling broadly.
“It’s beautiful.”
At that moment, Stephen knew what he wanted to do.
He wanted to be just like Eddie.
CHAPTER TWO
Afghanistan, 2017
Holding his M4 rifle in his hands, his boots crunched the gravel underfoot as he walked alongside his team. The streets of the bombed out town were mostly quiet, with the exception of the occasional stray dog walking through the rubble, searching for food. The bombing run done by the Air Force the day prior had driven most of the town’s residents away, but some remained, clinging to the homes and the only life they knew. Baldinger had seen a few of them, peering out from windows and doorways, staring at him and his team defiantly, as if to say, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘No, no it’s not.’ Baldinger thought, staring back at them. His finger, always near the trigger of his rifle, itched for a reason to wrap around the firing mechanism, to squeeze tightly as he sent hot metal down range. ‘Just give me a reason…’
“Fuck, this place stinks.” Sergeant Smith said, wrinkling his nose as he grimaced. The sun reflected off the mirrored glasses that rested on his lightly freckled nose. His light skin fought against tanning under the sun, leaving his face a reddish color, nearly matching the hair on his head. Big and plodding, the man somehow managed to move his 230-pound frame with relative quiet as he kept pace next to Baldinger.
“Fucking A,” Corporal Jeffries replied from Baldinger’s left. The young black man looked around as he spoke, his eyes constantly scanning for threats. At his side, Corporal Ramirez did the same, though his eyes, visible through his clear glasses, were wide with fear and trepidation. It was his third mission with the team, and they’d been in heavy firefights during each of the previous missions. He was also keenly aware of the fact that the reason he was part of the team was because Corporal Johnson had been killed a week prior.
“Stay focused.” Baldinger said, his eyes scanning the buildings as they walked through the
town.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” The men replied, nearly in unison. Baldinger kept his team tight, insisting on focus, execution, and a clear-cut chain of command at all times. He rarely made small talk during missions, even when they took time to rest and refuel, choosing instead to check his weapon, the map, or his gear while sipping water and chewing protein bars. He allowed the men to talk, as long as their eyes were looking outward.
‘Always on watch.’
That was his principle, and his guiding belief. It was what he stressed to the men, and if Johnson had adopted it, he’d probably still be with them.
If the men in Eddie’s team had followed such a principle, maybe his cousin wouldn’t have come home in a flag-covered coffin.
Reaching up, Baldinger absentmindedly brushed away a fly that buzzed around his ear, wishing there was a way to keep the stupid insects from harassing him.
To his right, bits of rock tumbled downward from one of the destroyed buildings. Smith reacted instantly bringing his rifle to bear, the butt pressed tightly against his shoulder as he pointed the barrel towards the source of the disturbance.
“Dog.” Baldinger stated, not bothering to look. He’d seen the mutt sneaking around from 20 yards back.
As Smith watched, a scrawny brown dog slunk out from behind the concrete wall that previously made up the front of a home. It turned and looked towards the men, raising its nose slightly to sniff the air. Not liking what it detected, the animal turned and trotted away.
“Good eye, Staff Sergeant.”
Baldinger grunted in return, looking towards the far end of the street. The sun was high overhead, giving them some warmth, but overall, the weather was cool and dry.
On his upper left chest, his radio squawked. “Fire Team One, this is Fire Team Two, we are under attack!”
Grabbing the radio and pulling it to his mouth, Baldinger keyed the mic. “Copy Team Two, send location.”
“Southwest of town center, main thoroughfare.”
“Situation?”
“Sniper in the tower across the square. We’re pinned down. Harrison’s shot.”
“Copy. In route.”
Stepping forward, he barked, “Double time!” The Team broke into a quick paced trot, their gear shifting side to side as they ran. Their hands gripped their rifles tightly as they ran, keeping the weapon in control at all times.
“What’s the plan, Staff Sergeant?” He asked, huffing slightly from the exertion.
“We see if we can take out the sniper from a different spot. If not, we call in a strike.”
Fifty thousand feet above, an MQ-9 Reaper unmanned air vehicle circled, armed and ready to answer the call. Standard protocol was to reserve calls for drone strikes unless absolutely necessary, but with one man down, Baldinger told himself he’d make the decision quickly. If they couldn’t kill the fucker in the tower from a covered location, he’d call in a strike.
Rounding the corner, the team ran down a short street before Baldinger put his hand up, slowing them. Ahead, they could see Team Two pinned down behind the scorched and bent frame of an old truck. Closer to where Baldinger’s team stood at the corner, Harrison lay in the dirt of the street, clutching his leg as he writhed in pain.
Baldinger brought his team up against the side of the building at the corner, keeping them out of view of the sniper in the tower. Using a mirror, he peered around the corner. Angling it upward, he moved it slowly until he saw the tower. There was a small, dark opening at the top.
From inside the darkness, there was a flash.
He heard the telltale zipping sound of the shot.
The bullet struck Harrison in his exposed neck, sending blood splattering outwards. Harrison stopped moving.
“Fuck this. Jefferies, call it.”
“Copy that, Staff Sergeant.”
Grabbing his radio, Baldinger keyed the mic, keeping his eyes focused on the sight of the tower in his mirror. “Mickelson, can you illuminate?”
“Fuck, Staff Sergeant, we can’t even move here!”
“We’re calling in a strike, we need someone to illuminate! We can’t do it from here!”
“Shit! Alright. Andrews, illuminate that fucking tower!”
Next to Corporal Mickelson, one of his team members rolled over onto one knee. Reaching behind him, he pulled off his backpack and brought it in front of him. Withdrawing the laser designator from his pack, he removed the covers and powered on the device. Creeping toward the edge of the truck, he steadied the laser designator on the rusted bumper.
Behind Baldinger, Jefferies stepped away from the group and withdrew his long range radio. “Reaper Two One, this is Sting Seven, Type One in effect, advise when ready for modified nine line.”
“Sting Seven, this is Reaper Two One, ready to copy.”
“CHLOE, decimal one, six five, Tee tack five five.”
“Standby Sting Seven.”
There was a brief pause, then the voice returned. “Sting Seven, Reaper Two One, I have visual of square. Confirm target in tower.”
“Roger that, Reaper Two One, target is in tower. Request immediate time on target.”
“Roger, copy. Standby.”
A bullet whined off the shell of the truck, inches above Lance Corporal Andrew’s head. “Fuck!” The man yelled, lowering his head while holding the device steady.
Jefferies returned to Baldinger. “Weapon inbound, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good job, Jeffries.” Baldinger held the mirror steady, watching the small square window near the top of the tower. Seconds later, a gray shape flew into his field of view in the mirror. A brilliant flash followed, preceding a massive boom as the laser-guided bomb detonated, sending concrete, wood, and dust flying outward, peppering the surrounding buildings and destroyed vehicles. A massive cloud of brownish-gray dust formed, making visibility nearly nil as the Marines huddled in their shielded locations.
Standing behind the wall of the building, Baldinger brought his scarf up over his mouth and nose as he waited for the dust to settle. Small bits of concrete and splintered wood rained down around them, showering the area with debris. Nearby, Jefferies’ radio squawked.
“Sting Seven, Reaper Two One, I’m showing target neutralized, request confirmation.”
Jefferies looked at Baldinger, registered his slight nod, then brought the mic to his mouth. “Affirmative, Reaper Two One, target neutralized. Appreciate the assistance.”
“Copy all Sting Seven. Reaper Two One out.”
Baldinger brought his radio up and spoke into it. “Mickelson, check on Harrison and watch our six. We’re gonna clear the remains of the tower.”
“Roger that, Staff Sergeant.”
Sliding the radio back in its holder, Baldinger looked at his team. “Smith, take the left side, from the building edge over two structures. Clear each. Let me know if you find any non-Hostiles. I’ll do the same on the right. Jefferies, Ramirez, clear what’s left of the structure. Locate the shooter’s remains. Got it?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
With that, Baldinger brought his rifle up and rounded the corner, moving across the street quickly, his boots kicking small rocks and pebbles out of the way as he ran. In his peripheral vision, he saw Jefferies and Ramirez headed towards what remained of the tower.
Adjacent to where the tower had stood, a pair of smaller buildings were in shambles, damaged partially from the blast that leveled the tower, and partially from the previous day’s airstrikes. Neither building had doors or windows, only openings for each. Heading for the empty opening that had once held a door, Baldinger slowed, tightening his grip on his M4. He stopped with his shoulder against the concrete surface of the building, took a breath, then swung inside, viewing the blasted interior of the building through the scope of his rifle.
The shell of the room he looked into was littered with broken chunks of concrete and wood, covering an old rug and what remained of a small table. Wooden chairs in the near corner were broken, crushed under th
e weight of the cement that had fallen from above. In the corner, a small, wood burning stove was on its side, partially buried under a pile of rubble.
Across the room was an opening, leading to the rear part of the home. From where he was, he could see rubble covering old blankets, indicating it was likely the home’s sole bedroom. Moving quietly, he stepped around the broken table, carefully avoiding the loose pieces of concrete as he made his way towards the opening. Like he’d done at the front entrance to the home, he stopped near the opening, pressing his back against the wall. In practiced fashion, he took a breath, then swung his body around the wall, into the opening. His rifle moved across the room as his eyes landed on each shape, evaluating them. Aside from the broken furniture and tattered blankets, there was nothing in the small space.
Satisfied with his search, Baldinger turned and left the small room, crossed the larger space, and stepped back out onto the street. Turning left, he moved to the next home. He followed his same procedure for entering the home and again found an empty space with nothing more than broken furniture and a smashed stove. Next to the stove, a pot laid on the ground, its spilled contents covering the dirt floor of the structure. Baldinger stared at the food, a thick stew with what appeared to be potatoes and a few chunks of meat. While not hot, it did look to be still most in liquid form, not fully congealed.
Tightening his grip on his rifle, he turned and looked towards the opening to the rear of the home. He worked his way around a small pile of blankets, nearly stepping on what appeared to be a small doll. At the entrance to the room, as he leaned against the wall, he heard a groaning sound coming from within the space.
Spinning into the room, he stepped forward, his rifle held high. In the corner to his left, a large wooden beam had fallen onto a bed, flattening it. Large chunks of concrete had accompanied the beam, coming to rest in a massive pile. Near where the end of the beam had landed on the bed, he could see a mass of long, dark hair, protruding from the rubble was the thin arm and hand of a small child.
The sniffling sound was coming from a spot directly in front of the opening to the room, under another pile of concrete and sections of wood. Rifle still held high, Baldinger stepped over the rubble, carefully placing his feet to ensure they didn’t land on unstable sections of concrete and wood. Getting closer, he saw the head and torso of an old, Afghani woman buried in the rubble. Tears streamed down her face, cutting through the thick layers of dust that caked her skin. Her eyes shifted from him towards the figure on the bed.
Surviving Rage | Book 3 Page 2
