by B. K. Dell
Their eyes rose to the sky as they watched the helicopter that carried their Marine brother get smaller and smaller. Then they heard a frightful sound. Their senses identified it before their brains actually did; it was the sound of an RPG. It was launched from the spot where they believed they had just eliminated the enemy. The rocket left a streamer across the sky. They stood there, helpless, watching. Their eyes followed the path of the streamer upward until it led straight to the medevac chopper. The men waited to see it come out the other side. They imagined that the direct hit had been an optical illusion, a trick played by their depth perception. The enemy missed, like they had a habit of doing. An explosion and a burst of light entered their brains. They were not conscious of seeing one and hearing the other, just a sudden stabbing awareness inside their minds that the enemy didn’t miss. Caleb’s helicopter had been hit.
Black smoked flowed from the tail end of the chopper like a stage effect at a rock concert. The machine, like a wounded and confused animal, limped, jerked, and staggered. It flew in circles, spiraling downward as the pilot struggled with the controls that no longer provided sufficient dominion over the uncompromising air. Gravity thrust the ground up toward them and they fell back behind the range of the mountains, out of Jackson and Rider’s sight. They heard a crash, then saw the smoke.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For fear of drawing RPG fire from an enemy fortified deep in the mountains, Major Nash was forced to forego an aerial search and instead opted to send in a small fire team to search for the wreckage. Their mission was to retrieve any survivors or any remains. They also were to report back the location of the crash and the condition of the helicopter.
Jackson made sure he was on that team. Brit was assigned fire team leader. Two other Marines went along named PFC Franco and Lance Corporal Kane. They filed into a humvee with a .50 caliber M2.
A narrow trench that could be almost described as a road led them most of the way to the crash site. When they turned a sharp corner into the mountains, they were able to see the helicopter, but not able to reach it. The passage became too narrow to fit a vehicle through.
“We can hike it,” Jackson declared optimistically.
“Are you insane? We would be too vulnerable,” said Brit as he panned his binoculars over the scorched helicopter for any hint of survivors.
“We are already too vulnerable,” Jackson said under his breath as he surveyed all the mountain peaks towering above them.
Seeing Jackson’s expression, Lance Corporal Kane said, “If we saw where the helicopter went down, then the enemy saw it too. They had to have known we would head here.” No one said anything, so he raised his voice more forcefully, “We are sitting ducks! If we keep waiting around here, our goose will be cooked.”
“Are we ducks or are we gooses?” asked Brit casually.
“Geese,” said PFC Franco, correcting Brit.
“You people are nuts! We’ve got to get out of here,” insisted Kane.
“He’s right,” said Brit. “I can’t see any sign of survivors.”
Quickly, Jackson grabbed the binoculars from him. When he scanned the gruesome scene, his eyes seemed to get stuck on a charred black mess a few short yards from the smoking helicopter. Jackson knew it was a body. He could not look away. It was the type of image he had been seeing in his nightmares. He knew that it could have been Caleb’s body that he was seeing.
Brit grabbed the binoculars back. He said, “We’ve got to go. Let’s report in and we’ll come back with a plan.”
“Wait!” said Jackson. “We can’t leave the helicopter.”
“The helicopter?” asked Franco.
“The charred helicopter could be photographed by the enemy and used for propaganda.”
“So what?”
“A propaganda victory for them could result in more loss of life for our side,” urged Jackson.
Brit knew that he just wanted to go and hunt for Caleb. What could the four of them do about the helicopter anyway?
“C’mon,” said Jackson, “this is Hertz we are talking about.”
Before Brit could say another word, an explosion hit the side of the mountain. The impact resulted in a small rock slide just behind their location. Half the Marines turned their faces to the source of the rocket – high up on the ridge, just as they feared – and half turned to watch helplessly as the road they came in on became completely blocked off. A giant slab of rock now tilted from one side of the gorge and leaned up against the mountain on the other side. Several more tons of rock landed on top of that.
It was unclear if blocking the road like that had been their intention or if the rocket had been meant for them and was fired with the usual dose of Taliban precision. Jackson turned to investigate the road going forward, seemingly the only option left open to them. From around the corner formed by the rock formation, he could see tracers of bullets flying to his left and his right. The enemy had the road completely covered. The noise of each blast echoed from one side of the rock over to the hard place and then back. Jackson’s fire team was caught right in the middle. The echo made it seem like two or three times the number of bullets. Jackson jumped up on the M2 to return fire, but Brit grabbed him and pulled him down behind the humvee’s back bumper.
“There’re too many of them!” he shouted, then pointed to the crack in the gorge formed by the slab of stone that had just fallen. “It’s our only shot,” he said. There seemed to be just enough room for their bodies to slip through the opening, but clearly not enough for a vehicle.
Jackson shook his head in disbelief. The distance to that small opening was as far as the length of a football field. Before Jackson knew what was happening, the motor of the Humvee they were hiding behind had started. Jackson and the other two instinctively jumped in. Brit had miraculously made his way to the driver’s seat and put it in reverse. He was driving toward the opening in the stone backward when a rocket blast exploded so close to them that it forced the Humvee to crash into the side of the mountain. Brit tried two more times to restart it, but it was dead.
Brit quickly jumped up to the top of the M2, where he had forbidden Jackson a moment before, and yelled, “Go! Go!” pointing to the opening.
With Brit providing cover, Jackson and the other two ran as fast as they could to the opening. The other two went first and Jackson slid through last. As he did, he turned back to see Brit jump down from the gun to follow them.
As soon as Brit left the giant weapon behind, they could hear the enemy rounds increasing. The surface of the rock was exploding all around him as bullets whizzed past, ricocheting off the hard stone just to get a second chance at killing him.
Jackson had to clear the slim passage in the rock in order to allow him room to get through. Once on the other side, he could no longer see what was happening with Brit. He crouched to look back through the opening, but all he saw was the blinding light reflecting off the surface of the rock. He waited. The bullets were still firing at a fantastic pace. Jackson watched for any sign of Brit at all. “C’mon, Brit! C’mon!” Jackson was not sure if he said it out loud or just in his head.
“C’mon, Brit!” This time he yelled it.
Finally he saw a helmet and two palms suddenly appear. Brit had dived down into the bottom of the crack. Jackson lunged back in and connected with Brit’s hands. Franco and Kane grabbed Jackson. The three of them pulled him swiftly to the other side.
Once free, they started running. Brit turned back once they had run far enough and tossed a grenade into the opening they had all just squeezed through. None of them stayed to watch the explosion, but they could hear it behind them, followed by a trembling and the sound of another rock slide.
They had run five miles when Brit stopped short next to a small nook in the side of a rock formation. The other three followed him and they tucked themselves out of sight in the shadow that was cast.
“We have their coordinates!” Brit said excitedly.
“What?” Jackso
n did not understand his excitement.
“We were just there.” Brit shook his GPS. “We can bring up the exact coordinates from the spot we just left. A whole bloody faction of Taliban and we have their exact location,” Brit said happily as he raised his radio.
“What about Caleb?”
Brit lowered the radio. He shot one genuine look of sympathy and concern in Jackson’s direction, but it quickly turned as cold and as hard as the stone that surrounded them. Brit said, “Hertz is gone. You saw the bodies.”
“I saw a body. There was only one visible body.”
“He couldn’t have survived, Brooks. I’m sorry, we have a job to do,” he began to raise the radio again. “Besides, now they have a US helicopter and a Marine Humvee.”
“So?”
“The propaganda war must be battled as well; you said so yourself,” Brit said as he radioed in the coordinates to a couple of Navy HY68s with a couple of thousand pound bombs.
“You got those coordinates right? I don’t want you to end up with this egg on your face,” the radio asked.
“It’s right. Let them have it.”
“Roger that.”
Through the binoculars, Brit could see the planes approach. As he saw them drop their cargo he whispered the words, “Bombs away.”
Jackson watched as the bombs left the aircrafts. He was overcome with a feeling of utter helplessness. Images, memories of Caleb filled his mind. His brain raced, desperately searching for any last option – of course there was none. Nothing has quite the finality of bombs in freefall.
In the final seconds before impact, the Marines opened their mouths so that the power of the blast would not break their eardrums. The ground beneath them shook like severe turbulence on an airplane.
Brit pressed the button for the radio and said, “Bravo. Now send someone to come get us out of here.”
***
Jackson’s hands shook ever so slightly. He sat and peeled Caleb’s drawings off the wall where Caleb had helped Brit hang them. One by one, Jackson stacked them neatly in a pile.
“Brooks,” Rider called out as he walked up behind him. He was carrying an envelope in his hand. When Jackson turned around, Rider said awkwardly, “This came for Hertz. I didn’t know what to do with it.”
Rider handed him the letter. The return address read:
Cheryl Hobbs
4217 Shady Dr.
Lake Durham, TX 75020
USA
“It’s from his mother,” Jackson frowned.
Rider breathed in deep. He said, “Well, I just wanted to find it a home before Michael Ponce publishes it.”
Jackson scowled, “He’s still here?”
“Looks like it. I guess his boss thinks there is still a story here. He keeps asking me how I feel about what happened to Caleb.”
Jackson sighed, “Just keep him away from me.” He turned back to grab the next drawing.
Rider gave him two kind pats on the back and said, “Just make sure Hertz gets it when he gets back.” Then Jackson heard him walk away. Jackson turned around to say bye, but he was already gone.
He pushed the drawing to the side and positioned himself to where he could lean his back on the wall. He suspended the envelope between two fingers and began to twirl it. He was stalling. He wasn’t sure if he should open it. He knew that Rider had only added that last part for him. He was coming to grips with the idea that Caleb was killed in action.
He shoved one finger into the side and tore the top open. He pulled out one single folded piece of stationery. It was purple. The short note that Caleb’s mom had sent was written by hand. Tears began to fill the bottom half of his vision and he shut his eyes tight. He leaned his head back against the wall.
When Mrs. Hobbs had written this note, she had no idea that Caleb wouldn’t be receiving it.
He opened his eyes and read:
My dearest Caleb,
Well, it finally happened. You remember that stray cat I told you I was leaving food out for? Well, he finally came to me. I guess I earned his trust. He jumped up in my lap and I was hooked. He has taken over the whole house! I guess I have a pet cat now. His fur is so unkempt and his whiskers so wiry that he reminds me of Christopher Lloyd – so, I named him Doc Brown. The worst part is that I guess I never realized just how allergic to cats I really am! I can’t stop sneezing; my eyes are all red and itchy; but what can I do? I can’t just throw him out in the cold. I try to resist petting him, but he purrs so happily. This animal is going to put me in the ER…but he sure is cute.
I hope this letter finds you well. You’re in my prayers every night.
Love, Mom
PS- I ran into that nice girl, Joann, today in town. I am not sure if you even remember her. You two were friends right? Anyway, she told me that she was proud of you for what you are doing over there. I thought I would pass that along. XOXOX
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You ever seen a sandstorm like this before?” Rider was trying to sound casual, even though he had a bad feeling. Their caravan was traveling through the adobe-walled village of Almoud.
“We’ll be fine,” said Jackson. He was addressing the question he heard in Rider’s tone, not his words.
“I don’t know how we could even see the enemy to fight them,” said Rider.
“Well, I doubt we will have to.” Jackson felt pretty comfortable due to the fact that Echo Company had already cleared this part of the village and had already swept for IEDs. Golf Company was heading out to rendezvous with them on the east side. Every mile they drove further from Caleb’s crash site was another mile further away from learning what really happened to him.
Rider could see the look in Jackson’s eyes, but he had no good words for him. He said, “He told me a joke.”
“Who did?”
“You know who.”
Jackson turned his head back out the window. He said, “What was Caleb’s joke?”
“Um…” Rider paused trying to remember it. “Oh yeah, how many gay rights activists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
Jackson grinned. “I don’t know. How m-”
Suddenly, Jackson saw the ground slip out from under them as the front part of their vehicle was flung into the air with so much force that the entire thing flipped twice before it landed upside down. It was the loudest noise that Jackson had ever heard. He felt grateful to have heard it however; one of his biggest fears was dying from an attack that he didn’t even have a chance to witness, being turned into pink mist before the ka-boom even got a chance to reach his ears.
Brit pulled Jackson out from underneath the flaming wreckage. He couldn’t believe that they had survived. “Rider? Where is Rider?” He didn’t know he was shouting. He could not hear his own voice. When Brit pointed to Rider, Jackson saw that they had both emerged unscathed despite the unlikely odds, but he could not hear a thing that Brit was saying. Jackson turned to Rider to see if his hearing was gone also. Then everyone, as if they were on the set of an old episode of Star Trek, ducked their heads simultaneously. Jackson could not figure out how they could do it in sync like that. Everyone ducked and began to run but Jackson and Rider. Brit turned back when he realized that neither of the two reacted as fast. Brit grabbed their arms just as they were figuring out what was happening. They all ran for cover. The entire scene seemed surreal to Jackson who felt like he was watching a war movie with the mute button pressed.
The whole thing had been a set up. The enemy had back laid IEDs on the ground that the Americans had already scanned, knowing that the Marines would be less likely to suspect them that way. The terrorists had been hiding, waiting for this trap to be tripped. With his back to the 7-ton truck, Jackson could feel the vibrations of the bullets against the metal. Slowly he began to hear them. They sounded more like raindrops on a car roof than the armor splitting and eardrum piercing sound he was used to.
The wind picked up and the sand was blowing more fiercely. Jackson considered the good fortune
for the enemy – the Americans not only fell into their trap, but did so during such a blinding sand storm. Jackson was frazzled. He could not figure out how they would get themselves out of this one. On top of that, he felt worthless. Every sound that reached Jackson’s ears sounded like it first traveled through two mattresses. Every sight was like trying to see through shear pantyhose.
Through the corner of his eye, he saw Brit point to the west and shout something that he could not hear. Jackson’s heart raced. He knew that they were too vulnerable. If the enemy had them surrounded, they were finished. He turned but he did not see anything; the fog of sand was too thick. Finally, he saw a figure running toward their humvee. A suicide bomber! Jackson’s heart raced as he remembered the image he had seen of his own charred body in his dreams, the image that made Stephanie scream in terror, but he steadied his riffle as the Rules of Engagement ran through his head. The man was traveling fast. In his peripheral vision he noticed that Rider had also turned his rifle toward the approaching figure. The sweat that dripped into Jackson’s eyes stung so bad it was hard to keep them open. Why had Trigger Happy Holt not yet fired on the figure? The wind sounded like rusty pipes in Jackson’s broken ears. He heard someone shout, “Inserts,” but that made no sense. The sound seemed to float strangely in the back of some unfamiliar part of his brain. It felt more like a memory than something he was hearing in real time. “Gala berts!” This time he could hear that it was Brit shouting and it wasn’t a memory. The suicide bomber approached another step. “Ids gay lobe hers.”
