by C. B. Stagg
To Nicole McClanahan, thanks for promoting the mess out of this book and me! Scarlett Wolfe, thanks for taking me under your wing and showing me I could do so much more than I thought I was capable of.
To my family, thanks for supporting my strange and very time-consuming hobby… and a special thank you to Andrew and Stacey, avid readers of mine, all through the process. Your loyalty means more than you’ll ever know.
Scars Like Wings
Prologue
Bennett
I’d seen this godforsaken desert through a vast array of lenses during my short tour of Iraq. From a dark amber lens combatting the unforgiving sun, to protective goggles scuffed to near opaqueness while handling explosives, to night vision when the threat of an invisible enemy loomed in the shadows of darkness. But the pink hue coating the visor of my helmet was not one of optimism and positivity, which are so often associated with a rose-colored tint. No, the slick veil of blood spatter marring my vision revealed the desert for what it truly was: an evil hothouse with dust demons dancing on the scorched terrain. The armpit of Satan himself.
It was Hell on Earth.
"The trauma pack! Get the trauma pack!"
A man with an American accent fired back and forth with a staticky radio voice. Damn! Was our convoy hit or was his distress call for someone else? The man mumbled like he had a mouth full of cotton balls, preventing further comprehension on my part. I hoped the sorry SOB on the other end understood what he was trying to tell them. The tone behind his words sent chills down my spine. I know panic and unadulterated fear when I hear it, but fear or not, the persistent ringing in my head made everything sound like I was a million miles away.
Any attempt to wipe my eyes was futile. Hard as I tried, nothing was happening. My arm lay at my side like a sleeping dog. Move, damn it! The only things cooperating were my eyes. But even then, they were next to useless. My eyelids were wet and sticky. When I blinked, they stuck together like soggy postage stamps. Everything was clingy, bonding to the closest object, cemented by some unknown substance.
But I was falling apart at the seams. I struggled to see, to move, even to draw a breath. I felt high, like that one time in high school I’d eaten a friend’s ‘special’ brownies, going back for seconds and thirds before I knew things weren’t right. Something in my brain wasn’t connecting with the rest of my body. What we have here is a failure to communicate. The words from Cool Hand Luke fluttered in and out of my semiconscious, yet panic-stricken mind.
Mercifully, I shook free from the confines of my bucket and was better able to assess the situation. Part of my problem was the 250 pounds of solid muscle pinning me to the hot, dry land.
“Off!” I screamed, though the voice didn’t carry the weight of a US Army sergeant. It was more like a choked whisper… my pathetic attempt at authority. “Now.” I tried again, getting the same result.
“Sgt. Hanson? That you?” The question tumbled from his lips and the tremor in the voice put me on high alert. Panic. More panic. The disembodied call came from somewhere above me, but I didn’t have the neck strength or inclination to identify the man behind the words. His accent was American, which provided a sliver of relief to my growing anxiety.
The voice leaned down into my face.
Commander Daniels.
The man had been with Chance and me since Day One and was like a father to me. He was career army and had to be the most intelligent man I knew. He said he saw himself when he looked at me, a compliment I found equally flattering and terrifying. But this wasn’t the man I knew. Fear radiated from his eyes, and his hands shook so violently he struggled to operate the radio in his hands.
“You okay, Commander?” I had to ask. He was paper white. His knees buckled and he landed on the ground beside me. It tore me up to watch a man I had such great respect for—one I looked up to and emulated—topple over like a house of cards.
“Yeah, I need to check on my squad.” The old horse cavalry rules kicked in. Feed your horses, your men, and yourself. In that order.
“Let me just… ” He scuttled away, calling to someone behind him, his command unintelligible. Were these men poor communicators or was it me? Everything sounded like it was happening under water.
Several pairs of dusty, black boots shuffled uncomfortably close to my face, but they did manage to lift him off—the soldier and the person who knew my best and my worst—from my chest. I choked down steamy air and a fair amount of sand, trying to replenish my oxygen supply as the men placed him on the ground a few feet away. It was hard for me to get a good look, but even using only my peripheral vision, it was clear something was terribly wrong.
“Chance?” In my head, I already knew it was him, but now I was sure. His body, or what was left of it, sat awkwardly wadded up like a piece of discarded paper. Most of one leg appeared to be missing and the other was gone altogether. A river of thick, metallic-smelling plasma flowed through angry vessels, pumping from a jagged hole in his torso with surprising force. Blood and flesh covered the ground. I reached out to touch him, ignoring the flaming stabs of pain shooting through my body as I moved. With tremendous effort, I was able to scoot close enough to reach his hand with the tip of my finger.
The wind picked up and sand started flying around, swarming like angry wasps. The unmistakable sound of helicopters followed and before I could blink, I was surrounded once again by grimy boots coming at me from all angles. With every ounce of energy I had, I lunged to say goodbye to my friend. When I squeezed his hand with a painful finality—one last contact between brothers—something slipped from his grip. I didn’t even have to look to know what it was. Chance’s most treasured possession, his good luck charm. The fact that it was the last thing in his hands before he died was an irony not lost on me. I swiped the small, worn photo from the bloodsoaked desert floor before it could blow away, grasping it as if my life depended on it.
Moments, or maybe hours, later, I was carried off on a makeshift stretcher and loaded onto the first of three, possibly four, helicopters waiting beyond the dunes. Taking one last look at the destruction that had been our convoy—on a simple mission to pick up supplies from Camp Doha—I could see the puddle of blood where I’d lain seconds before. Was all that mine?
Chance’s body had already been loaded into one of the other choppers; one used for cargo, not medical transport. He was gone. With that realization, the adrenaline formerly blocking the reality of my condition seeped away. From somewhere deep within my defeated soul, a guttural scream emerged before my mind took control. The scene before me, worthy of a Wes Craven film, faded into darkness… but not before one small detail was seared into my mind. Amidst the puddle of blood, now mixing with the sand to create an ominous, rusty-red mud, one thing remained. The blistering wasteland of that vile Middle Eastern desert took a souvenir from the United States Army. Still dressed in desert camo, with the black combat boot still laced up and tied as if it had been done just seconds before, lay half a leg—perfectly intact, owner yet to be determined.
