Pieces of Broken Time

by Lorenz Font

  The air was hot and thick with dust as they secured the area. Blake moved with efficiency, following orders and taking Trent’s left flank. With his pulse thumping in his ears, Blake felt the rush of adrenaline pumping in his body when they worked with seamless accuracy with the rest of the unit, stabilizing the landing zone with minimal resistance. The entire seize and secure objective had lasted six hours with only a few minor injuries sustained by their unit.

  Blake and Trent chose the barracks closest to the radios at base camp.

  Blake lay with his head propped on his arms, one foot twitching back and forth, and staring into the dark at the makeshift ceiling.

  “Can’t sleep?” Trent asked, as he shifted and tossed on his cot, sighing loudly, and making enough noise to keep everyone awake.

  Shane pounded on the wall. “Stop it, Shaw!”

  Several of the other guys started a chorus of groaning and complaining.

  “With you bouncing around like an elephant on a squeaky spring, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep.” Blake grunted in the darkness as he punched the flat lump posing as a pillow underneath him.

  Although their quarters quieted down right away, the echoes of gunshots replayed in Blake’s head like a broken record. As foolish as it sounded, he relished the action of a firefight. The adrenaline rush temporarily made him forget his homesickness. Besides, who could sleep in the numbing cold after the oppressive heat of the day? Add in the dust, which was as thick as clouds, and it felt like he was going to be sick.

  And to think that it was just his first day back.

  Trent snorted. “I’m sure it’s someone you left back home that’s keeping you awake. Is it that pretty gal you’re screwing?”

  Yeah, right.

  If he was being honest with himself, he knew he had just been stringing her along—an easy lay without the promise of anything concrete. “Sorry, bro, you got the wrong guy. I believe you’re the one who’s having separation anxiety, man. By the way, how’s Jennifer?”

  Chuckling, Trent told him more stories about his fiancée with animated excitement.

  While the rest of the guys fell into deep slumber, the pair continued talking until the wee hours of the morning. Blake learned how Jennifer had been dealing with her aunt’s deteriorating health while juggling her career, and as Trent continued talking about her, Blake couldn’t shake the vision of her lovely face from his mind. The woman his friend spoke of with such profound admiration and affection left him wanting to know more about her, and their meeting had given him a glimpse of exactly what he wanted in a woman. Trent was a lucky bastard for landing a great catch.

  Mesmerized by their love story, Blake had found it difficult not to feel envy and wish he had a woman awaiting his return and keeping their bed warm in his absence. It was a long shot considering his relationship with Katrina which, although easy and relaxed, had no depth to it. It was missing the most important aspect—he wasn’t in love with Katrina. He had always thought that love had to be a two-way street shared between two people. When both people were set in their ways, adjusting to a partnership was difficult, even disastrous. He wasn’t complaining at all, but somewhere deep within him he wanted what Trent had.

  Maybe someday …

  November 24, 2001 ~ Kandahar, Afghanistan

  As a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment, Blake and his unit had been trained for every combat scenario imaginable, but nothing could have prepared him for the bitter reality of how war touched the lives of the people. After securing the landing strip south of the city, Blake and his team had been shuttled between Jalalabad, Kabul, and Kandahar, and the stench of political unrest and cultural divide was evident everywhere. He had found it a struggle to stay focused on the task when he was this close to the results of the country’s history as well as airstrikes, to essentially turn off his sympathy for all the human suffering, but he relied on his brothers-in-arms and shifted back to survival mode as he geared up for the latest mission.

  Under the command of Colonel Norwalk, Blake, Trent, and ten other rangers had coordinated ground logistics with the Northern Alliance, and they had been tasked with additional recon of the area before moving forward with their mission.

  Blake had often wondered what aspect of war called out to him. He wasn’t violent by nature, so it wasn’t the sight of innocent lives wasted or the pleasure of killing. At first, it had been an outlet for his rage stemming from the attack on New York City, but with each passing day, a renewed sense of purpose coursed through his veins like burning fuel. It filled him with desire to uphold the given orders with no questions asked. Blake had found this place to be a reprieve, despite its remoteness and unfamiliarity. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. It certainly wasn’t to hide from the reality that the moment this mission was over, Trent and Jennifer would be married. And it had nothing to do with him nursing his battered heart in secrecy.

  Life for soldiers hung on thin thread every single day. Possible harm, and even death, plagued them, but Blake often found the thought just as comforting as it was horrifying. The military’s growing distrust for the civilian population remained a disadvantage for them, but the real possibility of meeting a person on a suicide mission while they were on patrol remained the biggest threat and plenty of justification for pause. Yet they all went about their duties, pushing the potential peril out of their minds as best they could. Blake may have lived each day thinking it could be his last, but he was certain that a son serving his motherland was a damn good way to go.

  Upon returning to base after a ten-hour patrol, Blake sank wearily into the lone chair remaining in the communications tent. Whispered conversations and clicking keys sounded around him as several others soldiers grabbed their tiny tastes of home in the surrounding stalls of computers and phones. He signed in and found an e-mail from Katrina.

  It had been months since he’d last seen her and while they had e-mailed each other off and on, there had never been any real connection between them. Knowing how unstable his life as a soldier was, he had tried to disentangle himself from any romantic affairs before he’d shipped out.

  Despite his wary outlook, he clicked on the e-mail.

  Hi Blake,

  I’m missing you. How about coming to see me once you arrive in the States?

  K

  Blake sensed from Katrina’s e-mail that she was reaching out, showing signs of wanting something deeper, but he tried not to give in to his loneliness and keep her at arm’s length.

  As impervious as he liked to believe he was, the truth was that he had been counting the days until the end of his contract for a much-needed release. Even after several weeks had passed, their communication had continued, and Katrina had promised to wait for him. The buildup was all he had to hold on to until he got home.

  The more he thought about his own pleasure and release, the more he felt like a heel for taking advantage of Katrina. He had no romantic feelings for her, at least, not in a deeper sense.

  Then another e-mail came, which confused him even more.

  Blake,

  I can’t pretend anymore. I’m falling in love with you.

  K

  Blake leaned back in the dusty chair and stared at the computer monitor. It wasn’t a surprise. He’d seen it coming.

  He read and reread the damn e-mail until he was able to form some semblance of an acceptable response. Heel or no, the last thing he had ever wanted to do was hurt Katrina’s feelings.

  Katrina,

  I won’t sit here and pretend that I don’t know what’s going on between us, but I can’t promise you anything. You can hate me for leading you on. I have nothing to give you that I haven’t already done.

  Blake

  A response popped up not even two minutes after he had hit the send button.

  That’s good enough for me. I will wait for your return.

  Katrina

  December 12, 2001 ~ Battle of Tora Bora

  Time was passing at a snail’s pace in thi
s place. What had started with the successful takeover of the landing strip two months ago had become an endless patrol that Blake counted every ticking second as a blessing. He tried to keep his fears to himself but, with each passing day, his withdrawal and silence became more noticeable.

  “Yo, Connor, keep it down. I can’t take all your chatterboxing, man,” Trent said, smirking.

  Blake folded the paper containing the mission coordinates and tucked it into his pocket. “And you are a shitload of fun.”

  “What’s doing?” Trent knew him well enough to know when something was on his mind. “Remember, sharing is caring.”

  “I think the dust is clouding your brain. Get a medic and have the silly one-liners flushed out of your head. You’re beginning to sound like a girl.”

  “And your long face is annoying. What happened to the jerk that I know? You look like you’re knocking at hell’s door.” Trent’s tone held a playful note, but his expression showed a fair amount of anxiousness.

  Blake sobered. “I don’t know. I don’t have a good feeling.”

  “Ready, boys?” Colonel Norwalk said, halting any further banter.

  The chorus of ayes rippled through the group as they piled into their assigned vehicles.

  In a matter of minutes, the convoy was making its way toward the Tora Bora Mountains, which were believed to be the nesting place of the suspected mastermind of the attacks on the United States just three months prior. His exact location was the big question mark. Blake’s group relied on ground intelligence while they prepared to lay siege on America’s most wanted.

  The wind was gusting hard and making the cold air even harsher as Trent kept them sandwiched between the two other vehicles and moving at a rapid clip to the base at the foot of the mountain.

  Blake rode shotgun and surveyed the beguiling sea of green and pink opium fields with keen and watchful eyes.

  In an attempt to show goodwill and avoid backlash from the farmers, the harvest had been embraced by the American troops with reluctance. The government worry had been that, with the destruction of the largest cash crop, the locals would blame the servicemen and women for their poverty.

  Robert, a six-year veteran from Oklahoma, and Shane, a redneck from Kansas, were armed with sniper and assault rifles aimed just below their back windows, but more than ready to take a few teasing shots at the unusually serious Captain Connor.

  “Blake, why so quiet today?” Shane asked, without missing a single chomp of his gum.

  “Something’s off,” he muttered and kept his eyes glued forward, more alert than ever.

  “You always have a bad vibe, dude. Cut it out. You give me the chills when you say shit like that.” Trent pointed to another sprawling field.

  Blake glanced sideways. “Then stop asking me. You guys are a bunch of sorry asses,” he said, returning a wave from a child walking along the field with his mother.

  The gut feeling had started long before they’d left home base, and Blake hated it. He didn’t believe in a sixth sense and other superstitious crap, but this morning, for some odd reason, a prickle had kept running up and down his spine. He hadn’t come across a sensation like this the whole time he’d been in the sandbox.

  A loud thud reverberated in the distance.

  By the sound of the explosion, Blake was pretty sure it was a rocket-propelled grenade.

  The truck was slammed hard on the right-hand side, and everything seemed to pause—sounds, smells, gravity—then it registered that they were flipping end over end.

  Blake was overwhelmed by the smell of fuel seconds before the gas tank burst into flames, hammering the Humvee and the men inside straight into the ground. The nature of this type of assault meant reaction had to be swift, but Blake found it difficult to act when he had to waste precious seconds finding up from down when the violent motion stopped.

  “Fuck!” Blake felt like a rag doll with his limbs twisted and turned in every direction. He raised his head slowly, trying to access injuries while figuring out where the hell he was. There was no steel frame surrounding him, no window to his side, and no team members within reach. A loud roar and high pitched squeal echoed in his ears, and it felt as if his stomach might jump out his throat at even the slightest move.

  He closed his hands around what should have been the dashboard only to recognize grass, rock, and dust roadway trickling between his fingers. He blinked several times and forced his breathing to slow enough to clear his head. He had been thrown from the Humvee and landed about ten feet away from the blazing crumpled lump. It must have been the adrenaline pumping in his veins that helped him stagger to his feet amid the ensuing blast that hit the other vehicles. Blood trickled from his head and he couldn’t see out of one eye. He took a step forward—searing pain shot through him. He fell to the ground and saw flames on parts of his uniform. His brain barely registered what was happening, but instinct told him to roll on the ground to extinguish the heat ravaging his body. The stench of burning flesh and the confusion made him vomit.

  “Help!”

  It took a tremendous amount of effort for Blake to acknowledge exactly where the faint cry had originated. He summoned every ounce of his remaining energy to push his body up. He was struggling with limbs that weren’t cooperating when he saw Robert crawl out of the vehicle, bloodied, with half of his left arm missing.

  “Where’s Trent and Shane?” Blake asked. His throat felt as though it had been sandpapered a dozen times.

  “Shane’s dead.” Robert dragged his body away from the burning vehicle. “Stay away. The truck’s going to explode,” he warned before collapsing to the ground.

  Blake pushed forward despite his vision flashing white and his instinct to give in to the blackness threatening him. Unable to feel much of his body, he made the excruciating forward movement to reach the burning mass. The nauseating stench of leather and other things cooking over an open flame made his stomach lurch again. He found Trent on the driver’s side, bleeding. He had no time to assess the damage. He had to get his friend out.

  “It’s going to blow,” Trent whispered, trying to push him away.

  “Buddy, I’m getting you out of here.” Blake grabbed Trent by his jacket, hauled him out of the fiery compartment, and dragged his friend as far away as he could.

  “Jen …” Trent’s faint voice broke into Blake’s clouded haze of fear, pain, and confusion. Then Trent coughed and spat out blood.

  “You’re going to be okay, buddy. Hang in there.” He looked down at Trent and the last thing he remembered was a blast buffeting him from behind.

  The deafening screech of metal exploding, the scent of burning flesh, and Trent’s plea …

  “Take care of our girl.”

  And then Blake’s world turned pitch black.

  January 15, 2002

  Four weeks after he had been airlifted to Landstuhl, Germany, in critical condition, Blake had finally been deemed stable enough to return to the States for further treatment.

  His parents had flown to Europe to be with him. During the first days together, Blake had repeatedly asked them to leave so he could be alone. He couldn’t bear the sight of his parents in agony at what their son had become. The nightmare was his.

  As he was being prepped for the trip, he overheard the doctor talking to his parents about his condition. It was an out-of-body experience, listening to them talk about him as if he still had hope. Hope had dissipated the moment their convoy was hit with the RPG and Trent died in the blast.

  “Your son is likely to experience mood swings related to PTSD,” the doctor said.

  He heard his mother gasp and sobbing followed. She was no stranger to the terminology, having married a soldier.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Claire asked.

  “The healing will be a long process. He’ll need more skin grafting and physical therapy. The blindness, however, is permanent. It’s going to affect his balance and his depth perception, but with therapy, he’ll be able to adjust to his
condition. At this point, I’m more concerned about his mental ability to recover. It is normal to have survivor’s guilt, but we have to monitor his behavior. For now, I’m giving him anxiety medication. If you feel that he is exhibiting behavior that is self-destructive or he is isolating himself, you need to contact his doctor right away. The common symptoms are irritability, angry outbursts, trouble concentrating, and sleep problems. It is a natural response for a traumatized person to shut himself away from the rest of us. The effects from the trauma might be delayed, so there’s a chance it won’t manifest until later on. Blake will likely ignore the indicators.”

  Blake seethed as another sob followed the doctor’s statement. It was one thing to hear the diagnosis and symptoms again and again, but having his actions dissected felt like an invasion of his privacy.

  Suck it up, Connor. These are your parents. They have the right to know.

  He ground his teeth, sucked in a long, deep breath, and got a grip on his emotions before asking the nurse if he could make the one phone call that had been on his mind since he had regained consciousness.

  “Take care of our girl.”

  The last tear he’d ever shed over Trent’s words made its way down his cheek. He wiped it away and cleared his throat. “Jennifer?”

  “Blake? Is that you?”

  “Yes …”

  “Oh, Blake. He’s gone. Trent is gone!”

  It was all he could do to listen to the sound of Jennifer’s pitiful crying while fighting his own demons. Trent, who had still had his entire life to live, had perished from the explosion, and he was alive.

  It should have been me.

  After what seemed like eternity, her sobs were reduced to hoarse whimpers, and Blake knew he had to say something. “Hey … you’re going to be okay. Trent is now in a better place. He died doing what he loved best, and you should be proud of him.”

  “I-I-I … am …” She hiccupped and sniffled.

  “You have to be brave and strong. I will try to call you whenever I can.” It was going to be a difficult promise to fulfill.