Chapter 11

Seventeen years later

Mortar fire was so common that Asher and his teammates hardly even noticed it anymore but that morning it was different. They were the last ones left in Helmand Providence, Afghanistan. The marines had just pulled out and Special Ops was scheduled to pull out the following day. The war was over or so they said. The insurgents hadn’t let up on their mortar fire but it was so non-lethal that sometimes it was even laughable. That morning Asher woke to the sound of it hitting close to the barracks. His feet were on the floor and he was jamming on his boots next to his buddy Two-Finger Freddie who slept on the bottom bunk. They were both wide awake and ready to move in seconds.

“What the fuck?” Freddie asked him, like maybe he had thrown the mortar.

“Fuck if I know,” was Asher’s standard reply to most of Freddie’s questions.

They were pulling their gun straps across their shoulders as the second round hit. That one was close…too damn close, and even more unusual was that normally, the insurgents were one-hit wonders. The third followed it almost immediately and shook the barracks like a massive quake.

“Fuck!” Freddie hollered out again before Asher heard the sounds of gunshots outside. They headed for the door but before they made it there was an actual explosion. The lights went out as they were both propelled backwards and smoke instantly filled the room. Asher landed on his back but immediately rolled onto his stomach. It was the position they were trained to take. Legs crossed and hands over your ears to save what hearing you could. The barracks were filled with the sounds of coughing and hacking. He couldn’t see anything through the fog or smoke that filled the room. He made a near fatal mistake by holding his head up and sucking in a deep breath. Whatever was in the air set his lungs on fire. His eyes were burning and watering so badly that he could barely keep them open. It was a fucking chemical bomb!

Over the sounds of coughing he yelled out to his men, “Everyone okay?”

He tried to listen for the sounds of his team. There were only eight of them. He heard Piper and Pierce yell out in the affirmative, followed by a wheeze and a hack. A few seconds later came Hancock, James and Sulley. Then there was silence. “Mack! Freddie!” the coughing continued and as his heart raced into a panic he tried talking himself down. They just can’t talk, they’re coughing. Louder this time with his lungs searing in his chest, he yelled, “Freddie! Mack! Damn it answer. Are you okay?”

A few feet from him he heard a gurgle. As he was dropping to his knees he heard Freddie call out behind him, “I’m okay, Staff Sergeant.”

“Mack?” Asher could barely make out his silhouette. He used his hands to feel along his face and chest like a blind man until he felt the thick rush of warm blood bubbling up out of his chest. Fuck! “Hang on Mack. We’re going to get you out of here.” His own voice was unrecognizable. His throat was like raw meat.

“Hey!” the sound of the Staff Sergeant from team two’s voice floated in with the smoke from the east side of the barracks. “Y’all gonna stay in bed all day?”

As loudly as Asher was able to manage it, he yelled at his men to get out. He could hear them shuffling and moving as they did. A pair of boots stopped next to him and he knew they were Freddie’s before he looked up. “Top or bottom?” was all Freddie said.

“I got the top,” Asher told him. He grabbed Mack under his arms and Freddie scooped up his legs. Mack had to weigh close to three hundred pounds in his equipment, but they weren’t leaving him there.

As they got closer to the door Asher could hear the sounds of rapid gunfire. He looked at Freddie as soon as they hit daylight and without another word they both crouched down low, holding Mack only a foot or less off the ground as debris from the building and gunshots rained down on their heads. The air outside wasn’t much better than inside. Asher decided that it must have been a suicide bomber with a truck filled with chlorine. Fucking bastards. The Sergeant from team II and two men from Asher’s team stood between firing off shots until they reached the man-made barrier along the edge of the base. They laid Mack down in the mud and called for transport. He knelt down next to him and that was when he realized Mack was already gone. He didn’t have time to mourn him, but he offered him what respect he could by moving his body further down into the pit where it wouldn’t be tramped or fired on. Then he pressed his gun into his shoulder and began firing towards whatever was firing at them. He still couldn’t see anything. They needed to get higher, above all this smoke.

Asher’s team was close by minus Mack. He consulted with the Sergeant First Class and they decided to go in opposite directions. While the Lt. was talking to his team, Asher looked to his own and said, “We have to get to higher ground. On my count, we’re making a break for the ‘look-out.’ Hopefully we’ll be able to see these bastards from there.” His men all nodded their assent. Asher waited until there seemed to be a break in the gunfire and yelled at them to go. They all ran, sucking in the thick, contaminated air and still hacking and spitting as they moved.

They were like ducks in a shooting gallery as they ran across the open area. Asher was relieved not to hear any gunfire until just before the last man in front of him ran inside. Asher fired back, drawing the fire in his direction. He felt the first bullet rip through his side when he was about six feet from the door of the building. He’d only had enough time to register it was probably just a flesh wound before the second bullet caught him in the left shoulder. The adrenaline kept him from registering the pain, but watching his shoulder explode was surreal.

He pushed on and ran up the stairs. His breaths were getting shorter and the pain was fighting through the adrenaline mask. He could hear bullets bouncing off the roof and the side of the building when he got to the top. He paused and waited for another break before he moved again. He ran towards the corner of the building where the Iraqi soldier was. His men had covered the other three corners.

The gunshots continued and Asher pressed his M30 into his non-injured shoulder and sighted it. He still couldn’t see anyone. He looked at the soldier and asked, “Who are we shooting at? Where the fuck are they?”

He shrugged. He didn’t know either. They were probably holed up in one of the buildings down below but they had to have a sniper somewhere up high. He scooted on his belly to the edge and looked over. People were running chaotically through the street; men, women, and children. Once again he perched his gun against his shoulder and placed his finger on the trigger. He sighted along the other buildings in areas that were tall enough for a sniper to be perched on. Just to the East, he saw him…he was inside the open window of a room on the top story of the dilapidated building.

“Sniper!” He turned to fire and….

He woke up to the sounds of his own blood-curdling screams…again. Asher was on the couch and his body was bathed in sweat. It took him several seconds to remember where he was. He was home, sort of. When he had retired he had bought a small farmhouse. Every time he woke up like this he was once again grateful his nearest neighbour was three miles away. Otherwise, he would have neighbours calling 911 almost every time he closed his eyes. He hated this shit!

He pulled himself up and went into the small bathroom that connected his living room and bedroom. He had stripped down to his underwear earlier, planning to have one more beer and then go to bed. He hadn’t made it that far. He spent his days working on the farm from sun up to sundown, anything to keep from remembering or dreaming. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink.

The scar across his left shoulder was deep and wide. Even underneath the tattoos that now covered it, it was still huge. He let his eyes follow the tats down his side to the next scar. That one wasn’t as big as the one on his shoulder, but as it turned out the bullet had nicked his liver and part of that had been removed. The scars across his abdomen were remnants of his accident 17 years ago. He kept those free of tattoos out of a morbid need to remember the hurt he had caused to so many he had loved. He didn’t remember the days he spent at the military hospital in Germany. Go figure. His mind held onto all the shit leading up to it instead.

He leaned down and splashed water on his face. As soon as he stood up and reached for the towel the image that his brain had fought off while he was sleeping, flashed before his eyes in the mirror. He yelled sniper and opened fire. To this day he hadn’t figure out why, but Freddie had stood up. Asher had yelled at him to get down just before the bullet had ripped through one side of his head. The image of Freddie’s head exploding haunted him continuously. Staring at himself in the mirror he screamed again, this time out of anger. He wanted this shit out of his head. He pulled back his fist he slammed it into the mirror over and over. Glass shattered and crumbled into the sink, and blood began to pour from his knuckles. He didn’t give a shit anymore. Everything and everyone he touched seemed to die. He couldn’t stand to look at himself any longer.