“Listen up,” the major tells us. The chatter died in the tent where our scout sniper unit gathered, consisting of five teams of two men each.

The major caught the gaze of each of us standing at the map table, who while not at attention, were all business.

“Our intel is that the mujahidin tribal leader Abbas Hassan is traveling to meet with leaders of other muj cells.”

“Abbas Hassan?” asked Jack, my scout sniper partner. “That’s like calling him John Smith.”

We all laughed. Jack was a cut-up and a prankster, symptoms of his youth and enthusiasm. He was nineteen and the youngest member of the squad, but an outstanding spotter—when he kept his mouth shut.

The major cleared his throat instantly commanding the attention of us all.

“This is CIA intel we are acting on. We’ve reason to believe our local asset is a muj spy and we don’t want him to be aware we suspect that. I’ve mapped the possible routes Hassan’s traveling, and they are one of two. Rees, Caldwell take this route, Simmons and Porter, this one. The rest of you will be taking routes south, north and east. All of you are officially on recon. Rees, Caldwell, Simmons, and Porter, you are to pick a position and wait for the target. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we take him off the playing board. He’s a high-value target, and his removal will disorganize the muj. The rest of you, your part is just as important.”

“Yeah. It’s a walk on the beach, without the ocean,” said Jack. His lighthearted voice ranged around the room because soldiers got used to the grim idea that they lived in a land of IED’s and snipers. If you laughed about it, the threat wasn’t real.

“Our bomb disposal units cleared the roads we are using, which is why we think the muj will use them for travel. But it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Any questions?”

No one said anything. The mission was clear enough. We sought to confound the suspected muj agent by sending out scout patrols in different directions, and one of two roads Hassan will use we would cover with snipers. It wasn’t a difficult equation.

“No, sir,” I replied. “It’s crystal. When do we move out?”

We left the briefing tent, and as we walked back to our barracks, Jack bumped into me.

“You’ve been here a helluva long time, Sarge.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Two and a half tours.”

“But you’ve never been injured.”

“I have a good luck charm. Found in on the first day here.”

“Really, can I see it?’

“No. It’s private.”

“That’s weird.”

“That’s me.”

“Let’s get something to eat.”

“You go on without me. I want to clean my rifle.”

“Is that what they call it now?” said Jack, arching his eyebrows.

“You’re a dick. No, shithead, I want to make sure Ricky doesn’t jam when I take the shot.”

Jack’s face turned thoughtful as we walked the path lined with tents toward ours.

“Six months,” said Jack.

“What?” I asked.

“Six months we’ve been partners, and you don’t even sit down to a meal with me. What is it? You don’t like me?”

“What the fuck is this?” I snapped. “Of course, I like you. I wouldn’t have asked for you to be my partner if I didn’t.”

“Naw, man. That’s not what I mean. It’s like—fuck it, it’s like you acknowledge my presence, but we aren’t friends or anything.”

I swallowed hard. All my sniper partners complained about this. But getting that close meant telling things I’d rather no one knew about. Like how I secretly was thinking about whether I even wanted to re-up for the next tour.

“Dude, you’re nineteen, I’m not. We work together.”

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets and put his head down. “Sure, dude. We work together.”

“And I do have your back.”

“Yeah,” sulked Jack. “Part of the job, isn’t it?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Jack veered off to the mess tent.

Shit. I didn’t mean to piss off Jack. The truth was, as much as a pain-in-the-ass Jack could be, he was a good partner, dedicated and good at his job, and generally fun to be around. But my problem kept us from becoming true friends. If I let him in, I might give in and admit my second thoughts about wanting to stay in the Marines and going home.

Generally, most Marines didn’t give a fuck about those of us who wanted to go home and start a family. Hell, a few of them already had a woman back home they were promised to. But Arkansas-born Jack came from a broken home, and family wasn’t in his plans. He frequently talked about hitting up the bars and finding different women, like his dick never quit. Marines always talked shit and in the boldest way possible, and Jack was no different. But I wasn’t interested in finding a different woman every night. I wanted to find that special woman to start my life with. I wasn’t interested in nailing everything in a skirt. But all Jack wanted to talk about was how many notches he could put on his bedpost. So how was I supposed to be close friends with this guy? I’d never stop hearing shit from him for wanting to be a family man.

I couldn’t, not really.

But I couldn’t call the man that watched my six a dickhead either. That wouldn’t work out well. For one thing, I didn’t need the guy covering my back spouting a running commentary about his raging sex drive while I trained my sights on a target hundreds of yards away.

I could hear it now in my head. “Sure you can hit that target? Or are you too busy thinking about your imaginary girl back home?”

Maybe jokester Jack would only be kidding, but it was something I didn’t need when I needed to put my concentration into the shot.

Still, I could try to bridge the gap. Jack wasn’t a bad guy, just young and cocky, with no plans to settle down anytime soon.

I turned and headed for the mess tent.

* * *

The heat was relentless, especially under a sixty-pound pack plus body armor and weapons. But we were never sure how long we would be out on the mission, so we carried extra water, and a few extra MRE’s. Jack pointed out a ridge of sand ahead as the road curved away sharply, blocking a forward view. It was a choke point, and a good one to set up for the mission. There was sand all around, always sand, in our clothes, our boots, our food, our mouths. We learned to forget about the ever-present sandy taste of grit, but the heat, though dry, always made us sweat. This was, after all, Iraq, and they don’t call it the sandbox for nothing. Only the games we played here weren’t little boy games of making sand castles or setting up army men in mock battles. This is life and death, and if we are successful today, another muj leader will be on his way to Paradise.

I was tense, as anyone would be walking in a land where friends were enemies, and enemies killed on sight. Jack was full of his usual high spirits. The Arkansas boy often laughed at my discomfort with the heat. “Come to Arkansas, Sergeant,” he’d say with his lazy Arkansas drawl. “I’ll show you what heat is.” Jack also held onto the illusion of the invincibility of youth, which was why our commander paired him with me, being older and steadier.

I fingered my good luck charm in my front pocket.

“You still got that thing?” asked Jack incredulously.

“Hell ya.”

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

“Shithead.”

“Fucktard.”

“Asshole.”

“Tell me something, Jack. Why do all your insults have to do with eliminatory functions?”

“There you go again, Sergeant, using those Ivy League words.”

“Seven-syllable words have nothing to do with the Ivy League. They do in fact have everything to do with being educated.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“No. I’m calling you a victim of the public school system.”

“Well, I see no luey bars on your collar, so shut the fuck up, old man.”

In any other situation, Jack would be called up for insubordination. But he’d also been my scout sniper partner these past six months of this twelve-month tour, my third one. In Marine terms, I was an old man, now twenty-five, while most enlistees were eighteen or nineteen. I had enlisted at age twenty-two, two semesters shy of graduation for college. Had I stayed in college, I would automatically be granted a commission upon enlistment. But no, I had to be headstrong and drop out of college, and the reasons for that were more complex than the intricacies of American-Iraqi relations.

“I don’t know what the big secret is,” said Jack.

“It’s not a secret.”

“But you don’t show it to anyone.”

“Keep your eye on the road, idiot.”

“The bomb squad cleared it.”

“Doesn’t mean they didn’t miss one.”

Jack scoffed. “You have no faith in the skills of our comrades.”

“That’s not it.”

“But why should you care? You’ve got that lucky charm of yours.”

“All I can say it that as long as I’ve had it, I’ve been lucky.”

“Yeah, no injuries, and you certainly aren’t dead. So, let me see this magical talisman?”

I sighed. Jack was persistent. There was only one way to derail this conversation.

“If I let you see it, will you shut the fuck up about it?”

“Yeah. I want to know what’s kept you out of harm’s way for three fucking tours.”

I shrugged and pulled out the stiff paper rectangle from my pocket and handed it to Jack as we walked.

“This is it? A girl? Who is she?” Jack held it to my eyes though I had long ago memorized the face. Privately, I thought the woman wasn’t model beautiful, but her eyes were gorgeous, and she had a stunning smile. Though the picture was faded by exposure to the sun, I could still make out the laughing brown liquid eyes, and the blond hair, and the wide, bright smile that outshone the sun.

“Yep,” I replied.

“Who is it?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“And why do you carry it?”

“I found it in scuttling along the sand in my first mission. I was going to toss it, but then all hell broke loose, and as it turns out, I was only one that didn’t get hit. I was called lucky, but I think somehow, this woman was looking out for me, kind of like Mother Mary.”

“That’s whacked.”

I shrugged. There was no logic behind a lucky charm, and I shouldn’t have to explain that to Jack. I held out my hand. “Give it back.”

“No,” said Jack laughing and being an asshole. He held the photo out from his body, daring me to grab it.

“Fucker,” I said, getting annoyed. One did not mess with someone’s good luck charm. I lunged to grab it, but Jack let the thing go, and a soft breeze sent it on a trajectory in the direction we just came from.

“Jerk,” I muttered. I double-timed it under the weight of my gear to retrieve the photo while Jack laughed his ass off. I caught it in mid-air and quickly returned it to the safety of my jacket pocket. Irritated, I turned to give Jack a piece of my mind. Jack was still laughing and took a backward step away from me.

The air split with a loud bang, and the percussive force sent me flying into a sand bank. My head jolted painfully by the collision with rock covered by sand. I may have been unconscious, but even when I realized I was still alive, I laid stunned for I don’t know how long. My head raged with sickening pain, my ears rang, and my body refused to move. Slowly, feeling returned to my limbs, and I twisted with achingly glacial motion, stupidly hoping that Jack had gotten to some sort of shelter in the face of the blast.

But what I saw instead ripped a scream from my throat.