Rustamaya, Iraq

Lieutenant Sal Bello stood at the edge of the t-wall barrier and watched the sun sink below the cement barricades that were the only thing protecting his tiny little outpost from the wild west of Fallujah and the men who wanted to slit their throats.

Beside him, his platoon sergeant, Sarn’t Louis Delgado spat into the dirt. “This has got to be the dumbest fucking thing we’ve ever done.”

“Mutiny isn’t really on the menu of options right now,” Sal said. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his new platoon sergeant. Delgado had been on the job a week. A week since his old platoon sergeant Murph had been evac’d back to the States for a ruptured appendix of all things.

Delgado made a noise. “So we’re just sitting here, waiting for what?”

“For orders from higher.”

Another noise followed by a thick silence. Sal flipped his father’s lighter through his fingers, the metal hot from being tucked in his pocket and the hundred plus-degree heat.

“What’s that?”

Lieutenant Sal Bello closed his fist around the lighter, concealing it from his platoon sergeant. “Nothing.”

He couldn’t say why he carried his father’s lighter with him to war beyond the fact that his mother had asked him to take it. Maybe it would bring him more luck than it had brought his father.

But he wasn’t comfortable sharing his mother’s superstition with his new platoon sergeant. It felt weird to think about his mother when he hadn’t eaten a solid meal in four days and his MRE crackers were running thin.

The adhan rang out over the cement barriers. Sal stiffened, holding his breath until the last note of the call to prayer echoed over the city and the inhabitants that were just waiting for the opportunity to slit an American throat or two.

He couldn’t say he blamed them. He’d be ready to fight if an invading army took up residence in his hometown.

There was a sudden burst of energy from the tiny gate where their one Humvee provided heavy weapons coverage down the main avenue of approach. He frowned, then walked toward the truck to listen to the radio chatter.

“Roger, Warhorse Main.” Private Baggins finished scribbling his note as Sal walked up. “Sir, we’ve got to send in accountability of all our boys.”

Sal paused, a sick feeling unfurled in his gut. “Didn’t we just do that?”

Baggins nodded as he pulled out a granola bar. Damned hobbit always had food stashed. “We’ve got two guys missing over in Second Platoon’s AO, sir.”

The radio crackled again. Delgado leaned on the door of the truck. Sal’s skin was slick and cold as the command post sent orders to secure the area and started mustering troops to start the search for their missing boys.

He grabbed the hand mike from Baggins. “Warhorse Main, this is Chaos Blue. We’re close to the area. We can secure the main approach.”

“Negative, Chaos Blue.”

“Warhorse Main, I say again, we are the closest element to the objective.”

“Stand down, Chaos Blue. Your mission is to hold your position.”

He looked at his platoon sergeant. Delgado met his eyes and said nothing.

“We’re missing two of our boys.” The lighter was hot in his hand, heavy as lead.

He looked down at the inscription. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

He looked back at his platoon sergeant. It burned in his belly to be told to stand down when they were literally two blocks from where the soldiers had been taken.

Delgado pulled the charging handle on his weapon and released it, loading a round into the chamber. “You’re talking about mutiny, sir. At the very least, disobeying a superior officer in a time of war.”

He didn’t know who was missing. He’d find out later. All that mattered was that someone from their formation was gone. Most likely taken. And if they didn’t move fast, they were going to have a repeat of the bridge in Fallujah where the insurgents burned the Blackwater contractors.

Over Sal’s dead body.

He looked up at his platoon sergeant.

“We’re going.” There was steel in his voice.

A slow smile spread across Delgado’s face. “Roger that, sir.”

He looked down at the lighter once more. For I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.

He wasn’t supposed to hate the enemy. He was supposed to be here winning the hearts and minds.

But that kind of thinking got men killed. And Sal had little room in his heart for anything else. Hate was easy. Hate was power.

Hate wrapped around his heart and coated it in fire and steel and kept him from thinking about the families that lived in the neighborhood or the fathers that would likely die because of merely being in the wrong place and wrong time.

And as they rolled off their base toward the checkpoint where their boys had been snatched, rage toward the whole stupid, pointless war burned itself into the fiber of who he was.