trying hard not to freak the fuck out. Was anybody alive? How in the hell were they going to get back to camp?
“Yup. And now I’m incredibly disappointed. Next time you get wounded, have a better ass.”
Heath tilted his head back and laughed. He had a broad face—the kind that might run to fat if he ever stopped doing PT—but a good laugh, and kind brown eyes. Trav probably wouldn’t have banged him in the dark much less the light, but he sure did love the guy as a friend.
Mostly because he could laugh like that with a load of shrapnel in his ass.
They both paused, breathing hard, keeping panic and pain in check, and realized—
“The shelling’s stopped,” Heath assessed. “Our guy got off a couple of rounds from the turret—do you think….” He didn’t finish his sentence, probably out of basic superstition. Neither of them wanted to ask if they got the guy with the grenade launcher, because that would automatically ensure that a grenade would blow them apart in the next two seconds.
But still, things had been quiet for a while, with nothing but the moaning of the poor, silly, doomed goats.
And—oh hell.
They both heard it at the same time.
The children—the confused ones, herding goats. They were crying.
Trav took stock. He could move. Yes, blood, pain, abrasions, but Trav could move. Yeah, the arm hurt like a sonuvabitch, but it functioned, and he didn’t need it to walk. “I’ll get them.”
He started out with the classic deception—helmet on the rifle. When the helmet didn’t get shot off, he removed his flak jacket (the edges were sanding the hell out of his stripped skin, for one thing) and cautiously put that up, with the helmet on top. And when that didn’t get shot off, he put the flak jacket back on ( ouch ) and snake-belly-crawled forward, peering around the tire of the upended Humvee.
First of all….
“Shit.”
“Shit what?”
“Communications vehicle is a hole in the road.”
“Shit.”
“And you know how we didn’t know anybody in this unit a half an hour ago?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that is never going to change.” Trav looked with sorrow at the other vehicles, burned-out and shattered, and at the bodies of the soldiers now scattered across the road like bloody chaff.
“Well that sucks,” Heath said, and they shared a moment—a breath—of mourning before they moved on to saving their own asses. “The kids?”
“I can get them. How’s your Dari?”
“About as good as your Farsi.”
“We’re fucking doomed.”
Trav belly-crawled quickly and took shelter behind the communications Humvee, which was, by far, the most destroyed of the three vehicles in the caravan. He did himself a favor and didn’t look inside—nobody was alive in there, and the rest could be a mystery.
He got to his feet and ran to the end of the vehicle, then checked up the hill from whence the original firing had originated.
Ah, yes. Another new hole in the road, fresh blood included.
Well, God bless his fellow servicemen—he sincerely wished he could thank the man at the turret for killing the enemy for him, but unfortunately, like everyone else in the damned caravan, he was a bloody hole in the road.
But the kids weren’t.
Trav got to his feet, AK firmly in hand, and ran to where the kids lay moaning in the pile of slaughtered goats.
They were both small, the girl smaller than the boy, and dressed in the colorful clothing of the province. The girl wore the traditional Afghani headdress in bright blue, and the boy had a small cap made of red felt, embellished brightly with gold. Both of them were wounded—but, like Heath, not fatally.
The girl’s arm was most assuredly broken, almost mangled, and Trav sighed. “I need to rip your dress,” he said awkwardly in Dari, and he was rewarded with her widened eyes and panicked ululation. Great, Trav. You just told her you were going to violate her. Well done.
“No, no, no, no! I need bandages !” he tried, and the
“Yup. And now I’m incredibly disappointed. Next time you get wounded, have a better ass.”
Heath tilted his head back and laughed. He had a broad face—the kind that might run to fat if he ever stopped doing PT—but a good laugh, and kind brown eyes. Trav probably wouldn’t have banged him in the dark much less the light, but he sure did love the guy as a friend.
Mostly because he could laugh like that with a load of shrapnel in his ass.
They both paused, breathing hard, keeping panic and pain in check, and realized—
“The shelling’s stopped,” Heath assessed. “Our guy got off a couple of rounds from the turret—do you think….” He didn’t finish his sentence, probably out of basic superstition. Neither of them wanted to ask if they got the guy with the grenade launcher, because that would automatically ensure that a grenade would blow them apart in the next two seconds.
But still, things had been quiet for a while, with nothing but the moaning of the poor, silly, doomed goats.
And—oh hell.
They both heard it at the same time.
The children—the confused ones, herding goats. They were crying.
Trav took stock. He could move. Yes, blood, pain, abrasions, but Trav could move. Yeah, the arm hurt like a sonuvabitch, but it functioned, and he didn’t need it to walk. “I’ll get them.”
He started out with the classic deception—helmet on the rifle. When the helmet didn’t get shot off, he removed his flak jacket (the edges were sanding the hell out of his stripped skin, for one thing) and cautiously put that up, with the helmet on top. And when that didn’t get shot off, he put the flak jacket back on ( ouch ) and snake-belly-crawled forward, peering around the tire of the upended Humvee.
First of all….
“Shit.”
“Shit what?”
“Communications vehicle is a hole in the road.”
“Shit.”
“And you know how we didn’t know anybody in this unit a half an hour ago?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that is never going to change.” Trav looked with sorrow at the other vehicles, burned-out and shattered, and at the bodies of the soldiers now scattered across the road like bloody chaff.
“Well that sucks,” Heath said, and they shared a moment—a breath—of mourning before they moved on to saving their own asses. “The kids?”
“I can get them. How’s your Dari?”
“About as good as your Farsi.”
“We’re fucking doomed.”
Trav belly-crawled quickly and took shelter behind the communications Humvee, which was, by far, the most destroyed of the three vehicles in the caravan. He did himself a favor and didn’t look inside—nobody was alive in there, and the rest could be a mystery.
He got to his feet and ran to the end of the vehicle, then checked up the hill from whence the original firing had originated.
Ah, yes. Another new hole in the road, fresh blood included.
Well, God bless his fellow servicemen—he sincerely wished he could thank the man at the turret for killing the enemy for him, but unfortunately, like everyone else in the damned caravan, he was a bloody hole in the road.
But the kids weren’t.
Trav got to his feet, AK firmly in hand, and ran to where the kids lay moaning in the pile of slaughtered goats.
They were both small, the girl smaller than the boy, and dressed in the colorful clothing of the province. The girl wore the traditional Afghani headdress in bright blue, and the boy had a small cap made of red felt, embellished brightly with gold. Both of them were wounded—but, like Heath, not fatally.
The girl’s arm was most assuredly broken, almost mangled, and Trav sighed. “I need to rip your dress,” he said awkwardly in Dari, and he was rewarded with her widened eyes and panicked ululation. Great, Trav. You just told her you were going to violate her. Well done.
“No, no, no, no! I need bandages !” he tried, and the
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