Read Online Shadows Beneath: The Writing Excuses Anthology by Howard Tayler Dan Wells Mary Robinette Kowal Brandon Sanderson - Free Book Online Page A
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created the technology, and we had to test it. And that was fine; that was the way it had been since I’d been stationed in Afghanistan six months earlier, and that was the way it had been for years—for centuries—before that.
“What kind of test do you want?”
“The BSE-7 is an explosives nullification device,” said the engineer. “We’ve installed it in a JERRV, and we need you to drive it through hostile territory and see if it works.”
“‘See if it works’?”
“If nothing blows up, it works,” said the engineer. “We’ll follow you with the best detection equipment we have, to see if we can find anything the BSE-7 nullifies.”
“And how exactly does it ‘nullify’ IEDs?”
“I’m afraid you’re not cleared for that information,” said the engineer, so I kept a civil expression, got in the JERRV, and headed out into the desert with my driver and my gunner. We weren’t cleared to know what we were driving, but we were cleared to drive it through Taliban Central hoping somebody tried to blow us up. The glamorous life of a soldier.
We were stationed in a firebase in what we called the Brambles: not only some of the worst terrain in Afghanistan, but famous for having the most IEDs per square mile of any region in the field of operations. I figured I’d be proud of that fact someday, if I lived long enough to brag about it in a bar, but for now it was a dubious accolade at best. Especially when it attracted the attentions of contractors trying to field-test their latest brain fart. It was far too dangerous to go outside the wire alone, so we joined a convoy; well, “joined.” Seven MRAPs loaded for bear were heading north on a recon mission, and we were following on a nearby road, shorter but more likely to have IEDs. My team drove the modified JERRV, and the engineers followed behind in an MRAP of their own. If we got into any serious trouble, the convoy could reach us—theoretically—in just a few minutes. I hate relying on “theoretically.”
The first IED turned up about an hour north of our firebase; we didn’t notice anything, but the minesweeper behind us called an all-stop because their detectors had turned up a broken one—not so much broken, once we looked at it, as it was just built wrong from the beginning. Most IEDs are simple: two planks of wood separated by foam, with contact plates made of scrap metal, and an old lamp cord leading to a big yellow bucket of explosive. This one was one of the most poorly put together I’d ever seen; it looked like a broken clock in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with wires and bits hanging off it in all directions. I told the two engineers I was sorry we hadn’t found a real IED to test their device on, but they seemed just as excited with the broken one as you could possibly imagine, like it was the most thrilling damn thing dug out of the desert since King Tut. I rolled my eyes and got back in the JERRV, and my crew drove on through the Brambles for about twenty more minutes before the engineers called another all-stop. I got out to look at the new find.
“Useless,” I told them, examining the new IED we’d driven over. “Better than the last one, but still hopelessly broken. The cord isn’t even connected to anything.”
“This is wonderful!” said the lead engineer.
“Two IEDs inside half an hour,” I said gravely. “There’s active insurgents in the area, no question.”
“Grossly incompetent insurgents,” said my driver.
“They only have to get lucky once,” I said, but the engineers insisted we keep going, and my orders were to follow their orders, so I did. The third IED was only fifteen minutes down the road, and when I got out to examine it I didn’t like what I saw.
“This one was live,” I said, showing them the disassembled pieces. “We drove right over it, and it could have gone off, and as far as I can tell it should have gone off, but it didn’t. I can’t explain it.”
“The insurgents’ bomb guy
“What kind of test do you want?”
“The BSE-7 is an explosives nullification device,” said the engineer. “We’ve installed it in a JERRV, and we need you to drive it through hostile territory and see if it works.”
“‘See if it works’?”
“If nothing blows up, it works,” said the engineer. “We’ll follow you with the best detection equipment we have, to see if we can find anything the BSE-7 nullifies.”
“And how exactly does it ‘nullify’ IEDs?”
“I’m afraid you’re not cleared for that information,” said the engineer, so I kept a civil expression, got in the JERRV, and headed out into the desert with my driver and my gunner. We weren’t cleared to know what we were driving, but we were cleared to drive it through Taliban Central hoping somebody tried to blow us up. The glamorous life of a soldier.
We were stationed in a firebase in what we called the Brambles: not only some of the worst terrain in Afghanistan, but famous for having the most IEDs per square mile of any region in the field of operations. I figured I’d be proud of that fact someday, if I lived long enough to brag about it in a bar, but for now it was a dubious accolade at best. Especially when it attracted the attentions of contractors trying to field-test their latest brain fart. It was far too dangerous to go outside the wire alone, so we joined a convoy; well, “joined.” Seven MRAPs loaded for bear were heading north on a recon mission, and we were following on a nearby road, shorter but more likely to have IEDs. My team drove the modified JERRV, and the engineers followed behind in an MRAP of their own. If we got into any serious trouble, the convoy could reach us—theoretically—in just a few minutes. I hate relying on “theoretically.”
The first IED turned up about an hour north of our firebase; we didn’t notice anything, but the minesweeper behind us called an all-stop because their detectors had turned up a broken one—not so much broken, once we looked at it, as it was just built wrong from the beginning. Most IEDs are simple: two planks of wood separated by foam, with contact plates made of scrap metal, and an old lamp cord leading to a big yellow bucket of explosive. This one was one of the most poorly put together I’d ever seen; it looked like a broken clock in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with wires and bits hanging off it in all directions. I told the two engineers I was sorry we hadn’t found a real IED to test their device on, but they seemed just as excited with the broken one as you could possibly imagine, like it was the most thrilling damn thing dug out of the desert since King Tut. I rolled my eyes and got back in the JERRV, and my crew drove on through the Brambles for about twenty more minutes before the engineers called another all-stop. I got out to look at the new find.
“Useless,” I told them, examining the new IED we’d driven over. “Better than the last one, but still hopelessly broken. The cord isn’t even connected to anything.”
“This is wonderful!” said the lead engineer.
“Two IEDs inside half an hour,” I said gravely. “There’s active insurgents in the area, no question.”
“Grossly incompetent insurgents,” said my driver.
“They only have to get lucky once,” I said, but the engineers insisted we keep going, and my orders were to follow their orders, so I did. The third IED was only fifteen minutes down the road, and when I got out to examine it I didn’t like what I saw.
“This one was live,” I said, showing them the disassembled pieces. “We drove right over it, and it could have gone off, and as far as I can tell it should have gone off, but it didn’t. I can’t explain it.”
“The insurgents’ bomb guy
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