Six men trudged through the deserted streets of an abandoned Afghani village. A hot, dry desert wind blew intermittently, occasionally catching a tassel or an untucked corner of someone's shemagh and battering it about.
This was just a routine reconnaissance mission. The bombed-out, deserted village had previously been occupied by the Taliban until an intense conflict had driven civilians from their homes and eventually left the town largely uninhabitable. No activity had been sighted here for months, but this small unit of soldiers had been deployed to examine the ghost town more thoroughly.
"Well, would you look at that, boys," said one of the soldiers who sported a cocky grin. "A whole lotta nothin'. Looks like the Chairborne Rangers have sent us on a fool's errand yet again."
"Just because intelligence hasn't reported any activity out here, that doesn't mean there's nothing to find. Stay alert, Thompson."
"Look around! There's NOTHING here."
The soldier with THOMPSON embroidered on his name tape gestured at the desolate wasteland with his M16. He certainly had a point. Looking at the landscape now, it was hard to believe the place had been the center of international attention less than two years ago. While some of the mud-brick walls were still standing and some intact houses remained, most of the small town had been reduced to rubble. In the center of a small section of abandoned homes, someone's forgotten laundry still hung from a line strung between two poles. The fabric had been reduced to tatters, constantly exposed to the harsh environment.
"You better hope Staff Sergeant Morrison doesn't get wind of you calling his brother a Chairborne Ranger. You and Pretty Boy are gonna find yourselves in a G.I. party if you're not careful."
Private First Class Burke shot Private First Class Thompson a glare.
"We're not E-2s anymore," PFC Thompson shot back. "That's what Private Brody's for." He gestured to Private Brody, who was diligently scanning the area, trying to distance himself from the conversation as much as possible.
"No, you're PFCs. Personnel for Cleaning."
PFC Thompson groaned. "Y'all in the E-4 Mafia are the worst."
The other three members of the six-man team, all ranked Specialist E-4, traded knowing smiles. PFC Burke rolled his eyes, only imagining the trouble Jeremy Thompson was going to get them in today.
"When I get promoted to E-4, which y'all know will be very soon, I'm going to respect my subordinates," Jeremy continued. "Isn't that right, Private Brody?"
Private Brody appeared displeased to have been dragged into this discussion twice now. He'd learned early on that PFC Thompson's mouth had a knack for getting people in trouble.
"Hey," Specialist Lance said suddenly. The five other men glanced at him. "Did you hear that?"
"You mean something other than Thompson's blathering?" asked Specialist Hayfield, giving PFC Thompson another warning look.
"Yes. That," he said, his expression becoming edged with concern.
Each soldier listened carefully while searching their surroundings for both the source of Lance's supposed noise and for cover in case things went south in a hurry.
PFC Burke gripped his M16 closer. Something didn't feel right.
A noise came from behind. A dull thud and a light clink.
"Grenade!" Private Brody yelled, and the men sprang into action. PFC Burke bolted forward toward a half-collapsed wall. He'd almost made it when the grenade exploded and he hit the dirt. Searing pain shot through his right hand and he choked back a scream. He forced himself up, got behind the mud-brick wall, and tried to take stock of his situation.
Clearly, intel had been wrong. The village was inhabited again. And the new inhabitants had weapons. His hearing was muffled by the blast, replaced with a ringing sound. He could make out the sound of gunfire and he could tell that not all of the gunfire was coming from U.S. Army-issued firearms. So they had grenades and semi-automatic weapons. And there were several of them.
Burke peeked out from behind the wall where he'd taken cover. He was relieved not to see anyone at first. Everyone else had found cover too; no one had been killed in the grenade blast. From this vantage point, he could see the silhouette of someone with a semi-automatic weapon inside a ravaged building behind where they'd been standing. The originator of the grenade, perhaps? He pulled up his M16 to return fire and remembered the pain in his hand. He looked down to see that his fingers were covered in blood. But his thumb and forefinger were fine and that's all he needed to pull the trigger.
The figure in the window went down, whether from injury or to reload, Burke didn't know. Instead, he turned his attention to other buildings nearby, looking for more unfriendlies. But the gunfire was coming from everywhere and he couldn't spot any other shooters. How many of them were there, and where were they hiding? Most importantly, what hornet's nest had they just walked into?
Minutes felt like hours as Burke traded gunfire with the insurgents they'd had the misfortune of stumbling across. At last, he'd spotted some of the soldiers from his squad and had been able to make his way over to them. Lance, Hayfield, and Zimmerman had all escaped the blast, but none had done so unscathed. Lance held himself stiff against the wall, clutching the radio to his chest.
"I called it in," he said in a tense voice. "Air support is on its way."
Hayfield and Zimmerman took turns peeking out from behind another half-collapsed wall and shooting at their ambushers.
"Where are Brody and Thompson?" Burke asked.
"We think they made it to the other side of the street," Zimmerman said. "I'm going to go find them as soon as we get a chance."
"That chance better come up real fast. I'm almost out," Hayfield said.
"You guys go. I'll cover you," said Lance.
"What about you?" asked Burke.
Burke didn't like the looks the three others traded.
"We're coming back for you," Burke said firmly.
Lance gave a stiff nod but didn't seem encouraged.
When the enemy fire lulled, Zimmerman, Hayfield, and Burke moved quickly to the other side of the road while Lance gave cover. They found PFC Thompson and Private Brody similarly entrenched behind more crumbling walls, except they had better cover and an improved angle on the enemy combatants. Burke was relieved to see that Jeremy and Pete Brody were unharmed.
"How are you guys doing on ammo?" Jeremy asked.
"Running low," Hayfield replied. "You?"
"Same. We spotted what might be a weapons depot over there," Jeremy pointed.
Hayfield spied out the building and thought for a moment while Zimmerman and Brody returned enemy fire.
"OK. Thompson, Burke, go raid that building for ammunition. Stay alert for any guards. I'll watch your backs. Zimmerman, Brody, keep the enemy engaged. Go!"
Thompson and Burke took off toward the weapons depot, watching carefully for any sign of guards. They were steps away from the entrance when an earth-shattering boom and a wall of heat slammed into Burke, throwing him back.
Ryan Burke would never be able to recall the events that took place after the explosion that killed Jeremy Thompson instantly. He wouldn't remember waking up on the ground ten feet from the last spot Jeremy ever stood. He wouldn't remember the moments of intense confusion that came before the realization of what had just happened. He wouldn't remember searching for Jeremy in vain, even though he knew his friend couldn't have escaped the blast.
Ryan knew he wouldn't be making it out of the desert. Not today, not ever. There was something very wrong with his leg and something very wrong with his arm. If he didn't get himself shot to death first, he'd bleed out before help arrived. He understood finally why Lance had volunteered to give cover and stay behind. Lance wasn't making it out today either. Jeremy was gone. He'd be next. That only left Luke Zimmerman, Trevor Hayfield, and Pete Brody. They'd be down half their squad and low on ammo. If Ryan Burke was going to die in that desert, he knew he'd die only after he did everything he could to give what remained of his squad a fighting chance.
He looked up at the depot and narrowed his eyes. With a strength he didn't know he had, he got to his feet and charged toward the depot. Jeremy had been right. He could see weapons and ammunition inside the building.
Suddenly, a blinding light burst from the depot an instant before it exploded. Ryan didn't hear the aircraft that had dropped the bomb on the weapons depot, but the bomb hit its mark. The building exploded in a fiery detonation as the munitions inside ignited.
The heat engulfed Ryan as he looked back over his left shoulder toward his squad.