12. Tommy
CHAPTER 12
Tommy
T he stale air in the makeshift gym on base tastes like dirt and sweat. I’m in the middle of the desert. Some structures are sturdier than others, like the mess hall where we eat and our sleeping quarters. They have actual plywood walls. The gym wasn’t so lucky. I bench press my max as sweat slides down the sides of my temples. I’m constantly wet from sweat, my clothes clinging to me like a second skin. An air conditioner is a luxury reserved for the main office and nowhere else. Not that I’m complaining, I could be living in this place full-time instead of visiting for a deployment.
I gave up on my prescribed workout. Now I’m on the plan to get as jacked as I can while I’m gone. Protein and heavy weight. It helps me forget what I left. Who I left. The situation I left. Not that I want to forget Margo, but for the first month I was distracted by visions of her. I have replayed our fourth date a hundred times in my head. Followed by visions of her naked and others of her being harmed with a crowbar by her psycho ex. The nightmares had me sweating more than the dry heat.
Lipman grabs the bar from me and slams it back into the rack. “Good set. You done in the gym for the day?” he asks, checking his watch and then the monitor to piece together what time it is here and what time it is back home. We work in the shadows, in the dark, so mostly we’re sleeping during daylight hours to compensate.
Wiping my hands off on a towel, I exhale noisily before dragging it across my face. “That meeting is happening at sundown. I’m going to shower and head out. I’ll probably hit the dust pit once more before bed so I can sleep. I’m having a hard time this week.” My mind won’t turn off. I try not to burden my teammates with my worries. The last thing they want to see from the fucking new guy is angst. They want to know my mind is clear and focused on the job at hand.
We have four targets we’re working on capturing, and if tonight’s dinner meeting goes smoothly, we’ll know where two of them are located. Sometimes getting the information we need is sneaky, and other times it’s blatant and old-fashioned—a dinner with new friends with loose lips.
My teammate wipes down the equipment he was on, getting frustrated because sand always finds a way in. “I’ll be back on comms for the meeting,” he reminds me. “I’ll work out with you again when you get back.” He clears his throat. “We’ve all been sleeping like shit.” Lipman’s girl broke up with him via email three days into the deployment. She changed her number and deactivated her email address shortly after. They were together for over a year. Expect the unexpected in deployments and that trickles into real life, too.
My stomach churns. It always churns. The longing to be home with Margo is greater than my passion to protect. I hate myself and the thoughts that keep me up. “Sounds good. You hear from Fish today?” I ask, hoping I sound nonchalant.
“I haven’t.” If he had, and he didn’t speak to me, that means all is clear on the home front.
“Thanks, Lip. I’ll see you later,” I toss over my shoulder as I try my best to open and shut the makeshift door as quickly as possible. This fucking sandbox of a place.
There is an office with satellite phones down the quasi hallway, and I stop in to send a message to Fish. I promised myself to not obsess about his updates, but it’s been a few days, and I need a clear mind before the meeting tonight. I see the green dot by his name when I boot up the system and provide all my security clearances. It’s encrypted, and the messages are deleted as soon as the other party has read them.
TOMMY: Any updates?
FISH: Was going to hit you up tomorrow. Someone has been lurking around her apartment complex. The most recent time, he was with someone else. I didn’t recognize the dude. I tossed the image to IT to put his face through facial recognition, but it’s going to be another day. They are backed up with work because of the summit meeting.
TOMMY: Fuck. What does he want? I have to tell M now. She should know he’s up to no good. Fuck if he hurts her again, I swear I’ll bury him.
FISH: He won’t get close to her. I stayed back from this pump because they needed support back on U.S. soil. I have the time, Tommy. Cool your jets. He’s probably looking for more tech, another computer he can hack, or a phone. Dude knows he can’t fight you. Worry about the summit meeting tonight. A lot hinges on that. I was going to tell you tomorrow. There’s nothing to worry about.
There are a million things I want to say, but mostly I’m pissed at myself for digging into this now. When I need a clear head. I’m also pissed I put Fish in this situation.
TOMMY: Find out what you can, and thanks again for doing this solid for me. I know she’s safe at work. It’s when she’s home that I worry about things. I owe you.
FISH: Don’t worry about it. You don’t owe me a thing.
TOMMY: I’ll see what I can do.
FISH: I’ll update you more tomorrow. Stay safe. Gotta fly.
FISH HAS LEFT.
I stare at the screen as the last word vanishes into pixels. During my cold ass shower, I think about what to say to Margo. If I wait until after the summit it might be too late. If I do it before the summit, I’ll worry about worrying her.
The defeat I feel is new. It wraps around me and steals oxygen. I need focus. I need peace. I must do what is required of me to function at the highest tier in the world, and so when I crank off the water, I turn off the switch. To feel nothing is to operate at the highest level. It forces me to rely on intuition and skill. It’s how I’m a SEAL. It’s a utility where other men are weaker, less than, because they don’t know how to hit the switch. It’s why most men fail at becoming SEALS. It’s an autopilot that silences. It takes away emotion and leaves a feral, perfectionist in its wake.
This isn’t a person I relish being. He was born out of necessity, with only one care—winning. I put Margo and my home issues in a box like I should have the second I left the States. I can love her and leave her there at the same time. I don’t send her the email, and I put all my trust into Fish.
Dressing quickly, I take my time checking my weapons and gear before heading for the main office structure where we are mustering before the summit meeting. We don’t expect violence at this dinner, but everyone knows these things can go sideways if two wrong personalities clash. We’re trying to bring order here. They need our help with restructuring and dismantling fringe terrorist groups. We need names and locations. Tonight, we’ll take either, or, and any combination.
It’s an hour’s ride by chopper, and I’ve thought about nothing except tonight’s mission and all the different outcomes on the flight. It’s the clearest my head has been since I got here, and I understand the sacrifice a little more. We not only miss our family and friends, but a lot of the time, we aren’t even permitted to wonder how they’re doing. There isn’t enough space for both at the same time. Not if we want to make it home alive. I swallow down the resentment and guilt as the chopper lands.
“Did you see the movement across the field? Three o’clock,” Commander Reynolds calls out, as we unhook our tether belts from the welded rings. They keep us secured inside the bird in case it jolts. It gives me the shakes though because helicopter crashes are frequent and going down with a dead bird isn’t something I relish. We always fly with two Black Hawks anywhere we go. There’s a saying: Two to make one.
Embarrassed, I shake my head as I eye where Commander gestured, homing in almost immediately to the disturbance in the stick-like bushes and then to two concrete-like structures where people are darting in and out. “I knew they’d be waiting, but they shouldn’t be hiding while they wait for our arrival.”
There is a contingency plan in which this was all a setup to get to us, and the summit leaders never planned to help us catch them. Swap it and that would be their truth.If that’s the case, they’d probably be hiding, lying in wait. I exhale loudly, and the discussions begin from all angles. Do we stay or do we go? The risk of being shot down is high given we don’t how many there are and what weapons they possess at this moment.
“Ground element, prepare for an ambush, the second bird will provide tactical overwatch. We aren’t shooting anyone until we know intentions,” Commander Reynolds orders. His decision is the final call, and I am part of the ground element. The sand hits me like a wave, heavy and hot as I hop out of the Black Hawk. I’m used to the sting after our never-ending training trips. I swallow, and it scratches at my throat, a dry burn that pairs with every desert landing.
My heavy boots thud against the sand as my team moves around me falling into a formation that is muscle memory at this point—autopilot.
Something feels off about today’s location. Call it intuition, call it something in the air, call it a recipe for uneasiness. Surely my first real mission won’t end badly, this feeling has to be part of the newness. Toughen up , I tell myself as I glance over to Chief Hawke, second in command. Our eyes hold for a moment as he pauses to scan the horizon. His jaw works as a flicker of doubt behind his dark eyes confirms the fucking pit in my stomach. He doesn’t give any new orders over comms or say a thing, but he’s tense. We all feel it .
Commander Reynolds is already on the move, his pace steady and calm, like he’s done this dozens of times before. I know better, though. This wasn’t supposed to be a mission. It was to be a simple damn meeting. The new plan is simple. Approach the men who are hiding if we can get close enough, confirm they mean us no harm, and head on to the meeting with the locals and get the intel we want. Easy, right? Swoop in, get what we need, give them our peaceful presence as repayment, and get out. Business as usual. This may be my first deployment, but I’ve heard enough to know nothing is ever as easy as it looks.
Today, the doubt seeps into the air I breathe and twists in my gut like lead. This plan, today’s mission, is not going the way it’s supposed to. Maybe that’s also part of being a SEAL, having this other sense.
My comms click before Chief Hawke keys in to say, “Eyes everywhere.” The edge to his voice is sharp.
We’re seventy yards out when it starts. A clean shot snaps through the air. I don’t see where it came from, I only hear the crack. Sand splashes like a wave at Pander’s feet, a call so close it has him and Chief diving behind the closest prickly scrub.
Click. “That was contact,” Tiger confirms via comms, as he rolls behind another bush, his M4 aiming in the direction where the threat appeared. If we didn’t want to look like U.S. Special Forces, we would have brought a different gun, an A.K., to blend in with our enemies. We weren’t meant to blend in today. It was only a meeting . My brain is having a rough time bouncing between what should have been and this. Behind us, the Black Hawks stir back to life, rising slowly in the dusky sky to provide a better view. This wasteland doesn’t give us any advantages. The birds will.
Click. “Commence fire.” Chief snarls out the coordinates, as the dance begins before the full command even finishes. The staccato of bullets whizzing through the air with precision. The motion is so practiced I could do it in my sleep; we all could. We treat training trips and fake scenarios like missions so we’re ready when we face the unknown. Diving to the side, I find cover near a bramble, as my rifle instinctively falls into place. Even though the air is filled with dust, I can tell the bullets are coming from all directions. This was indeed a planned attack. Accidents don’t happen with this much precision.
Commander Reynolds clicks in. “They’re on top of the structures to the east and west.” His voice cracks on the last word. I let my eyes scan the bramble bushes and push forward in a lull of gunfire to move toward one of the buildings. The bullets pepper the air and the sand, creating a suffocating prison of powder that takes your breath away. Click. “Get to cover.”
Tiger appears next to me, dragging Hank, another rookie, to a solid outcrop of scrubs as he makes his way back to the extraction location. I can tell a bird is landing because of the noise and the burn in my throat. I can barely see through the haze of this sandy battle, but I know Hank is hit. His face contorts with pain, and I notice he has taken several rounds in places that aren’t covered by plates, thick blood oozing out.
The time to worry isn’t now because the fire keeps coming, faster now, as if more of the enemy has joined the fight to eradicate us completely. My bullets cut the noise of the blades of the Black Hawk’s rotors. Sweat slides down my face and neck as I shift, trying to find a better angle to return fire, but it feels like it’s coming from outer space. It’s surrounding me, and I can’t pick out their positions for sure. Only the fire coming from their muzzles before they change position. It’s like whack-a-fucking-mole. Did I get one? I think I did.
Click. “We’re too exposed. Pull back further. Bird is almost ready.” What is taking the chopper so long? There must be a malfunction. We need their fire. Their cover. If we have a chance of getting out of here. I look up, and through the haze, I see the second Black Hawk, our extraction. The rotors whack the dust, creating a tornado-like experience on the ground, and I pray they see clearly enough to decimate these fuckers. Hope swells in my chest. This is our lifeline. It’s my teammates’ chance of survival, hell, it’s my chance of survival.
Then the worst-case scenario begins to unfold. A stomach-turning metal groan pierces the air as the bird stammers, then tips one way, and then the other way. The helicopter is uncontrolled, the rotors appearing like they are dancing violently with each other, tipping back and forth. The tail catches the ground, and my stomach plunges as I watch it crumple to the ground. Our savior is no more.
I scream, a war cry, because if this isn’t the time, I’m not sure there is one. My voice is hoarse, grit caking my windpipes. The bird tears into the earth like it’s digging for the core until it splits with fire and an explosion so great, it lights up the landscape brightly. My team is still returning fire, my chief struggling to hold the position as more and more bullets whizz in our direction. Hank is still down, and Commander Reynolds isn’t in my line of vision at all. A sinking feeling and more dread fills me. Click. “Commander, where are you?” He should be visible now. We’re all holding position.
No reply. My inner ear is filled with morbid silence. Click. Fucking finally.
Chief Hawke says, “He’s down. Another bird is almost here. Extract as soon as it’s in position. Hold fire steady.”
I’m running out of ammo. I’m running out of time. I swallow as I reload and fight again. Picking off the men on the east building now that the fire from the helicopter makes their shadowy figures more visible. Reynolds is not only down, he’s gone. I can tell when I change positions and see the ungodly way his body is positioned. I turn back to the building. Got him. Got him. Got him. I’m screaming as I kill them, the rage inside hopefully seeping into my bullets and then into their brains. The emotion permeating my body is unlike any rage I’ve felt my entire life. There’s no time to mourn because the odds are dwindling. My commander is dead. Hank is too. I’m still alive, but who knows for how much longer.
Slamming my last mag into my gun, I back away in a crouch walk as I pick off as many of the muzzle blasts in the distance as I can while the others drag bodies back toward the approaching Black Hawk. The blessed sounds of the missiles whizzing from the bird calm my heart rate. They don’t miss. The laser-guided air-to-ground missiles decimate both buildings, while the gunners hammer the forward-facing guns. The enemy forces don’t stand a chance against a Black Hawk, but we’re down to one.
Relief doesn’t come until I hear it. Click. “Retreat. Extraction location.” His voice is harsh with a lilt, tired. As soon as Chief is close enough, I help him with Commander Reynolds’s body, holding on to his plates by his shoulder to get a good grip.
Someone hisses, “Motherfucker,” as another of our laser missiles demolishes what was left of the fucking terrorists. After that, it’s silence but for the rotors of the helicopter beating the sky, more autopilot. We will have a debrief as soon as we return regardless of casualties. I glance at the bodies behind me and swallow. More knives in my throat. I make the decision here and now to stay detached. If I had thought about home or Margo once when I was down there, I’d be lying in the belly of this Black Hawk right now, and that’s the sad, awful truth.
I think this is what they mean when they say war changes people.