Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
DUSTIN
May 2014
M y head falls back and I breathe in the dry air surrounding me. It’s been a month since I last saw her. I wish I could say the same about Brian. But we made it to our first post overseas a couple weeks ago and he’s been up my ass ever since. I suppose it’s not his fault. Besides getting ourselves reacquainted with the heat, we’ve also been taking daily classes, ensuring we’re refreshed on rules of engagement and sensitive sight exploitation as we search buildings—among other things.
I’m trying to embrace the busyness of it all. It’s usually my superpower.
But in the quiet moments, such as this, when the world around me slows down just enough…my mind roams. I can’t seem to shake the feeling seeing her evoked. I’m just as wound up now as I was then: my heart in shambles. I can’t erase the image of Brian walking up behind Echo and placing a kiss on her cheek like she’s his. She is, but in another lifetime, she was mine. Who knows, maybe in an alternate universe she still is.
Being in the war zone has become my way of life for the last thirteen years, and I’m ready to immerse myself back into what I consider my normal. While it hasn’t ridden my mind of all the noise, it helps quiet it, and for that reason alone, I’m ready to embrace the heat, the destruction, and the unknown with welcome arms. Except this time, it’s different. Instead of running to escape, I’ve run into a trap. See, that’s the problem with running. You eventually get caught.
I open my eyes skyward and take in the canvas before me. Darkness splattered with the most beautiful array of bright speckles hovers above. The proximity feels within reach. Maybe if I stretch far enough, I can steal a speck of brightness to illuminate my own darkness. And maybe if I grab enough, I can extinguish my dark altogether. I tightly shut my eyes and shake my head before lifting it back upright. What a ridiculous concept. But which thought is more farfetched? That I’m salvageable or wishing Echo could see the view above me. She would be in awe. And I would be in awe of her.
Fully dressed, with my rucksack in tow, I stand in the formation I’m all too familiar with as we wait to load up on the C-17 that will be flying our unit into enemy territory. Dread—a feeling I’m unfamiliar with—washes over me. I’m heading back to a combat zone and the only thing I’m dreading is being stuck with my new platoon sergeant. My second-in-command. Echo’s husband. My newfound responsibility. The constant reminder of what will never be mine again sleeping in the same room as me.
I stare at the matte gray monstrosity of a plane before me. Its nickname is the Moose, but it should be the Meg. Alone, this plane could easily hold five Blackhawks, with their propellers folded down. But today, it will hold us along the outer walls with pallets of supplies between us, and our Stryker trucks beneath for the next three hours. As I watch the trucks load up, I'm reminded of the nickname I gave Echo so long ago…Striker.
Conversations cease and the sound of shuffling feet fills the void as the two lines of soldiers work their way toward the ramp. I hang back, making sure everything is loaded—especially my men. Once the last man clears the ramp, I follow. Twenty-seven seats line each side wall. All metal and nylon, resembling a bunch of mini trampolines. Stopping at the second to last seat from the ramp, I sit; thankful that, unlike a trampoline, the material beneath me is taut against the metal frame. The spot to my right is vacant, and I pray Sergeant Trae Greyson, to my left, is quiet. I let my head fall back against the inner wall and glance above me. The plane looks like an unfinished contraption of wires and cables fully exposed. It reminds me of the atlas my dad used on family road trips; different colored lines going every which direction. Very confusing and hard to decipher to the untrained eye. I used to wonder if they ran out of money while assembling these beasts, but soon found out it serves a purpose. Not only was this thing built for maximum efficiency for capacity, but it was also built for maximum efficiency for functionality. It wasn’t built to be pretty but effective, and time has a way of getting in the way of effectiveness. With everything exposed as it is, things get fixed in record time. Because when in a war zone, you don’t have time to spare.
The clicking of seat belts steals my attention, and I grab the buckle, securing it across my waist as someone walks down the line in front of us, verifying all the cargo pallets are fully secure. I lean my head back again and let my eyes fall shut. I’m used to the heaviness they carry but hoping for some relief.
“Is this seat taken?” the lively voice asks, causing my heart rate to speed up with recognition. Of course. As if the universe hasn’t screwed my life enough. I open my eyes and see Brian standing in front of me. I glance over at the empty seat and then up at him.
“Seems to be,” I reply.
Then his chipper ass sits down, and I contemplate two things:
Suicide.
And murder.