Chapter 12 Hum
TWELVE
Hum
Ryker lost T through the night. When he and Bent left the cafeteria, she’d already made her exit.
Either she’d taken an early night or found success in her crackpot scheme.
No doubt he’d find out later. He found himself taken under Bent’s wing where they returned to the hangar and had an impromptu jam session until the late hours of the night.
Bent seemed to be enjoying himself, but Ryker knew there was a purpose behind the playing.
While Angel Fire wanted to showcase one of the troops, the band needed to know Ryker could hold his own onstage.
His playing wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good.
It took time for his brain to switch from left to right where he could access his more creative side.
By the end of the evening, he was pretty damn flawless.
It felt good to sink into a more creative place, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Given a choice, he’d leave his job behind and hook up with his pals from high school, reform the old band, and give the playing thing a go.
He’d do all of that, except he truly loved his career.
His days were full of physical conditioning, stress, and mental demands, which would challenge the sanest person on the planet.
In medicine, there was no room for error.
As a member of a special ops surgical team, there wasn’t even room for hesitation.
Every decision had to be spot-on. Mistakes meant the difference between life and death.
The same wasn’t true of music. Even with a bass riff laid down, there was room to play with it, mold it, and turn it into something different.
That was what he did as the evening wore on.
He and Bent sat at the edge of the stage, balancing their guitars on their knees, and played one classic to the next, tossing in variations while challenging the other to keep up. He loved that freedom of movement.
While they played, Smiley and the rest of the roadies continued setting up the stage, checking out lighting, sound, and even a few pyrotechnics.
Unlike most other singers and bands who toured with only the bare-bones necessities, Angel Fire had brought the whole shebang.
They had the clout and money to bring whatever the hell they wanted.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that they’d brought two commercial jets to Bagram.
The evening wound down, and Ryker retreated to his bunk until morning found him far too early.
He skipped breakfast and opted instead for another shower.
After changing into a clean set of fatigues, he met up with his team at the medical center.
They unpacked their rucks together and inventoried them in pairs.
He and T sat together while Warren and Drummond, and Collins and Marks formed their pairs.
The next two hours were spent in relative silence, checking and double-checking supplies.
Once everyone had their rucks repacked, Collins gathered them around for a debrief.
They discussed the mission—from insertion through delivery of their patients to the medical center, looking for opportunities to improve.
Collins seemed most concerned about how they’d strayed off course.
All they could come up with was their insertion had to be off.
After the meeting, Collins dismissed everyone for the day. Their time was their own.
This worked well for Ryker, who found himself corralled by Forest and escorted back to the hangar. The band had spent the morning visiting the units on base for PR photo ops to meet and greet the troops. They were now gathered back at the hangar for lunch and a light rehearsal.
He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but some manner of running through the set list had gone through his mind.
Instead, it was organized chaos with Forest and Ash running the show.
Ash spent most of his time with an arm wrapped around his wife, Skye.
The pair seemed inseparable, leaving Ryker to wonder how Ash would handle what Skye had planned with the medical insurgent team she was trying to build.
Bent, Bash, Noodles, and Spike kicked back, individually picking up instruments to check on the sound. Sometimes, two of them would play together, laying down pieces of songs. Not once did the band all get up onstage and play one song from beginning to end.
Ryker followed Smiley around, getting an up-front tour of what went into putting a show of this magnitude on.
Computers controlled the entire stage—from lighting to sound and even to the smoke and pyro they had planned.
Smiley ran the lights, showing Ryker how he could make the stage look like anything he wanted.
In the background, the crew worked furiously to fine-tune everything, checking and double-checking connections.
He was tripping, being as close to the action as he was, and then realized he would be sharing the stage with the band.
Smiley took him to a spot with an X on it. “This is yours.”
“X marks the spot?”
“Yeah. Try to stick to it as much as possible. The guys get wild onstage and will be running and jumping and ripping it up. Your job is to look pretty. Don’t get in the way, and don’t fuck anything up.”
Ryker laughed. Smiley’s grumpy face told more about his frustration with the band than anything else but also his clear and undying loyalty to them.
“This show is going to be unlike anything in the world,” Ryker said. “I think the troops are going to lose their minds.” He pointed to the front of the stage. “Why isn’t there a barrier?”
“Ash doesn’t want one. He’s looking for close and intimate.”
This venue would be tiny compared to the sold-out stadiums the band normally played, and the audience was much different.
Angel Fire brought in the crowds, male and female.
This crowd would be predominantly male, although as a group, they knew how to follow rules.
If the base commander, group, squadron, and unit COs told them to stand behind the line, then it was a given that no line would be crossed.
“You think you’re ready to share that stage?”
“I’ll do my best. Won’t pretend I’m not a little bit nervous.”
He’d had plenty of time to get to know the band.
He wasn’t nervous around them—at least, not anymore.
What bothered him was something else entirely.
In all his years playing, he’d never been on the inside, looking out.
Now that he was, all he wanted was to be on the outside with T by his side and not at odds with him.
She’d been polite earlier, but it was clear she’d been peeved by what he’d done the night before.
When Forest had brought him to the hangar, she had followed along and sat with Skye as the band did their version of a sound check and warm-up.
He hadn’t seen T in over an hour but wasn’t worried.
All the members of the band were with him, and he’d decided T was smart enough not to go chasing another active duty member.
She was probably in her barracks, reading a book, or out jogging around the perimeter of the base.
Time was winding down to showtime, and he expected to see her soon.
Forest eventually gathered everyone and brought them backstage to an area out of sight where they could relax until showtime. There were microphone stands onstage, but Smiley handed out wireless headsets to the band, even one to him.
“What’s this for?” He had no intention of singing.
Ash kicked back and crossed his ankle over his opposite knee. “You’ve got a good set of pipes, dude. Didn’t think you’d get away with just playing bass, did you?”
He cocked his head. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
Noodles’s laughter bounced around the group. “Yeah, that ain’t happening.”
He pulled his long hair back tight and gathered it at his nape with a leather wrap.
Ryker wondered if the black tribal tattoos coiling up and around his muscled arms held any significance but didn’t want to ask.
He was treading a fine line with the band between being a fan and whatever this special backstage access granted him.
“Nobody needs to hear me sing,” Ryker asserted. “I can play, but—”
“Hey,” Bent said, “we all heard you.”
Bash twirled his drumsticks in his hands. Then, he leaned forward and tapped out a beat on the metal table. “Just suck it up. You’re not getting out of it.”
He gave Ash a long look, and something silent was communicated between them. Out of the five members of the band, he and Ash had a unique connection.
“Decision’s been made, dude,” Ash said. “It’s just a song.”
Ryker narrowed his eyes, realizing he was losing a battle, but they couldn’t force him to add his voice to this madness. Or could they? He’d never done well with peer pressure.
“Ten minutes,” Forest bellowed.
The guys sat back and quieted down.
“Do any of you still get nervous before a show?” Ryker asked. He might be sharing the stage with them sooner than he’d like, but he couldn’t silence the fan inside. He was dying for an insider’s look into one of the most epic bands in recent history.
Bash shrugged. “I used to. Now, I get amped, like a nervous energy running through my body. Today is a little different. Different crowd. Different expectations. More pressure.”
“Different expectations?” Ryker asked. “How so?”
Bash tapped a simple beat, and his leg bounced in time. “No one here paid to see us. We’re like interlopers, bringing our sound to them. They don’t really have a choice. They can watch us or go work out. I’ve never seen so many people working out. It’s like that’s all you folks do.”
That was true, but they were airmen and warriors. The job demanded a minimum level of fitness and endurance. The days were long and boring. Bash had that right.
Bash continued, “And, if it’s not epic, we’ve totally blown it.
Our fans come to our concerts and return home to their families.
Sleep in comfortable beds. They might even hit the bars afterward and tie on a few drinks before heading home to their very safe and normal jobs.
What they don’t do is watch our concert and then pick up a gun and go out on patrol. ”
Not everyone on base went on patrol. They had medics and cooks, people who worked postal duties, mechanics and engineers, and a whole host of other jobs that needed to get done, but he didn’t want to contradict Bash.
Those who headed outside, like him and T, willingly went into danger.
He hadn’t really thought of it that way.
His job was the only normal he’d ever known.
“I don’t think you need to worry about being second choice.
The USO does a fabulous job of bringing in entertainers.
I’m not a country fan, but bring one in, and I’m right there.
The boredom of this job makes things like what you do special.
And everyone out there knows you’re doing this on your dime.
We know it’s a choice you make to come to us. ”
“I suppose,” Bash said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’d be a mess, to be honest, except I’m remembering what Timmy used to always say.”
“Who’s Timmy?” Bent leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. Like Spike, he’d been strangely quiet.
Spike hadn’t said a word. He sat back in his chair and played his version of air guitar.
Ryker watched the dancing of his fingers and recognized the frets and chords.
He was playing the opening of “Heart’s Insanity,” his own private rehearsal.
Even his lips moved, mouthing the words to his part of the song.
“He was the drummer of my band back in high school,” Ryker explained.
“And what did he say?” Bash stopped tapping the table and returned to twirling the sticks.
Spike looked up, but his fingers kept moving. Ash kicked back, tossing his arms out wide to rest on the armrests of the chair. Noodles stared at his hands.
“He said, ‘Fuck them. Play for yourself.’” He smiled, remembering his friend.
Timmy had gone into law and decided to run for some local political office. They’d never made their dream of making it big, but their band had rocked the local scene for a small slice of time.
“Sounds like great advice,” Ash said. He slapped his knees and stood. “You guys ready to rock this?”
Ryker wasn’t the least bit ready, but with Timmy Saunder’s words in his head, he rose with the rest of the band. They closed around the small center table in a circle and wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders. They brought it in close, bowing their heads until they touched.
Ash began a low hum. The power of his voice filled the air.
It stood on its own, becoming a creative force, rushing in and around every person in the room.
Ryker stood in awe as Bash lay in a beat with the tapping of his foot.
The hum increased in tempo as Bent and Spike joined in.
A crescendo built until Noodles added the rasp of his voice, laying down an otherworldly sound.
Notes filled the air, a rising power surging back and forth until it encapsulated them into a unified whole.
Ryker barely dared to breathe. To his left, Bent wrapped his arm across Ryker’s shoulders. Spike stood to his right. Directly across from him, Ash quieted suddenly. Then, he bowed his head and said a prayer, stunning Ryker.
He said, “Amen,” with the others and then broke apart, finding himself the only one standing still.
The others adjusted their wireless headsets and headed for the stage.
Forest and Smiley, who’d stood apart from the band’s preshow ritual, gave him a thumbs-up.
When he came over to them, Smiley said, “Break a leg.”
“Thanks.” He wouldn’t be going on with the band.
They would play the first three songs off their set list and then break to talk to the troops. Ash would tell them about the surprise and then introduce Ryker.
He glanced at the small flight of stairs leading to the stage and cursed the jangle of nerves rattling in his body.
This was really happening.