Chapter 2

"Dorothy, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Biddell had joked with all seriousness when we stepped off the plane in Kandahar.

That was six months ago, and it still rings true. The desert is no joke. Everything out here is trying to kill me. The sun, the sand, the wind, and the fucking insurgents. Did I mention the snakes and scorpions? Even on base, I have to watch my step. The food and the stench will kill you faster than a Russian assault rifle.

This place…it's kinda bleak. I've felt a heavy fog of depression creep over me slowly these past few months. It's not just the weather and the landscape, either; it's the mood. There's no morale here, and everyone seems subdued, washed out. There's no color, no joy, no break. Every week I cross off another block on my calendar, counting the days until my deployment is over. Sometimes, there are moments where I can forget, even for a handful of minutes—like when we play hacky sack using someone's sock filled with dry rice, or just hanging out with the guys during our downtime, joking with each other like we used to back at home.

I miss going to the bar with my buddies. I miss shopping at the PX for food I actually want to eat. Hell, I miss my mama. I used to think Ft. Bragg was a suckhole, but I'd give just about anything to go back right now. On the weekends, we used to play a pickup game of softball. The other day I caught myself thinking about trees. I miss seeing green trees and grass. I miss the seasons of North Carolina, watching the leaves turn orange and red and gold, and feeling the air turn crisp and thin.

"What the fuck even is this shit?" Ormen asks, stabbing the brown, puck-shaped lump on his plate.

We're gathered around a folding table in the mess tent. "The meat identifier is brown gravy, so it must be Salisbury steak?" I guess.

"You call that gravy? It's gelatinous," Warren complains, scrunching his nose.

"Shit, I'm starving. You gonna eat that or not?" Biddell asks.

To think, we used to complain about the food at the DFAC. I'd gladly eat that dog food again. Compared to the crap they serve here? That shit was gourmet.

I've actually lost weight. I can tell from the way my pants fit.

"Eighty-Second, all soldiers report to general command in full gear, ASAP. Eighty-second, all soldiers report to general command in full gear, ASAP." The announcement blares over the big voice , the loudspeaker.

"Shit, what do you think it is?" Ormen asks.

"I don't know, but let's hurry the fuck up," I urge, scooting my chair back.

"Shit, I can't jump on a full stomach. I'll puke my guts out," Biddell complains.

We duck into our CHU, a metal shipping container that houses four bunks each, and grab our gear and guns.

By the time we reach the General Command room, an office constructed of thin plywood, there's already a group forming outside. I recognize my lieutenant colonel.

He addresses us when the last guy joins us, kicking up dust as he runs to catch up. "New orders. A reconnaissance team fell under heavy fire. They're pinned down in a valley surrounded by mountains. The terrain is too rough for backup on foot to reach them anytime soon. Air strike isn't a viable option because they're practically on top of each other. You're dropping into a hot zone. It's gonna get hairy, so heads up. This is what you trained for. You ready?"

That last part is rhetorical because it doesn't matter if we're ready or not. We're going either way.

"Oohrah!"

"Death from above!" They shout the 82's motto.

Shouts of, "All the way!" our other motto, ring out.

We shuffle through the front gate and circle around the parking lot. One by one, we file onto the mammoth C-17. My nerves are frayed and adrenaline replaces any fear I might and should be feeling. I'm not thinking about enemy fire and loss of life; I'm thinking about my training, recalling everything I learned in Jump School, and the wisdom passed on to us by our colonel.

My skin flushes with heat. It's the adrenaline. I'm sweating through my damn undershirt. Ormen elbows me, grinning like a loon.

"You ready, Marsh?"

"Fuck yeah. All the way, baby."

He high-fives me, and the guys around us whoop. This is it. This is our moment to show the rest of the fuckers in the military we're not just sheep with guns. We're fucking warriors. On my left, Biddell hangs his head, hand over his heart.

"You good, man?" I don't have to ask. I already know he's not. Brian's been my best friend for most of the last four years, and I can read him like a book. He's shitting his fucking pants.

He nods, and when he looks up, his dark eyes seem grave. "Tell my ma I love her. My shit in storage? Check through it before she gets it."

A sliver of fear stabs through me. "Don't you fuckin' jinx me, man. Cut that shit right now, Brian!" I don't even wanna pretend he's serious. A world without Brian Biddell? Yeah, no, that's not a world I want to live in.

He nods again, lowering his head. He's scared, and unlike the rest of us, he's not afraid to show it. The powerful engine and boosters of the C-17 are loud as fuck, making the din inside the aircraft noisy enough that we have to shout. I focus on the sound for the next twenty minutes as we reach the altitude necessary to jump. They throw the doors open and we line up.

My heart pounds loudly in my ears. I feel juiced up, ready for anything. I stare down at my boots as I shuffle along behind the guy in front of me. The closer we get to the door, the louder the pounding in my head becomes. Sweat covers my forehead. My scalp feels hot and itchy. I can feel the wind on my face as it roars loudly past the Globemaster.

Death from above. I recite the words over and over in my head. If it's me or them, it's gonna fucking be them. I've never taken a life, but today I just might. I'm fully prepared to defend myself and my brothers. No matter what it takes.

I step up to the open door and plant my boots on the yellow safety tape on the floor. "Geronimo!" I shout, leaping into thin air, and I plunge myself into a free fall. My stomach flips over. The familiar feeling is a small comfort. I know what comes next and I focus on that. My chute deploys and my body snaps back as the thin nylon catches air. My stomach settles somewhat. Every time I jump, I sigh with relief when my chute opens properly.

From this height, all I can see are mountaintops. The sound of gunfire and shouting doesn't reach this high up. It's peaceful and quiet, at least for another three minutes.

With a minute left, the men on the ground come into focus. I can hear the popping of gunfire, and I can faintly smell the acrid smoke from grenade blasts.

I search the ground to make sure I'm not landing in a bad spot and the sharp whiz of bullets fire past my head. They sound like buzzing bees. Panic seizes my heart. My body jerks as my chute gets nailed, and I watch in horror as it loses its shape. My stomach roils and I know I'm fucked royally.

A body crashes into me, throwing me off course.

"Fuck, Biddell!"

His blood splatters on my face. A coppery tang fills my mouth. He's been shot. A dark red stain blooms over his chest. I'm falling faster, too fast. My chute is busted and performing at half-function. Biddell's body falls away. I swallow hard and take a deep gulp of air into my lungs, knowing it might be my last breath.

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

My body hits the ground hard, jarring every bone in my body, and before I can think to tuck and roll and grab my gun, blinding white-hot pain rips through my legs, dulling every other sense and thought. The sound of my bones breaking echoes through my ears and head. It's a sound I can feel , and I know it's a sound I'll never forget. When I come to a halt, I can't see shit as my chute drapes over me, blanketing me in darkness.

Someone scrambles to uncover me. They unclip my ruined chute.

There's only one thought on my mind. "Biddell! Where's Biddell?"

"Fuck man, look at your leg!" It's Ormen. He shouts at me, crouching down over my prone body.

I can't think straight from the pain, but I muster the strength to look. It hurts a whole lot worse after seeing the extent of the damage. Through the gash in my pants exposing my lower leg, jagged shards of white bone poke from my torn flesh. The bottom half of my leg twists at an odd angle, and blood pours from the wound.

Ormen rifles through his ruck, grabs a tourniquet, and ties it off around my thigh.

"Holy fuckin' fuck!" Bile bubbles in the back of my throat and spills from my mouth as I lose the contents of my stomach. The pain robs me of breath, and I can feel a heaviness in my chest from the lack of oxygen in my frozen lungs.

"Breathe, Rhett," Ormen barks, frantically looking around. "Help!"

Swallowing the bitter saliva left in my mouth, I drop my head and clench my eyes shut, focusing on breathing through the pain. In through my nose, out through my mouth.

"Biddell landed. Go check him!" Ormen shouts at someone.

"We've got to rendezvous," someone yells back. Warren—I barely recognize his panicked voice.

The buzzing is back in my ears, and the fight around me fades into a dull roar. My body burns hot with pain and I feel weak and a little woozy from the loss of blood. Ormen wrestles my ruck from my shoulders and uses it to prop up my leg, strapping it tightly to the two broken halves for support. Pain pulses in my stomach like a heartbeat as he jostles me.

"We gotta move, man." He grabs me under the arms and drags me over the rocky ground at least twenty feet. Every bump and rock feel like massive boulders. The edges of my vision turn dark and I have to fight to stay conscious. Ormen drops me on a pile of bodies, some writhing in pain, some still, most likely dead or close to it.

He crouches down in my line of sight. "Dustoff inbound. Just gotta hang on, buddy."

He places his hand in mine, and I squeeze back, lifting it so I can see it. But the skin is black—not Ormen's—and I turn my head to see a still body lying beside me. Biddell . I squeeze his hand, shouting at him, although I know he's already gone.

My voice is hoarse and shaky with tears and pain. "Hold on, Biddell! Help's comin'."

The shouting around me grows louder, punctuated by the staccato popping of gunshots. They're closing in on us, and I'm lying here like dead fucking weight, unable to fight or help my unit. Gritting my teeth against the pain about to rob me of consciousness, I grab my gun slung around my neck, and hold it up, ready to blow any motherfucker who walks into my line of sight into kingdom fucking come. My strength comes from adrenaline and fear, which helps numb some of the pain to keep me conscious.

The gunfire never stops. How big is the pile of bodies around me going to grow before it's all over? My pant leg is sopping wet with my blood and I wonder how long I can hang on before help arrives. Will I even make it that long? The soldiers protecting us are standing out in the open, easy targets, refusing to take cover. I'm putting them at risk. Ormen, Warren, and the others… I'm jeopardizing their lives, lives that I can't even help defend at the moment.

It could have been seven minutes or seventeen, I'm not really sure because time stops tracking, but I can hear the whirring of rotor blades get louder as the bird comes closer. The cloud of moon dust it kicks up as it lands chokes me, blinding my eyes. Ormen tries to drag me to the helo, but I reach out for Biddell.

"You gotta let go, Marsh! Let him go!" he yells over the roar of the blades.

Like fuck I will.

Ormen pries my fingers from Biddell's lifeless hand and drags me as I scream—from pain, from loss, from fear—and hoists me onto a stretcher and onto the helo. My throat's sore from screaming. I don't stop until he drops Biddell beside me. I reach out for him again, squeezing my pain into him like I'm trying to use it to revive him.

"I'll see you back at base, brother. Hang tight. Look after him for me," Ormen shouts, squeezing my shoulder. Then he grabs his gun and charges into the fight, yelling out a primal war cry. "All the way, motherfuckers! All the fucking way!"