Highsider Ch. 04

Author's Note: Here is the last installment into this part of the story, this one took a little long to come out as I had to make some corrections and take some details out to better accommodate the publishing standards of the website. Like I stated in the previous chapters, a lot of what I write about did in fact happen, save for a few name changes and a few details to protect the innocent.

I plan to keep a long series of stories going, literally the life of the main character as he experiences it, and I break it up into these types of chunks to better separate the stages of life. I would appreciate some feedback on this particular story, I am not sure how much detail the editors here will let me get away with, but the planned next phase might take long to put out if I need to make a ton of corrections.

Hope you enjoy reading this last part, keep the rubber side down and the wheels aligned. Life comes at us fast, all we can do it push the throttle and try to keep up.

Much love,

aka_Mike

...

The dream was always the same: I am walking toward my flight talking to an unseen individual. All I know is that in the dream I am getting ready for another flight back into theatre as overhead the voice in the terminal notifies us that a flight got cancelled. Not my flight, but someone's flight, and as we walk by the long line of planes there is one that is nothing more than a smoldering wreckage. "Well," I'll tell my unseen companion, "it looks like we just found out why the flight got cancelled." We laugh, we board our own flight and head east to the sounds of artillery and machine gun fire, almost like a well scripted rendition of a historical World War 2 battle.

The combined smell of gun powder and jet fuel burning fill my nostrils, and every time just before I am going to hear my companion speak, another sound wakes me. It's the same dream every night. A few details change, the color of the clothing I am wearing, the surrounding airport details, but other than that everything is the same. Even the moment when my sleep is interrupted is the same, this time it was the sounds of a large explosion. We had gotten used to the constant barrage of indirect fire from the Insurgent forces, the mortars seldom hit anything important but sometimes they get lucky.

"That's not mortar fire," Werkman said as he too was shaken from his own sleep. If anyone is more of an expert in mortar fire, it's him. A few days ago he had moved into the small shack, it made sense after all we were in the same squad, and we had spent many an hour talking about the various close calls we have had throughout our lives. His came in a previous deployment in Afghanistan as he was attached to a group of snipers overlooking a known terrorist training cell. Another group had been spotted and the all too familiar Taliban response was to clear their sectors using highly inaccurate mortar rounds. As the mortar team readjusted their fire and literally walked the shells toward his position, Werkman and his team remained stoic and resolute.

"I could feel the rocks from the shell impacts hitting my legs," he told me once, "each one pegging me like tiny ant bites. Then their fire shifted and missed us completely, or so I thought. Between the sniper and myself was a small crater, big mortar round sitting right smack in the middle of it. A fucking dud, I nearly shit myself."

Truth be told I more than likely would have shit myself, and as we moved toward the sounds of explosions and the wails of pain and misery I realized that he was horribly right. This was not a mortar round that got lucky, this was far worse and far more personal. The investigations later revealed that this was a suicide bomber that had strapped a grenade in his chest as he walked into the chow hall that busy morning. Whatever his reasons or logic would remain his, all that the investigators could do is make some well-informed guesses. I couldn't tell you what he was thinking at that moment when he walked through the doors and entered a building where up until a few hours before he had worked at himself.

All I can tell you is about the smell of copper and burnt skin that filled the air, and I can tell you about the screams and the chaos that quickly became well organized. I can tell you about how much gauze and kerlix I used that morning, how long my voice was gone from all the shouting I had to do in order to organize what little help I received. I can tell you how quickly we went from face to face making immediate assessments as to which person received immediate care and which ones probably would not make it. I can tell you the look in their eyes when you moved on from them onto the next person, their fate sealed within seconds by your experience and the amount of equipment on hand. Triage.

Hours passed as if they were seconds, more and more blood was cleaned, less screaming and more body bags were piled. Our security force quickly covered the grounds looking for a possible second attack or an incoming force, but they found nothing. Unspent tears just pilled in the eyes of the soldiers that were seeing their friends and brothers and sisters being solemnly carried away. A few soldiers yelled at me, blamed me for not being fast enough with my interventions, not having more medical knowledge than I did, for letting their friend die. I agreed with each and every one of them. When the last of the injured was treated and evacuated, Werkman and I made our way back to my shack and made our usual post mission tradition: smoke and breathe.

"We got a mission coming up," Werkman broke the silence after our second cigarette, "it was supposed to be intel gathering but I think that might change."

"It might," I replied, "when were we supposed to head out?"

"Tonight," a sarcastic laugh, a shake of the head, eyes drawn to the ground, I knew exactly how he felt at that moment. "But I don't think it's happening, our interpreter was the first one I triaged. Piece of wood through the chest, doubt he even saw it coming."

"When are we meeting the platoon daddy?" I knew this was going to be happening soon with the recent events, but it was not something I was looking forward to doing.

"Waiting for them to come get us, really" he replied, "at least for more serious accountability other than 'oh yeah I saw them two working the site.' But it wouldn't surprise me if that takes a while."

"Nope," I replied, "think it's happening now." The runner was driving the little rhino ATV like a man possessed, honking his tiny horn with a sense of urgency and eyes that reflected the terror we all felt.

"Holy shit, heard you guys were in the middle of it, we thought the worse" always with the sense of dread, the Fobbit, a man that never saw life outside the wire.

"You here to get us?" Werkman was needless to say not a fan.

"Yeah, hop on," he replied, "Sarge is going to be happy to see you guys. Word is we're headed out for a big counter offensive, and you guys might be headed out with the snipers."

"All of us?" Werkman always held a grudge, "or just the same names."

"You guys are on high demand," he continued, missing the obvious jab, "you got people asking for you left and right. Sarge will fill you guys in on the details, but as far as I know you guys are headed out in a few hours."

As we approached the main tent that was used as a makeshift headquarters, our driver made a showing of coming to a dramatic halt. You would think that the medics would have better accommodations, but the reason for these was simple: we could easily turn the tent into a facility to handle any overflow of patients. Also as medics our mantra was to always be mobile, this was the best way to achieve that standard, was it shitty? Yeah. Was it convenient for our needs? Yeah, at least our needs when it came to supporting our respective units.

"You two," Sarge yelled as we approached, "get your asses in here. Now!"

"If I didn't know any better," Werkman said, "I would think you got us in trouble again."

"It's not just me with the running mouth that gets others into trouble," I replied. My incredible sarcasm was legendary, rank did not matter most of the time as I went into one of those well-known rants. Most of the time I was in the losing end of those exchanges, all of the times they ended with my face on the ground performing some menial corrective training. Werkman was the same.

"Heard about what you guys did," Sarge continued ignoring our banter, "hell of a place to be in. You guys made some tough calls, couldn't have been done any other way. You guys are headed out, pack your shit."

"Yeah," Werkman said, "Fobbit already gave us the heads up." Sarge burned holes into Fobbit with his eyes as the former jumped into the rhino and headed out somewhere else. "In search of the One, I guess."

"Just once," Sarge quietly said as he rubbed his tired face, "just once, could you not be such an asshole?"

"I don't think its physically possible, I replied, "he'd go into withdrawals."

"And the less clever of the Wonder Twins speaks," Sarge continued as he looked at me, "how about you, can you not be an asshole at least for a few hours?"

"Why does he get hours and I get a full day?" Werkman whined, Sarge's neck vein was about to explode.

"Listen up, assholes," he continued as we laughed, "both of you are going to head out. Three day patrol with the Ghosts to observe a high value target area. They requested medics because of the highly likely chance that they will need to engage targets in their immediate vicinity. Close range targets. One of you will be with the sniper team, the other will be boots on the ground with the assault element. They'll serve as a quick reaction force to the targets identified by the sniper team, hopefully the inter we have received proves right and we can pin the son of a bitch responsible for coordinating the attack from today."

"I got sniper duty," Werkman said, "D can walk around for a few hours. He could use the exercise."

"So we have a sniper team to guide a QRF into a high value target?" I was honestly confused by the situation.

"Look," Sarge replied, understanding where my confusion was coming from, "all I know is that this target needs to be brought in for questioning. Sniper team is in place as a last measure if the target cannot be secured and to provide an over watch for the QRF."

"Damn," I added, "who the fuck are we trying to get? Dude must be connected as fuck."

"Don't know," his brash mannerisms back, "they ask to provide two of my best medics, they're gonna have to settle for you two. Saddle up ladies, we'll see you in a few days."

...

It only took two days of constant watching and waiting. Two long days of hearing nothing but silence on the radio. Once we reported to our assigned units, we received a full brief regarding our target, this man wanted to talk. He wanted to reveal as much information as he could on the terrorist network that had taken a family member. It was such a secret that he wanted to talk that even he didn't know it, that's how good our intelligence was at the moment. It had taken hours to find the target, or at least the house where he was staying. We learned his pattern, his habits, we saw his family go about their normal daily lives as if they didn't have a care in the world.

By day two, we knew we could make the grab, the man enjoyed his tobacco a little too much, and feeling completely safe in his village he would often leave his guards to watch his family while he disguised himself and went to the local bazar for more tobacco and hashish. The planning was the most difficult part of any operation, this one was more challenging because we would be operating in timelines measured in seconds. But when the time came, the team directed us to the target, and within minutes we were out of the area. When the guards became concerned that the man was not returning, they began to move in an erratic search. Our sniper had been waiting for that moment like a child waiting for Christmas morning, four silent shots and it was over. His information would lead to the assassination of one of the highest value targets and a powerful Emir of Al-Qaeda in Iraq. We secured his family and by the third day I was packing my things for the flight back home.

After the usual sequestration and the barrage of tests, I decided it was time to go see my wife. I had made my decision, I had seen too much death and gave too many years of myself away, it was time to give my remaining years to my loving wife. It was time to start a family, get my education, get that white picket fence with the two kids and a dog. But first there was a lot of work that Ann and I had to do, I knew that a lot of the damage done in our marriage was on me, I hoped we could discuss it as adults.

When I saw her for the first time, the same welcoming passion was there, the same glimmer in her eye, the same love and tenderness when we held each other and kissed. It was all the same, and I loved every second of the familiarity. Like always, she knew that the few details that I could share with her regarding my experiences would only make the mental image that she had of what I actually experienced seem much worse. In reality, I couldn't fathom her being able to create imagery that could be worse than the reality of my experiences.

"I missed you," she told me one morning as we lay in bed together, "it's like you are back. Finally."

"We have to go to counseling," I told her, "there is still a lot of me missing."

"I just want you to know that I love you," I remember her saying, "above anything, I love you with all that I am. Please tell me you believe me, baby."

"Of course," I looked at her, "and I love you, with everything that I have left." And I did, with as much as I had left, I loved every second that I was with her, she was my everything. Until she wasn't. It was three months after I had returned home from the last deployment, where I saw over 75 brothers die and lost so much more of myself, when she finally told me.

We had been going to counseling for about three sessions when she asked to have individual sessions with the provider, something that caught me off guard admittedly but it was to be expected. After a few sessions with her, the provider called and booked individual sessions for me. The doctor took each session to talk to me about conflict resolution, problem management, anger management, and how to properly manage stress. I figured Ann had seen some issues at home that I couldn't see and the doctor was helping me address those issues.

"Babe," Ann began our latest session together after input from the doctor, "you know I love you with all my heart. I want you to know that, its very important that you know that."

"Ok?" I replied, confused by the turn of events I looked at the doctor. "I love you too, Ann, with everything that I have left. You know that."

"I need to tell you that I am pregnant..." she began, as she saw the smile appear in my face she continued, "I don't know if you're the father."

"Remember all we have been working on," I remember the doctor telling me as I walked out of the office, "remember all those techniques you learned."

"Fuck your techniques," I shouted in the waiting room, "and fuck that whore too!"

"D," I heard a voice from the waiting room, "bro, come on, let's get you out of here."

"Baby, please," Ann was sobbing as she tried to make her way toward me, "we need to talk about this."

"One hour, whore," I said in that quiet and hushed tone that she had not heard me use in years. That tone has been described as the icy whisper of death, far more frightening that my usual cursing. The few people that have heard it also describe it as impossibly calm, a voice that should soothe you yet it does the exact opposite. "You have one hour to get your shit and get the fuck out of my house."

"Dude," my faceless friend continued, "not here, bro." I realized it was Werkman, once again here when I needed him. "Let's take a breather outside, man, see what's going on."

"What's going on," that icy tone replied, "is that I married a whore who is carrying a bastard child. What is going on is that my fucking marriage is over." All eyes looked at Ann, "what's going on is that the whore and her new what the fuck ever he is can be happy together. I'm done."

"This is not proper..."

"Shut the fuck up," I looked at the doctor, "here's your conflict resolution, I'm out. I'm done. I quit." Looking at Ann, I continued, "you win. Take whatever you want, take everything. I don't care, I'm just done."

"That's not what I want," was all I heard as Werkman pulled me out of hearing range.

"What. The. Fuck." Werkman was having issues wrapping his head around the situation, "dude, I'm sorry."

"It happens," I replied, "guess it was just my turn."

"Do you know who it is?"

"Didn't care enough to ask," I replied, "having a name would give me a target. You know I would take it, if given the chance."

"Not worth it, bro" he said, "keep your shot group tight. Get to JAG, talk to them to get a referral for a lawyer before she does." I did.

The divorce was laughable to say the least, her lawyer tried the normal tactics that you hear about, all without much success. I had hired a gorgeous woman as a lawyer, blond hair and green eyes with a slight twang and a little airheaded demeanor. But this lady was sharp, she was fierce, and she loved military men like a mother to her children. Ann's divorce asked for counseling, my own lawyer reminded them that we had already done counseling without success. She then reminded him of Ann's current pregnancy status and how the child was potentially someone else's all while I had been deployed. He advised her to move back home, the laws in Texas are far different than the ones in Georgia, there we could not get divorced until the baby was born and paternity was established.

She did. All the while she kept trying to get me to talk, tried to get me to forgive, tried to get me to try anything but the divorce. "I'll let you fuck any girl you want, whenever you want. I'll even have a threesome with you and her, anything."

"I just took a job with a contractor company," was my reply, "my lawyer has a power of attorney to act on my behalf. I leave to Iraq next spring."

"But you said you were tired of deployments," she said, "you said you didn't want to see more death."

"You said you would be faithful and loyal to me for as long as we both live," I retorted, "I guess we're both liars."

Three months later, Ann gave birth to a healthy baby boy, light skin and red hair. There was no need for a DNA test but the court mandated it, when the judge saw the baby he sighed deeply and stamped our divorce papers without even looking at the test results. When her lawyer complained, the judge read them out loud as a matter of public record, somewhere in the case files of Texas Family Court there is a transcript that states that a woman once cheated on a deployed soldier with a boy pretending to be a man, and ended up getting pregnant by a third man that was not named. Maury's wet dream.

After a few weeks, Ann moved out of my parent's property. My mother was of course devastated that her perfect little daughter in law turned out to be a whore, I don't think she ever found the father of her son and if she did he did not play much of a role in their lives. Last I heard she had found herself another man, a preacher of all things. The day she told me was the day the last piece of any love for her died, I just told her not to cheat on him and to be happy. She broke my heart, tore our marriage apart, and gets to enjoy a new family and that white picket fence. I would be headed to the Middle East for the first time as a contractor. Alone.