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It was actually embarrassing why he was still alive and the others were dead.

It’d been a year before he’d become an Army Ranger, and almost three years before he’d joined the elite Delta Force.

He and his unit had been two days away from going home after a six-month tour.

They could almost taste the American air they’d been missing, along with pizza, barbecue, and anything else that didn’t come from a mess hall or MRE package.

Ten members of his squad had been loading up to leave the confines of Camp Leatherneck for a run to Kandahar, escorting a small convoy of supply trucks.

Frisco’s intestinal system had been revolting against that morning’s breakfast, and he was suffering from a severe case of the farts.

The guys he’d been serving with for nearly two years had banished him to another Humvee with some of the newer arrivals to the base, instead of having him stink up their vehicle.

With no AC and areas where having open windows was an invitation to get shot in the head, they’d wanted no part of his gastric distress.

Laughing, they’d locked him out of the vehicle, telling him to hitch a ride in the other one.

His grumbling had been cut short about two miles from camp when the lead Humvee, filled with his best friend and other buddies, ran over a concealed bomb.

The explosion had ripped through the bottom of the vehicle, instantly killing everyone on board except the driver, who’d died hours later while in surgery.

Four friends, who’d been through hell and back with him for two tours, were gone in the blink of an eye.

Frisco had been beyond devastated, and his superiors had known it.

Since he was already rotating home, they’d granted him permission to accompany the bodies of his teammates back to the US for burial.

He spent the entire trip aboard a C-130, a military transport plane designed to carry only rows of flag-covered caskets of fallen heroes and their escorts.

After landing at Dover AFB, a solemn, dignified transfer of the remains of the dead followed, before they were transported to whichever part of the country their families had requested.

Frisco had stayed with two of his buddies, including his best friend, Joshua “Digger” Riggs, who’d been placed on the commercial flight heading to Columbus, Georgia, near Fort Benning where they’d been stationed at the time.

Digger’s family had flown in to escort their son and brother home.

Frisco had barely gotten through the funerals, and if it wasn’t for Digger’s father, he may never have gotten on Delta.

He could still hear the older man’s words after they were the only two still remaining at the grave site .

Retired Army Gunnery Sergeant Michael Riggs grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and made sure he had his attention.

Riggs had aged ten years since he’d been notified of his son’s death, but he still gave his support to those around him, who were also grieving.

“Now, you listen here, Frisco. I know what you’re going through—I’ve been there many times during my tours.

You’re wondering how the hell to go on after this.

” He pointed to the still open grave. “This was not your fault. Put the blame where it belongs—with those bastards who planted that bomb. Josh and the others wouldn’t want you to give up your dreams for them.

I know you both put in for the Rangers with the intent of going all the way to Delta.

When you get that call, I want you to go and be the best damn Ranger then Delta the US has ever seen.

You do it for him ... for all of them.

I know you won’t be able to tell me when you do make it to Delta—notice I didn’t say if—but I’ll know.

And I’ll be damn proud of you. So will Josh.

Every mission you go on, know they’ll have your six.

” He tapped Frisco’s temple and then the left side of his sternum with his finger. “You’ll feel them here and here.”

Two months later, Frisco had gotten the call to join the 75th Ranger Regiment.

After passing the training, he spent two years with them before being selected for Delta Force.

With Michael Riggs’s words resonating in his mind, there had never been a moment of doubt that he wouldn’t complete the rigorous, six-month Operator Training Course.

Two days after graduation, he’d learned that Digger’s father was near death after a year-long battle with cancer.

Having a week’s leave before he was due at Fort Hood, Frisco had flown to Columbus, Georgia.

Upon his arrival at the Riggs’s family home, he’d been greeted warmly by Digger’s mom and three sisters, before walking into the living room where a hospital bed had been set up.

Thinking he’d arrived too late—the older man had been in and out of consciousness for three days—Frisco was surprised when Mr. Riggs’s eyes opened and focused on him.

Unable to speak, he’d used the little energy he still had to raise his eyebrows.

Frisco had nodded in response. “You tell them, I did it, Gunny. I did it for you, them, and every veteran who’s ever defended our flag. ”

A smile had spread across the man’s pale and drawn face. Three hours later, surrounded by his family and his son’s best friend, Michael Riggs passed away.