Page 7 of Resuscitation

Chapter Six

Forward Operating Base (FOB) Lagman,

Zabul Province, Afghanistan.

Sergeant Blake Harrow zipped his tactical vest, fingers running over the familiar contours of the gear he’d worn countless times since arriving in hell.

There was no other term for it.

American troops were losing limbs from IED attacks every other day on average, not to mention the countless, endless deaths.

Under the pre-dawn darkness that cloaked the army base, a soft murmur vibrated through the air: the soldiers of the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division, Task Force Fury, preparing for battle.

They moved purposefully, their boots crunching on the gravel paths between rows of dun-colored tents and Hesco barriers.

The scent of diesel and dust hung in the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee wafting from the mess hall.

Engines from the trucks assigned to the morning patrols rumbled to life as mechanics performed last-minute checks. Blake caught snatches of conversation—gruff orders, idle banter, and the occasional laugh—as soldiers inspected their gear and psyched themselves for another day in hostile territory.

Nearby, a convoy of sand-camo RG-31 trucks lined up in formation, their armored bodies gleaming in the growing dawn light.

Soldiers loaded supplies of ammo crates, med kits, and water cans into the vehicles—everything they’d need for an extended patrol.

Blake’s team was among them, stowing gear.

He joined in, helping to finish the work quicker.

“No MRAPs?” he asked the corporal supervising the patrol vehicles.

“Not today, sorry.”

Blake wasn’t surprised, but he wasn’t happy either. He approached Lieutenant Garcia, a seasoned officer who exuded a calm confidence and aura of professionalism. In other words, an officer who might—just might—not get Blake’s men killed. “Good morning, Lieutenant Garcia.”

“Sergeant Harrow. Ready for another fine day in paradise?”

“I thought we were going out in the MRAPs?” he asked Garcia. The Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles were the promised new answer to the scourge of IEDs, explicitly designed to withstand improvised explosive device attacks and ambushes.

“The new arrivals didn’t pass inspection. Need their air filters upgraded to deal with the dust.” The Lieutenant shrugged, a small movement that revealed his fatigue. “Guess they must’ve thought ‘road ready’ meant cruising some highway stateside.”

“Yeah. Not like lives are on the line or anything,” Blake muttered. “Thanks, LT.”

He turned toward a sudden burst of laughter. A cluster of soldiers gathered around Sergeant O’Leary, leader of the other squad they’d be patrolling with. Must’ve been some joke, since everyone around him was brushing away tears from laughing too hard, even as they checked their equipment.

Blake wished he could be funny like that, but even though he’d never been married or had a kid, the only jokes he knew were “dad” jokes he’d learned from his grandfather. They made his guys groan and roll their eyes, not laugh.

Continuing toward his squad’s vehicles, Blake noticed Private Miller, the youngest and newest man on Blake’s squad, looking visibly upset. Blake followed him to Miller’s quarters. He stepped inside, finding Miller seated on the edge of his cot, head in his hands.

“Miller?” Blake called out softly, approaching the distraught soldier. “What’s going on?”

The kid lifted his head, grim-faced. He swiped at his eyes, but his tears didn’t come from any gut-splitting joke, Blake was sure. “Sarge, I…I can’t do this anymore,” he choked out. “I just want to go home.”

Blake sat down beside Miller. He remembered the raw fear and desperation he’d felt during his own early days in-country, which still morphed into the occasional anxiety attack. “You’re not alone in that feeling.”

They sat in silence, Blake not pressing the young soldier despite the fact that it was almost time to move out.

Finally, Miller spoke again, his words directed down at his boots. “It’s just…” He paused, swallowing hard. “When Ellison got hit by the IED and didn’t make it… We were friends, came through basic together…”

Blake instinctively placed a hand on Miller’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He hadn’t realized Miller and Ellison had been close friends. He wondered what slick words O’Leary would have to make things better, get Miller to laugh or at least smile.

Whatever words could perform that kind of magic, Blake didn’t have them at his disposal.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Losing a friend is never going to be easy.

It’s…” The words sounded hollow, clichéd.

Blake changed tactics. “Little while ago, I lost a friend. Carl, Carl Bukoski. Our squad was doing house searches. One of the locals, family man, acted like he had some intel to share, so we got too close and…Carl got killed.”

Miller glanced up, eyes reddened but no more tears. “Sorry, Sarge. That sucks.”

Blake blew out his breath. “Yeah. It does. It really, really does. And it hurts like hell.” He tapped his fist against his thigh.

“But you can’t let it break you, Miller,” he continued.

“Ellison would want you to keep going, to honor his memory, at least. Because that’s what we do.

We’re not here to save the world or even our country.

We’re here to save each other, the men like Ellison we fight beside. ”

“I get that, I really do. But…” Miller hung his head. “Every time we go outside the wire, I’m so damn fucking scared.”

“Let you in on a secret. We all are fucking terrified. Anyone tells you different is lying. But we all know there’s too many lives depending on us keeping our shit together, keeping our head in the game, as crap as this game is.

” His expression softened slightly. “I know it’s not fair, but this is the shit show we’ve all been dealt.

All we can do is make the best of it. Fight as hard as we can so we all get to go home. Alive.”

Miller, god bless him, seemed to buy into Blake’s Dr. Phil meets Oprah emotional psychobabble. Not that Blake didn’t mean every word of what he’d said, but words were meaningless out here, no defense against bullets and shrapnel.

Blake stood. “Enough talk, let’s show them. Make ‘em pay for all the Ellisons and Bukoskis. Ready to get to work, soldier?”

Miller nodded, his gaze still distant, but he stood up, and they walked out together.

* * *

The RG-31 vehicles rolled out, billowing dust in their wake. The rising sun painted the barren landscape in hues of gold and red as they made their way toward the highway and the village. The radio crackled with chatter from other units, but so far, all was quiet.

Blake tensed as their convoy turned onto Highway 1. The infamous “Highway to Hell” stretched from Kabul to Kandahar, cutting a swath of asphalt across the harsh Afghan landscape. It was also a dangerous stretch of Taliban activity.

The tension ratcheted up a notch among his squad. The banter soon ceased, and the vehicle became silent, apart from the hum of the engine.

Miller fidgeted with his rifle, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other before catching Blake’s. He nodded, attempting to reassure the kid.

The convoy rumbled along, each bump and pothole sending a jolt through the vehicle. Blake scanned the roadside ahead, looking for signs of digging, suspicious debris, or any other unexplained anomaly in the dirt that might hint at buried explosives.

Corporal Rodriguez’s voice crackled over the radio in his helmet. “All clear on the right flank, Sarge.”

“Copy that,” Blake responded, his gaze never leaving the road.

They passed the burned-out hulk of a car with twisted metal and a scorched shell, a stark reminder of the dangers on this stretch of highway. Sweat beaded on Blake’s forehead, as they approached a narrow pass between two hills.

He keyed his mic. “All units, tighten formation. Possible choke point ahead.”

The convoy slowed, vehicles drawing closer together.

Tension radiated from his squad. Miller’s knuckles were white on his weapon, while Specialist Lee’s eyes darted constantly between her sector and the rocky outcroppings on the hills above.

Then the landscape flattened, and a scattering of buildings on either side of the highway lay ahead.

A plume of dust in the distance caught Blake’s attention. He squinted, trying to make out the source. “Vehicle approaching. Stay sharp.”

The dust cloud grew larger, becoming a battered pickup truck speeding toward them.

Blake’s eyes narrowed as the truck stopped, partially blocking the convoy’s path ahead.

The lone driver remained seated, his intentions unclear as they approached.

If they stopped to inspect the driver and his truck, the entire convoy would be sitting ducks for any snipers.

Blake’s mind raced through potential scenarios.

Was this a civilian in distress? A Taliban scout?

Or something worse? The few months he had spent in this unforgiving terrain had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now, every fiber of his being screamed danger.

He re-scanned the surrounding area through the window’s slit, looking for any signs of an ambush or hidden threats, before moving to the rear doors.

“Halt while I see what this guy’s?—”

A deafening roar shattered the air, followed by a blinding flash.

The world lurched violently, spinning with the sickening crunch of metal and glass.

Blake was thrown into the air, his body a rag doll in the chaos.

His head struck something hard as he hit the asphalt.

Darkness threatened to overtake him, but somehow, he clung to consciousness.

An acrid smell of burning rubber and fuel filled his nostrils as he struggled to regain his bearings, his mind reeling from the sudden assault on his senses.