George twirled a coffee stirrer on the end of his finger, ignoring the growl in his stomach. The briefing had meant to start fifteen minutes ago, but chatter over breakfast orders put a lead weight in everyone’s shoes. He sat alone at the long boardroom table, watching the steam rise from his coffee.

        Jeanie was working the throng, jotting orders and pouring coffee. Every black tie, knuckle-dragging spook of Nolan’s CIA task force seemed to get the invite. Nolan’s revenge. 

        After Commander Harper zipped the liaison’s lip about John, Nolan made a point of squeezing everything else that passed through Javelin’s intelligence department. It meant slow meetings full of useless people–a contest for the contrarian and a game of political footsie for career climbers. Proud wives these patriots made. 

        Instead of leaping to the task, George sat in meetings that took the better part of his day, sometimes more. His assignments were listed before the grand jury, the fine details written down to the minute, lest George try and pick up any more stray dogs. Nolan’s thumb was putting a kink in his back.

        “Nothing for your coffee, hun?” Jeanie said, setting a manila folder before him. 

        “No, thank you,” George covered his mug before her nest of teased hair slipped into it. His eyes trailed from the tan line on her ring finger to her pursed, red lips. Her blouse was undone by an extra button. Daring. That explained the delay at the door. 

        They met eyes, and he smiled, turning his attention to the manila folder. He admired her taste for opportunity–a shared trait. One more well-placed affair and she’d be clinking glasses with Miami mistresses. Quite the promotion.

        “Been stirring that coffee like it’ll turn gold,” she said as she continued down the table, thwacking folders out from her ruby-clawed grip.

        “A couple more and it might,” George snickered.

        She smiled, oblivious to his comment, but turned as a sudden reprieve parted the crowd at the door. 

        Marcus ‘Sergeant’ Stafford, Javelin’s lead cook, and his squad of underlings pushed wheeled trays of food into the room. Men yammered and sprang for their plates, dousing cigarettes and snatching extra bagels from a bin beside the makeshift coffee station. 

        George shared a look with Marcus as the man passed out plates. The man was an aging Roman statue amongst flocks of fidgeting pigeons. Men like that outlasted retirement only by getting used to the bird shit. 

        “Gentlemen,” Harper’s voice filled the room. The Commander emerged at the head of the table in a formal, green uniform, hands behind his back. “Take your seats.” Whispers rumbled as every black jacket took their place at the table, and the overflow played a game of musical chairs along the wall. It sent a curl up George’s lip. 

        Before him thudded a food-laden plate, momentarily spiriting him from his frustrations. One six-egg omelette and a greasy pile of corn-beef hash. A firm hand slapped George’s shoulder. Thank you, Marcus.         He gave an appreciative nod to the man, who smiled as he left with the rest of the cooks. 

        George dug into the little pile of heaven, lifting his eye to a flash in the corner of the room. There stood         Lochte, his fiercely cold eyes staring unsparingly. The man tapped a finger on his watch.

        Be ready to move, the gesture said. 

        “Yesterday, intelligence confirmed the transportation of suspicious cargo south of Kabul,” Harper began his presentation. As he spoke, a crease between his chin and mouth crested like a downward moon. “If you’ll open your folders–” an eruption of motion rustled along the table. “These photographs depict an unmarked military escort. The first of several observed over the past ten days.”

        “The concern?” Nolan chimed from the back of the room. George turned to see his hawk-eyed face at the center of his lackeys, their huddled shoulders a throne for his disinterest. The folder’s contents flipped lazily beneath the liaison’s thumb. 

        George stifled a grumble. Here we go. Nolan just took over the briefing, and the floor would be open for his spooks to squawk.

        “Soviets have done this before,” blurted a thick voice. “Start of the war–ex-PDPA members fled the country with unidentified escorts. The Spetsnaz sleuthed–”

        “It’s not an exfiltration of diplomats,” Harper countered. “Evidence suggests delivery of a substantial payload.”

        “They’re at war,” someone griped. “Russian ordinance shipments have increased this year–yes, but why single this transport for intervention? Give it to the Mujahideen to deal with.”

        The lines in Harper’s face ran dark below the fluorescent light. “Mr. Lochte. Please,” Commander Harper lifted a hand to the man in the shadows. Lochte approached the table, straightening the cuffs of his pastel jacket.

        “The photographs before you were shot by wildlife photographer, Wadaan Mousavi–an informant,” Lochte cut his words swiftly. “Images A, B, and C capture armed personnel in standard ANA outfits–first assumption is Soviet Uzbeks disguised as Afghan soldiers. Not unlike the start of the war, but with a few peculiarities. Note: collars, gloves, masks.”

        George peered closely at a picture of a soldier in front of a freight carrier. The man, his head turned, showed a peculiar lining of fabric beneath his uniform, high on the neck. A hooded mask dangled from his belt, and his cuffs were wrung tight beneath a pair of gloves. 

        “Hm,” George hummed. 

        “Their movements suggest an avoidance of main roads and Red Army patrols. Mousavi took these when they stopped to await a refueling team. During that time, locals approached the convoy to trade–mostly children. While the guards turned them away, two were witnessed climbing the back of the cargo-carrier. Mousavi took the following photos after the transport had gone.”

        George slid the first few images aside. The next, marked D and E in red marker, depicted a boy and a girl, their hands splayed for the camera. A close-up revealed what looked like burns on their palms. George set his coffee stirrer on his lip.

        “Chemical burns,” Nolan let the photographs slip from his hand. “Kids were playing with the exhaust.”

        “Mousavi photographed three more transports the following week,” Lochte continued. “Each stopped within a few miles of this location to await refuelling. We coordinated with Mousavi to confirm the following report.”

        George slid out a data sheet from the folder between sips of coffee. He read the numbers printed in foreboding, black ink and hardened his jaw. A flash of red infused him with the memory of the black glass jewelry they’d taken, now sitting cozy in Whitaker’s lab.

        “How did you–” Nolan nearly choked on his coffee, spilling it onto his lap.

        “Recorded in the text is a significant radiation reading,” Lochte paced at the head of the table. His daggered grimace chased down each look of confusion and distress. “The measurements were collected using a caela counter–a device now implemented into our special operations unit–capable of documenting radiation readings. Mousavi employed the locals to gather said data, recreating the events of the first rendezvous, but with a caela counter hidden beneath a child’s robes.”

        “You sent a child to get this?” the portly man with the thick voice scowled. “The radiation…the amount here–it’s–”

        “Mousavi sent a child,” Lochte flattened the man’s protest. “Javelin acted under previously authorized parameters set by Mr. Horne.” He extended a guiding hand down to Nolan’s shadowed end of the table. 

        Hunched, the padded shoulders of Nolan’s black suit eclipsed the light from his eyes as they darted over the report once more–seeking some lie. His lips mouthed the unforgiving text. 

        George scrunched his brow. I didn’t know about this. Who did Lochte run this coordination with?

        “Our informant was given supplies, a directive, and pay,” said Lochte. Each word was a hammer to a nail, pounding the silence into the room. Lochte let the doomed reverence sit heavy on their necks.

        “Now–” Lochte set his jaw. He glanced at George. “As of twenty minutes ago, a fifth transport has been sighted near the same route tracked by Mousavi. It is currently stalled. A recon plane is providing updates every minute by radio–”

        “Hold on–” Nolan stood. Several others staggered to their feet like mimes.

        “–by radio, confirming the transport–” Lochte set his hands on the table. His voice rose preemptively as men found their bureaucratic senses and tore into protest, “–has been stuck for several hours. Presumed lost or misdirected. If we move now–”

        “No mission was approved to fly in enemy airspace,” Nolan threw his words over Lochte. “Recall that pilot. I want that plane grounded!”

        “Mr. Horne,” Commander Harper drawled heavily. He stepped to Lochte’s side. “If Russians are moving radioactive material through a war zone, is that not a CIA priority?”

        “Not at the risk of a public crisis for flying unsanctioned sherpas over Russian battalions!” Nolan’s neck was turning red. 

        “Russian chatter shows no acknowledgement of this transport. Likely it is outside any communication channel,” Lochte Levied a humble hand to the room’s outbursts. “It is alone and unprotected. Urgency is paramount.”

        George thought of Kai up there in the air, risking rocket fire with every minute they delayed. His thighs tensed.

        “Mr. Horne,” Harper repeated. “We’d like authorization to seize this transport and confirm its contents for the safety and well-being of Afghanistan’s populace–and Western security.” The Commander had it. No one could turn that reasoning down. 

        A grave air settled in the room, awaiting Nolan’s verdict. The control he bargained for had just been handed to him tenfold, the weight visibly crushing him. It was almost funny, though George knew not to smile. 

        “Do it,” Nolan relented.

        “Gentlemen,” the Commander nodded to the room, then made for the door. Lochte snapped his fingers at George, speeding after Harper before the doorway could be stopped up with black suits. 

        George left his breakfast half-eaten and knocked a man into his seat to get ahead of the crowd. Squeezing his way through the fumbling pigeons, he finally pushed through the door into the hall.

        He looked about frantically, then found Commander Harper and Lochte hurrying down the hall towards the exit doors of the command center. George spun after them, elbowing a mug of coffee from someone’s hands in his path. A splash and cry of annoyance followed George’s half-jog to align with the two as they pushed out the door into the morning light.

        “Your team is waiting for you aboard the Sikorsky, Captain,” Lochte said over his shoulder. “I picked your squad. They’ve been briefed.”

        “Take no risks,” Harper said through the corner of his lip. “No eyes, no stories.”

        George nodded, understanding his meaning. He marched between them, the helipad a good length ahead. 

        “Your gear is with your team,” Lochte added. “Once the carrier is secured, arrange for transport by radio.” 

        George narrowed his mind to the task. He’d establish a plan on the flight over. Lochte would have chosen the right people and gear for the assignment. Variables he could trust. 

        The two men stopped on either side of him. “You know your task,” Harper affirmed, sticking a cigar in his mouth and chopping the end off with his teeth. “If the cargo cannot be taken, destroy it.” The Commander switched his footing and turned. His lighter clicked with the beat of his steps as he returned to the command center. 

        “Captain,” Lochte approached George. “You’ve been issued a new form of protection from radiation–a special, neoprene undersuit. Lightweight. Newly developed by the Japanese team in R&D. Beware over-exposure–it will not save you. Watch your caela counters and trust only caution. Wear the suit beneath your clothes. Ensure your team has done the same.”

        “Sir,” George acknowledged. 

        “You should know,” Lochte leaned close to George’s shoulder. His voice had fallen just above a whisper. “I suspect you’ve been running for your own tail these past weeks. By design.”

        George raised an eyebrow. A strange feeling traced his stomach.

        “These killings you’ve followed; I believe they’re connected. A distraction.”

        “Yeger?” George eyed their surroundings as if someone would be listening. “Saether?”

        “Intel pulled no records but whispers throughout Afghanistan–only Afghanistan. Russian special forces–Spetsnaz? I’m not certain, but their engagement has been narrowed to two periods of time. Twenty years ago, then again in 1983–when you joined us.”

        Heat filled George’s face. He swallowed. The tracing finger in his stomach had turned into a fist that punched down inside him.  

        His superior flattened his lips, the sun in his eyes, “I’ll stay in touch by radio. Your team is waiting.” Lochte ran a hand through his hair and turned to follow the Commander.

        George stood paralyzed. Was I just accused of collusion? George wrapped the man’s words around and around the finger of his mind, looking to make sense of them. He thinks I’m a spy.  

        Stinging heat in his face traveled through his body. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt.

        Or did he mean I’ve let myself be duped? George squeezed the tension in his brow with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t allow himself to bend this into a better light. Either meaning spelled doom, but more importantly, it meant Lochte was watching him. All he could do was continue his work and prove his worth.

        “Right,” he reassured himself. He inhaled deeply and turned for the distant drumming that set him back on the path to the helipad. The Sikorsky appeared beyond the corner, humming eagerly with spinning wings. Its wind bashed against his approach, fighting every step as he ducked for the open side-hatch on its belly. 

        He leapt inside, pausing to brush the hair from his eyes. A storage compartment was placed away from the side-hatch, with the seats configured along the cabin walls, facing one another. Becker, Gardner, and Troy sat on one side, geared in khaki fatigues and armored jackets, their rifles aimed low against their chests. Opposite them sat Murphy, Warren… and John.

        A gun sat snug in the boy’s arms.

        “Who cleared a weapon for him?” George hollered over the rumbling rotors. His mouth hung open, eyelids thrown back in anticipation of an explanation. A shrug from Gardner, a frown from Becker; they gave him nothing but numbed faces. Then it clicked. Lochte. 

        Lips pursed, George snatched the rifle from John’s chest. It snagged on the end of a strap looped around the boy’s shoulder. John recoiled with fanged eyes and a snarled lip, but gradually rested back in submission. The boy’s quick surrender caught George by surprise. He paused, sensing the looks his outburst garnered. 

        Murphy nudged forward in her seat. She looked up at him from below her flaxen brow and tapped a finger on a headset she wore. She pointed a gloved hand to another hanging on the cabin wall. She waited for him to put them on and join their frequency. “Pascal,” Murphy’s voice buzzed in his ears. “Davy, he fitted us–told us Rycroft was cleared. Said he’s had substantial weapons training for the task.” 

        George took hold of a handle on the ceiling as the side door was shut behind him. The Sikorsky lifted them into the air. 

        “Substantial,” George scoffed into the mic. “Try two range days. Barely covered weapons safety. Zero training simulations–”

        “Got that in my head too,” said Gardner. He walled John off with a hand while speaking as if the boy couldn’t already hear his New Yorker accent through the headset. John scowled at him. “Boss gave us the impression you okayed it, though.”

        George wrestled a wild look from his face. Compose yourself, George. Don’t sow distrust of Command. Lochte must have some reason to include John. 

        Still. 

        He turned to the boy.

        “You’re not ready for this.” George picked up his rifle and unlatched its strap, letting the cord fall dead against the boy’s arm. John looked as if his heart had been ripped out. 

        “I requested you to observe this op,” George lied. “My report to Lochte was misleading. Got a lot of work to do before I can trust you with this.” He shook the rifle in his hand. That should put this fire out. Better to rip the boy’s expectations off quick and clean and not pay for it later with a bullet in the back of the leg. 

        George took another glance at what the boy had been issued. A submachine gun with an integrated suppressor and red-dot sight. This was a special pick from Lochte. “MP5SD, huh? Doesn’t exactly translate to the standard issues we’ve been practicing with.”

        George removed the rifle’s magazine and ejected a chambered bullet from within, catching it in the air. He raised an eyebrow at the boy and moved to the cargo shelves to store it away.

        John’s rifle secured, George rejoined the squad to find them sneering with wide, dark grins. Becker, standing with a slight waver above the helicopter’s current, pulled what looked like a black wetsuit from a shelf.

        “Time to suit up, Captain,” he smiled with a wrinkled, freckly nose. He tossed George the garment. 

        George flared his nostrils, curling his moustache down until his neck cramped. He’d forgotten about this.

        “Everyone has theirs on?” George asked. It was a senseless question, but he couldn’t help but seek some angle for mercy.

        “Give us a show, Captain,” Warren heckled through the part in his front teeth. The others whooped. Only John turned away, just for Warren to drum his knuckles over his helmet. “Got us blushing with anticipation!”

        “Out to bust my balls,” George muttered, unbuttoning his shirt. 

        Murphy clapped as he undid his boots and dropped his trousers, left in his boxers and socks. He hid any discomfort, even managing a smile when he nearly lost his balance tugging the undersuit over his ankles. 

        Just another adventure with the Captain, he thought, taking it on the chin. Everyone else likely stripped on the spot in urgency, too. Besides, any shame was already lifted by the communal showers. This was nothing but a chuckle for the ride.

        He wormed his arms through the sleeves and zipped the collar up his neck. Snug. A bit pinchy at the elbow and groin. He fought not to nip at the fabric clenching around his buttocks, though. The men needed no more fuel for their fire. 

        “Whadd’ya think, Adonis?” Gardner said once George re-equipped his headset, standing otherwise as a naked silhouette. George gave him and his hairless brow a sideways glance. 

        The kid was a new addition to Javelin. Fresh, but experienced. He operated as one of the youngest of a SWAT team in New York before joining Lochte’s crew. Every one of his brothers fought in ‘Nam except him. He was the runt. The result was a kid with an insufferable hunger for action and a need to jump out of the shadows of his G.I. family. That ambition landed him a strange interview with an even stranger, pastel-colored man eagerly snatching up this generation’s war babies and ex-military lost boys for a secret job overseas. Lochte.  

        “It feels like it might get hot.” George stretched his neck. “Not sure about mobility, either.” To add to the sum-zero attire, a hooded gas mask and a pair of ‘radiation-proof’ rubber gloves were also issued to them. The collage of blubbery gear set his teeth back. “Best to keep these aside unless absolutely necessary,” he wagered.   

        “Mind putting that in my report too, Murphy?” Warren cooed.

        “Give it to Troy–keep his hands busy with something other than what’s between his legs,” Murphy said dryly. Troy looked aghast at the sudden jab, shaking his head and shifting the sniper rifle separating his legs.

        While the others amused themselves over Murphy’s un-rehearsed deflection, George switched the channels of his headset and spoke into the microphone alone.

        “King Two, this is Sundance. Radio check.” George set the gas mask and gloves aside in his bin and began dressing. He was issued a new set of desert-toned fatigues and an armored vest with ammunition and grenade pouches sewn to the chest. “My team is ready. Over.”

        “Sundance,” Lochte’s voice hummed from seemingly everywhere. “Blackjack has confirmed the convoy remains stranded. Two trucks and the carrier–ten armed men. They are out of gas. No sign of reinforcement has been acknowledged.” 

        Blackjack was Kai’s codename. He’s alive, then. 

        “You will be deployed a half mile from their position. Move quickly and secure the carrier. No one escapes. Over.”

        “Acknowledged, over,” George rummaged through the bin, retrieving a caela counter he transfixed to a designated space on his vest over his heart. A picture of dusty hills and dotted, mud-brick buildings filled his thoughts of what they might have at their advantage. The enemy was ill-equipped, but would have time to prepare upon hearing their approach. George would use the landmarks to approach quietly, flanking them while Troy picked off any runners from another position. That was most ideal.

        “Sundance, there is a new parameter to this engagement,” Lochte added. “Capture and return one of the soldiers alive. This is a priority directive. Likely, this will be our only chance to discover who is behind this initiative. Over.” 

        George pursed his lips. A band of zip ties sat at the bottom of the crate. He slipped them into his pocket, then attached the mask and gloves to his belt. “Acknowledged, King Two. Out.”

        He switched back to the cabin channel and delivered the new orders to his team. Their faces tightened, attentive. Even John kept focus, despite the wounded pride worn on his sleeve.

        George moved to a seat beside the side-hatch and sat, lowering his head into a pool of thought. Yeger. What am I missing? The guilt from Lochte’s assumptions about him nagged at his conscience. How did the timing of their appearance connect to his joining Javelin? 

        George cleared his throat and set the thought aside. Someone below would give him the answers to clear up this mess. The truth would come out.

        “Cabin, this is Falcon One,” the pilot’s voice broke into their headsets. “We are two minutes out. Uh–Blackjack confirmed unidentified tangoes have engaged the carrier. Landing zone is now hot. Over.” 

        Uneasiness burned through the room. George chewed his lip and straightened in his seat. “Roger, Falcon One. Over and out.” 

        George stood and replaced his headset with a cloth-covered helmet retrieved from his bin, snapping the clasps together under his chin. The squad followed, stowing their headsets and making final preparations. George took hold of the side door’s latch and heaved it open to the thundering wind. He lowered himself to the cabin’s edge and hung a foot out over the sea of sand below.

        The helicopter banked down to the earth, lifting the world to his feet. Blankets of dust shrouded their landing, but also twisted around a lone figure waiting for them. George hopped out onto the dirt and rock. His rifle set to his shoulder and aimed for the interloper in the sand. A swift flick of his thumb put the safety off and readied him to fire.

        His squad dashed from the hovering Sikorsky and took position in a half circle around him. John’s breath shuddered just behind him, sounding faint. The boy mumbled something incoherent.

        A rider in black stamped through the grainy fog atop a horse dressed in plain robes. Tattoos marked his face and arms. One of Rahim’s? The man belonged to the nomads; otherwise, he would have threatened them with the rifle strapped to his saddle. His bearded mouth contorted with a spittle of words lost in the thrum of the helicopter’s blades. George held firm, waiting for the Sikorsky to depart. A tense minute passed before the wind quieted and was replaced by a distant roar of gunfire. 

        George could now hear the agitation in the rider’s voice, but the words found no form in his head. Pashto, George realized. John fidgeted at his side. 

        “Captain,” John said in a low voice at his shoulder. “That’s Ahmed Shahzar’s man. He–he’s asking us to f–follow–” the boy winced. “Waiting f–for us.”

        George half-turned to regard the boy, then snapped to take him by the arm. A sudden urgency lit beneath his feet. “Tell him they can’t kill the soldiers. We need them alive!”

        John stumbled around him, a hand to his neck. George looked at him cockeyed. The hell is wrong with him? George popped a knuckle.

        John raised the request with a strain in his throat. The lone muja shifted in his saddle and turned the horse to him, extending an open hand to him.

        John turned. His teeth were grit, and something was in his eye. “Captain, let me go with him. It’ll be faster–I can–I’ll tell them to stop.”

        George chewed his lip, then nodded. John took the muja’s hand and was pulled up onto the back of the saddle. The rider thwacked the reins and they were off, climbing a dusty hill towards the air-splitting pops of gunpowder and metal.

        “Troy, stick with us. No time for a foothold,” George ordered over a gust of growing wind. The breeze was picking up, fighting them as they pursued the nomad. “Stick together and hold your fire.”

        George’s joints pinched with sweat from the undersuit’s suffocation of his skin beneath his clothes. Each step filled him with more damp as the dune unraveled taller and longer than expected. By the time they reached the peak, a wet heat had spread all over his body. Two more dunes rose and fell ahead before a mirage of glinting metal. Their objective waved at them mockingly. Damn these suits.

        John bobbed atop the horse over the final hill, vanishing into whatever chaos waited for them. George cursed. He hoped he made the right call.

        Their breaths labored as they climbed the final sandy hill. Dry grit filled George’s senses. He wiped the grain from his eyes and dropped to a knee to overlook a desperate scene. 

        Horses lay dead. Cloaked men were sprawled from their saddles in blooming, red circles. The few who lived had retreated to a ring of rock that cracked relentlessly with enemy bullets. The enemy was dug in around the carrier, overpowering the rebels with deadly precision from well-guarded positions. Their disguises as simple infantry must have surprised the nomads.  

        At the base of the hill was the rider who had taken John, now dead, crushed beneath his horse. Blood flowed from the animal’s still heaving chest. But John was missing. George searched and found the boy weaving through the gunfight. He careened towards the nomad’s position. At its front stood a man fighting in scarlet robes. Shahzar. 

        “Take position along the ridge and lay suppressive fire,” George barked to his men. They had to help John. Once Shahzar knew to stand down, they could create an opening for them to retreat, then control the engagement. 

        Thumping fire volleyed from their line of silenced rifles. Metal pinged and cried as their bullets struck along the enemy’s position, momentarily startling them into hiding. John ran on. The boy leapt and tumbled into cover, his helmet flying loose behind him. He made it to Shahzar. 

        Good, John, one step done. George turned to Troy.

        “Cut down the best-positioned shooters,” George demanded. “I count two dead–shoot no more than five.”

        “Taking off the pressure,” Troy flipped out a bipod on the end of his bolt-action M24 rifle. He flopped to the ground and nuzzled into the sand. One moment later, a boom delivered his first shot.

        A man in a short cap swung out from the other side of the freight carrier, rolling to a slump. George saw their faces snap to their position on the hillside. He motioned to drop behind cover as the sand along the ridge popped with returning fire. 

        Becker and Murphy slid down from the hill. George followed, but Troy remained. Another boom from his rifle cracked the sky, and a distant scream pleaded in response.

        Air zipped sharply, and a thud punched Warren off his knee and down the hill. “Warren’s hit! Becker–get to him,” George yelled as he straddled along the slope. “Gardner, Murphy, move down the line and lay into them! Turn their backs on the nomads!”

        Boom. Troy fired again. Clouds of sand puffed into the air all around him. He pushed off from his rifle and slid to George’s side. 

        “Need to move!” he yelled. Troy snagged his rifle by the strap and hobbled around him. “I’ll go right–get behind Rycroft’s position.”

        “Go,” George let his submachine gun drop and catch on the sling around his shoulder. He ripped open a pouch on his chest and yanked out a grenade. Tearing the pin, he swung his arm and sent the explosive singing over the hill. By the time it detonated, he had primed another. The rhythm of gunfire scattered as he readied his last grenade. Gardner and Murphy each tossed grenades from farther down the dune.

        “How’s Warren?” George threw the grenade and lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

        “Fine. Took one to the arm–I’ve got him!” Becker sounded from below. Warren groaned.

        “Check that the radio’s okay, he’s got it,” George called. For a moment, George had control. The tide shifted with the enemy line now rattled. But as George rose to the ridge, he heard a distant thump, and a shining star flew up to meet him.

        His breath lifted.

        An orb of force inflated the hillside just beside him in a burst of white fire. He became weightless. One blink and his body smacked against the slope, tumbling head over heels to the bottom. He came to a fumbling stop against a body, but his head continued to spin.

        He sucked air. “Becker–” George groped for stability. Ringing filled his ears. “Up–help me up.” But he turned and saw a dead horse looking back at him. His breath left him. He was on the other side of the hill.

        His limbs were jelly, and a hum racked his bones. He spat and pushed onto his knees.

        Raging gunfire spouted from the nomad’s position just then. Their effort was revitalized, and they dove over the rocks and forced the enemy back with heavy, blind fire. John had joined them, a rifle in hand. He was crouched on a toppled pillar beneath Shahzar’s commanding hand, which ran slick with blood. Their guns spat wildfire into the enemy line while others ran in George’s direction. They were coming to his aid, George realized. The nomad was making this push against the enemy to do so. But they couldn't see as George could from his place in the sand–how doomed the effort was. Even as Shahzar stood, a brilliant red statue, throwing his men to battle with invigorated passion, their roars carried only a few feet beyond the rocks. Then they began to fall.

        The first rebel came within an arm’s length of George, his hand reaching for him. George grimaced as a mist of red spouted from the rebel’s back. His body fell in front of him. The man behind him flung down his rifle and charged for his fallen brother, but twisted as a piercing shot took him by the throat.

        George and John looked at one another from afar. Shock and anger filled the boy’s gray eyes. Then another man fell from the rocks. 

        A red flag unfurled at John’s back, cast down from the rebel’s rally. A grasping shadow of a man disappeared into the rocks. 

        Slowness took hold, and George clenched his stomach. John turned. He watched Shahzar fall dead. 

        “John!” George hollered. He scraped to his feet, finding his strength as he bent into a fierce dash. Sparks popped and zipped off the stone under his feet, but George tore on. 

        John’s face gnarled. The ice in the boy’s eyes burned as he leapt from the broken pillar. A remarkable vigor surged out of the frailty that had overtaken John just minutes before. George couldn’t catch him. Every one of his steps was outmatched by the boy as he charged into the enemy’s position. 

        It’s over.

        “That’s him!” a soldier yelled–in English, George caught. “Take him–take him!” The enemy ran out from their cover to meet John head-on. 

        The boy fired from the hip and slew the first man. Another dropped to a knee and unleashed a hail of shots that pierced John’s lungs. But the boy did not slow. Blood fanned out from the soldier with an upward arc as John swung his rifle to meet him. 

        “Stop!” George yelled. He was in a waking dream–too slow to stop the nightmare.

        John let his rifle fall and dove for another soldier, barreling him out from behind the carrier. George twisted after him in the sand, changing his trajectory. 

        He crashed against the carrier, shoving himself away to continue his momentum. Static erupted from his chest, and he looked down to see a blue glow awaken angrily. Somewhere in his skull, an alarm sounded, but he hadn’t the time. He rounded the corner. 

        John wrestled with a kicking body. Fabric ripped and fluid curdled. A knife flashed in the sun. 

        “Stop, stop,” George stamped off the end of his dash and took John by the collar. A wash of dark liquid splashed over the man as George hauled John away. A blade stuck out from the soldier’s chest, deep in the end of a deep tear running from jaw to sternum. 

        “Damn it!” George stood back and looked around frantically. 

        A soldier stood at the other end of the carrier. He held a gun to his own temple.

        “Hey!” George put up a hand. “H–hold–hold!”

        The gun fired, and the last soldier collapsed into a fold among the rest of the dead.

        “Fuck!” George wrenched his helmet from his head and threw it against the carrier with a bang. Bile filled his blood. His stomach turned. For a flash, his hand moved to the handgun strapped to his thigh, and he was going to shoot John. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t kill him; he’d keep shooting, beating, and stomping until he did. But it didn’t matter. It was over. Lochte’s priority objective was torched. He couldn’t sift the truth out from the bloodied sand. 

        John sat with his legs out wide, his face coated with black blood. The whites of his eyes stared through the muck at the dead man with a distant tiredness.

        George fumed. He left John in the sand and made his way back around the carrier. All the Mujahideen were dead. He strode past their corpses and signaled to his squad that it was all clear; the fight was over. He looked down and felt nothing for the dead at his feet. Nothing.

        Murphy gestured to the others. She and Gardner traipsed down to him with Becker and Warren slow to follow. George noticed both Gardner and Murphy sported fresh bandages–one on Gardner’s cheek and the other wrapped over Murphy’s forearm.

        “Scratches,” Murphy stated, seeing the look in George’s eye.

        “Grazed my perfect fuckin’ cheekbone,” Gardner tried to smile.

        “Hm,” George adjusted his rifle into the crook of his arm and sought out a pack of cigarettes from his vest. A jitter overtook his fingers, and he fumbled one of the sticks, dropping it. “Fuck it all!” George hurled the carton and his submachine gun, swinging it into the hillside. 

        He huffed. The cigarette poked out from beneath his boot. As he picked it from the earth and set it on his lip, Murphy moved to offer her lighter. The flame was alive in her hands. George leaned close and lit the end of it, taking quick, rhythmic puffs. Nicotine was a pathetic adversary for the waves of putrid apathy coursing through him.  Murphy pointed at him.

        “The counter’s beeping.”

        He looked at his chest. The caela counter was alive, ticking away. Radiation.

        “Masks,” George spat his cigarette from his mouth. “Masks and gloves. Now!” 

        The others hurried to unbuckle their helmets when a groan of metal sounded from behind. George turned. Troy stood at the carrier’s bolted door, his rifle slung over his back, a cigarette tucked in his ear. He had opened the door. As its mouth yawned, every man’s caela counter awoke with an infant’s bleeding cry.

        George’s hands couldn’t move faster. The furious crackling of the counter drilled into his ears, even as he pulled his mask tight over his head. The sound threaded its needle of fear into him, the fear of invisible wounds already taken. Just put them on–put on the damn gloves.

        His squad danced as puppets on the edge of his vision as they struggled to cover themselves. George shoved Murphy and pointed for the hills. There was an open look of fear in her masked eyes, but she turned and led the men in a sprint over the hills. George faced the carrier. 

        Troy stood listless, alone in the sun. He turned to George in a stumble, his flesh seared, mottled and red. The marksman’s face twisted in a grimace of guilt and anguish as he looked at George. His mouth twitched with words George was too far to hear. Then Troy collapsed.

        John appeared behind Troy as he fell, watching his writhing with a child’s curiosity. George ground his molars, but remained paralyzed as the boy turned to the open carrier. John’s skin was pale and smooth in the face of the unseen poison. 

        Each harsh breath through the mask filled George’s head as he watched John lift himself into the carrier and wander into its dark maw. Someone was yelling, and a buzzing still gripped at his chest, but George had become numb. His instincts had slipped away. 

        The boy emerged as untouched as before–white as milk. He hopped from the carrier and bolted it shut. John’s face was sullen as he regarded something held in his hand. He met George’s frozen gaze, then moved carefully around Troy’s body towards him. 

        The sickening vibrations of George’s caela counter relaxed, but did not quiet completely. It groaned once more as John placed a folded note in George’s gloved hand. A mirage of steam seemed to lift from the boy’s skin.

        “What did you find?” George found his tongue. Grotesque interest kept his eyes on the paper in his palm like it was a piece of raw meat. As much as he wanted to, the shaking in his fingers prevented him from opening it. He spoke again. “Inside, what’s there?”

        Vacancy pooled in John’s tear-stained eyes, and his lip quivered. George cleared his throat, returning to the paper. His squad moved about on the ends of his peripherals. Beyond a far dune, Murphy was operating Warren’s radio. George’s thumb parted the paper’s fold and flipped it open to words written in flowing ink.

 

         To Captain Davy. Should you not die, I’d ask that we meet. The Tower of Goats. Three days. Tell no one of our meeting. I will know. Sincerely, YV.

​

        “A garden,” John spoke. George glanced up, his heart still pounding. Fresh tears ran down the boy’s face. Behind him, Becker and Gardner were pulling Troy away from the carrier. “That’s what he kept saying. He saw it. The garden, the garden. But there’s only glass in there–and bones.”