Back to the Dust ~ A Military Mini-Series

'Therefore, put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, 

you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.'

~ Ephesians 6:13~

          Their helicopter was landing. Drew listened to the harsh swirl of the blades as commands and radar checks pinged between the two pilots. They were his only window to what was really going on. And even then, they were no better then a smokescreen. The pulsing red dots on the Pakistani border, bleeping away on his computer screen didn’t rectify the matter, but it was as good as it was going to get for him.

         “Ground impact, 2200 hours Paisley.” Sergeant Emery confirmed, the static tickling both their earwigs. Drew nodded, pressing zoom- really keys Alt+Enter- on his keyboard. “Roger that, Emery. Thermal sweep continues to show no activity. Operation Christmas Goose is a go.”

         “Man,” Private Duro whined. “We are never letting you pick the codename again.”

         “You focus on your mission Duro and not its name.” Private First Class Foley ordered, followed by the click of a safety. “We’re going in hot.”

         Drew shook his head. Only Jasmine Foley could deliver the language of a street cop with the sincerity and authority of a U.S. Marine.

         “Ready to deploy.” the pilot announced; Drew’s cue to sit back against his comfy spinning chair. Srgt. Emery’s commands mixed with the chatter of the helicopter and Privates Holst and Humriche, who grunted to the ground first. Then Lance Corporal Schrader thudded to the earth and Drew could just picture the ground shaking in all directions. Legend was when the Georgia ‘black boy’ had signed up in ’01, he was six foot one at only age nineteen. By ’05 he had put on another six inches and was still growing!  After thirteen years of service, he should’ve been a Sergeant Major by now, but he liked where he was. The rest of the Marine Corp liked it too.

         Foley and Duro were close behind their mountain of a teammate. And last off, Corporals Pruitt and Koehler and of course Srgt. Emery himself. He spoke briefly with the pilot and the helicopter faded away. Quiet settled in… intense quiet. Not a breath was heard. Drew pressed a finger to his lips, typing in codes with the other hand. Encrypted messaging back to the base, acknowledging a safe landing. “How’s it looking, Sultan?”

         “Dark.” Emery answered and there were the faintest exhales in agreement. Another moment passed, than came Jasmine’s whisper. “East side’s quiet, sir.”

         “West side clear, sir.” Schrader responded. That’s what these missions were all about; response. Only a good Marine could pull it off because he’d know what the question was before it was even thought of.  Efficiency, precision, and focus. That’s what Drew saw in a Marine, among other things.

         “Give us our eyes, Paisley.” Corporal Koehler grunted, just as the team’s eight GPS signals turned into a bright green cluster. Drew sat at attention, his senses cutting out anything that would otherwise distract him. Wasn’t hard, him being the only warm body in the room.

         For operations like these, he was cleared of the assistance of any fellow ‘techies’ in what a few called ‘The Hive’ because of all the first-grade material that buzzed and hummed 24/7. This was the office that the troops turned to when their equipment in the Middle East didn’t cut it. Satellites, GPS, encryption, decryption… it was all tucked into a 25’x30’ D.C. office space of cushy seats and dim lighting. The contrast was amusing when Drew thought of the soldiers on the other end, belly-first in sand and brush, unable to get up and visit a vending machine when they felt like it.

         “Paisley.” Srgt. Emery checked in. “How are we looking?”

         “All accounted for Sergeant.” Drew backtracked, re-enhancing his zoom to a ten-mile radius around the dots. “Your course remains east-by-southeast. ETA, approximately three hours.”

         “Copy that.” Emery affirmed. “A year ago I would’ve had to ask for that information. You’re finally riding the same wave length, Paisley.”

         The closest thing you’d ever get to a compliment from Scott Emery. Drew caught a chuckle in his left ear; Humriche. “Our little stork’s growing wings, eh.”

         Drew’s ears flamed at the lankiness that had stuck to his frame since high school. Being a science geek and an asthmatic, he would have been doomed to social exile, if not for his fortunate gift in retorts. He leaned into the screen, eyeing Humriche’s dot. “Not for long. I’ve been bulking up with all these Milky Ways hidden in my desk.”

         There didn’t have to be a visual for Drew to know that he’d hit home. Caramel was Alec Humriche’s weakness, but put it with the milk chocolate of a Milky Way and he was putty in your hands.

         “…I will reach through these wires and yank the drums outta both y’all’s ears.“ Schrader thundered… in the lowest possible voice. “No jokin’ til an hour into our trek. That’s an order.”

         Corporal Koehler’s brash voice joined in. “Whenever you ladies are done, feel free to help me stop the war on terrorism.”

         There were chuckles between Jasmine, Duro, and Private Holst. They were the good students that stayed out of trouble. After that, they went dark. Drew unclenched his headset, placing it on the keyboard. The green dots were his only link now, until Emery made contact again. Normally, a fire team’s only channel was between themselves and the base camp; in this case, over 200 miles away back in Afghanistan. There were times however, when dead air or a mountain range came between the two. That’s where the middle men- like Drew- came in.

         “The clove hitch keeping us together.” Was how Jasmine Foley had introduced herself to him three years ago, when he first heard her voice. Drew had needed to look up ‘clove hitch’ before deciding to take it as a compliment. In a way, the reference made sense. The teams’ earwigs went straight to him, where he had their base on speed dial if need be. He was the knot holding two vital ropes together. It all sounded more complicated- definitely more expensive- yet it was actually more covert this way. Hence safer.

         “Like anything they do is considered safe.” Drew sighed at his screen. Three of the dots, Privates Holst and Humriche, along with Corporal Pruitt of Fire Team 2, were inching forward, creating a fan in front of the others. There were eight in all. Eight Americans trailing along in enemy dust on Christmas Eve. Willingly.

         Four inches of screen ahead of their dots- about seven miles in reality- were the outlines of buildings. A village- twelve houses at best- on generally flat land. Reasonable intel received almost two months ago pinpointed this village as a possible way station for supplies between Taliban encampments. Reasonable enough to set up surveillance and then arrange for a closer look. That’s where Drew and his pals of the 138th came into the picture. He, Jasmine, Schrader, and Pruitt had been running missions under Srgt. Emery for three years from DC and Virginia, from Iraq to the Yemen. Corporal Brent Koehler had been on the scene two years, bringing Alec Humriche and Merle Holst with him. Private Edward Duro was the newest addition to the team, but he was already a regular drinking buddy with everyone else when they showed up stateside.

         Every one of them had started as a private under Scott Emery, whose nickname, ‘The Sultan’ stemmed from the salt-n-pepper hair he had had since he was thirty. But thanks to his Italian roots, he aged gracefully; no one would dare tell him otherwise. His battalion and fellow officers feared and respected him too much.

         As stoic and tight-lipped as Srgt. Emery was, his second-in-commands were the complete opposites! Corporals Brent Koehler and Mason Pruitt were open books, the life of the party, only with nuggets of wisdom thrown in. Koehler had married twice before finding Monja, his mother ship of patience and dedication. Being stepfather to her daughter and two sons gave Brent a raw perspective on home life and what made a family.  What every Marine always came back across the Atlantic for, but that wasn’t even the best thing about him. The man’s tastebuds were legendary! He could eat any food from any country and pick out the exact ingredients used to make it. And Brent would eat anything to prove it too… his personal favorite was Cherry Cola soda mixed and frozen in vanilla bean ice cream. Drew’s stomach churned at the thought of all that sugar. He was a nutritionist himself; Koehler had been trying to convert him for years.

         “No man-or woman,” Drew nodded at the slowly scattering dots. “Can measure up to Mason’s stories though, can they.”

         Mason Pruitt took more shore leave then the rest of his brothers in arms, dedicated to teaching and shaping future generations of the Corp in Quantico. He gave lectures at schools and universities across the U.S. as well. And he still found time to come home to his wife and kids… all seventeen of them!

         He and wife Brenda were foster parents like no other, taking in the abandoned infants, abused ten-year-olds, and troubled teens since 1993. It seemed like and impossible lifestyle for any serviceman to uphold, but Mason was doing it. Course, Kids #14-17 were the only ones actually living in the house. But the Pruitts' address book held all the contact information of the others. And Mason wrote to them- all of them- once a month. Everyone had tried to give him the nickname ‘Beardsley’ after Frank and Helen, but Mason never cottoned to it. He was easy-going, but there was no nonsense when he put on the uniform.

         Drew erected off the back of his seat as he spotted dot M-6 pause. Their pace was slow to begin with, due to the cyber gauge of distance, but Drew had been staring at these screens long enough to notice a discrepancy. He switched his head com back on. “Srgt. Emery, pause in ranks noted; requesting verbal status.”

         He got a swear word as a reply. “Only forty minutes in, are you kidding me?! Humriche…”

         “Sir,” came the sheepish answer. “What makes you so sure it’s me, sir?”

         “Who else drank two lemon-lime Gatorades after six’o’clock.” Duro snickered. The rest groaned and all dots halted while Alec did what needed to be done. Drew smiled, even while the situation remained serious. If Mason Pruitt was a model student, then that made Private Alec Humriche the class clown. He was a good Marine, but always up for a laugh. Laughs that got him chewed out by Emery, Koehler, or worse, by Jasmine. It was funny how Drew was younger then him, yet always felt like the older brother watching the younger get busted.

         Alec lacked social graces and suffered lapses of judgment where girls were concerned, but he had one special skill the battalion couldn’t live without; languages. The man of 1,000 tongues, Alec was fluent in Arabic, Hebrew, French, Swahili, and Spanish. He had been obsessed with dialects and syntax all his life, growing up by an Indian reservation in South Dakota. The obsession led to him studying abroad in three countries before joining the Corp in 2008. He and Drew kept a gag running where Drew spoke to him in ‘geek’ about servers, IPs, and algorithms, leaving Alec to curse him in whatever language he chose.

         “Forward ho, Srgt. Emery, sir.” Alec whispered. There was a disapproving grunt. “I became the laughing stock of my people; they mock me in song all day long. They’ll be playing yours when we get back to base, Private.”

         “I think my beard grew another inch waiting on him.” Duro sighed. “Schrader, what book is that one from?”

         “Lamentations.” the Lance Corporal told him. “Felt appropriate.”

         “Amen.” mumbled Koehler before Emery took back command. “Keep those eyes sharp, Paisley. Going dark.”

         “Going dark.” Drew copied and commenced radio silence again. Hosiah Schrader’s reference played back in his mind, cracking a grin at Alec’s embarrassment. Hosiah Schrader could apply his biblical knowledge to just about anything. He’d called it his sword before, a double-edged sword of verses and parables. The only weapon he could really count on.

         As far as AK-47s and Carbine 11s went, Drew didn’t see a fifteen-hundred-page book holding up much of a defense. But Hosiah had grown up in the South, the holy grail of fried chicken, home remedies, and Baptists. He had seven kids, a teenage daughter and two sets of triplets, 11 and 6 years old. Verse memorization was their bond over every letter, every phone call, and every Skype session. Hosiah drilled God’s Word into them- into everyone around him- like there was no tomorrow. He was a big guy with an even bigger heart; perseverance, character, and hope, that was his motto. And even that was out of the book of Romans.

            You use ‘the South’ as his excuse you know. Drew hunkered down a bit, shamed by the unconscious bias. But then, how did he explain Jasmine Foley?

*To Be Continued*