Back to the Dust ~ Mission Two

         Private First Class Jasmine Foley was from a shady apartment building in Cleveland. She grew up a pasty white girl, harboring an alcoholic father, who’d died when she was nine, and an out of touch mother. Yet, she quoted the Bible right along with Hosiah- the book of Psalms was her ‘beat’, as she liked to call these chapters that didn’t even rhythm. The bizarreness of it was that she quoted it right along with the fairy tales of the world. A popular thing with the village kids she and the others met.

         “Belief and magic…” she said. “A little of both can’t hurt.”

         “But your religion doesn’t believe in magic.” Drew had pressed her last year. Jasmine had nodded. “I’m not saying I believe in magic. But I believe in miracles and the life principles those stories teach. You know biblical mother-in-laws were just as evil as wicked stepmothers.”

         That was her logic. And she had dozens of pictures of smiling American and Afghani children to prove that it was working. She gave; that’s what Jasmine did. From orders, to a fourth of a chocolate bar. From a warm hug, to a can of tomato juice for the latest hangover. Course, she’d just as soon give you the butt whooping of your life or a GWS to the head if you crossed her.

         Hosiah and Jasmine had this thing where they put their foreheads together before each mission and whispered a verse; “Praise be to the Lord, my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.”

         It was also from the Psalms, of course. But despite Drew’s general eye roll, there was no denying the trust, the reverence that was held in their voices when they spoke it. That came from somewhere, but he could hardly tell you the origin. Not that it mattered anyway.

         Then why do I spend more time thinking about it with every mission? Drew looked at the ceiling in his own puzzlement. It was true enough, every time he ran through the fire team personnel, he lingered a few more minutes on Foley and Schrader. It wasn’t like he was the only one who gave them grief, so it couldn’t be guilt.

         Probably their biggest ‘sympathizer’ would be Private Merle Holst, who’d been raised Roman Orthodox Catholic. His right hand rookie (by six months), Edward ‘Eddie’ Duro of carefree California wasn’t much help on either side of the fence, but what could you expect? They were the ‘kids’ of the group and it hadn’t taken long for them to become a dynamic duo of sorts. Eddie for one, was the kings of comics and Victoria’s Secret subscriptions. While he’d clearly stopped maturing at sixteen, the twenty-three year-old had procured enough stamina and patriotism to get into the Corp. And passing through the gauntlet wasn’t an easy task.

         The only member of their current team who hadn’t found the training utterly daunting was Merle. Merle Joseph Cletus Daniel Holst. Descending from five generations of Marine and Navy personnel, no one dared to tease him about his namesake. There was a joke though, that the Holst family’s sixty percent body fluid was all salt water. Where Merle was concerned however, the other forty percent was all iron muscle! Drew had been to his Kentucky home and seen his workout room; weights, elliptical, yoga mats (for his wife, Olivia), and six punching bags! He never missed an opportunity to better his body, sharpen his mind, or to show another man up. Competitiveness was his one fatal flaw, but it hadn’t pushed him to steroids yet, so the rest of the team lived with it.

         “We make it work.” Drew whispered, staring at the dots of the two fire teams in a moment of amazement.  They’d made considerable progress during his rehashing of the names behind the numbers. His colleges and supervisors rarely went beyond the numbers of their dots, keeping the missions clean-cut and professional. Zero distractions equaled zero mistakes. But when Drew and the 138th had started to build a track record, Drew found it hard not to put names to the numbers and then faces to the names. It was good for his motivation, knowing the people he was left in charge of.

         A sudden crack of static through his ears about knocked Drew out of his seat. “Paisley do you copy! Requesting systems update.”

         Drew’s eyes bounced to his watch. It had been over two hours since the drop. If they’d timed it right- and the 138th’s boots were rarely out of synch- they were a thirty-minute jog from the village. Go time, baby!

         Contrary to popular belief, the mountains were not the only spot were reception could go dead. It was all about power lines and signal strength. Right here, right now, there would be no video surveillance, outside of thermal imaging, and barely seventy percent guarantee of radio coverage. The government and the Marines would prefer ninety-nine percent, but then their missions wouldn’t be labeled ‘special operations’ if it were any higher. Besides, supply houses were a big deal; it hadn’t taken the Secretary of the Navy long to ‘ok’ what Drew called a ‘go-n-grab’.

         “All signals remain clear, Sultan.” Drew informed Emery, typing away. “I’m zeroing the satellite in on the village…” He turned his tunnel vision over every inch of the dark-blue screen. “Scans show five heat signatures, two outside the eastern most building; three inside.”

         “That’s a pretty cocky number.” Eddie remarked.

         “Intel only put high numbers of hostels around when a transaction occurs.” Jasmine breathed back. “That won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

         “And they’ll deliver it right in our hands.” Eddie sighed. “ How nice of them to…”

         “Duro, you can that stinking mouth or you’ll be tasting nothing but my boot when we get back to base.”

         “Yes, sir.”

         Drew chuckled before returning to his report. “All quiet, Christmas Goose. No ground or aerial transport detected within the last eighteen hours. The signal might weaken the closer you get to the hills on your north…”

            It wasn't much more then a puff in his ear. Swift and sudden, like the irritating eye test you always had to take. Drew didn’t think anything of it in the nanosecond before the next three sound segments; a crunch, a groan, and Jasmine’s scream. “CONTACT LEFT!”

*To Be Continued*