Working Title

Working Title

Chapter 1

The heat is miserable, oppressive, and overwhelming. The sun is beating down on the beaten down men patrolling the street. The sand is being swept into the air whenever the wind decides to blow. The sand stings the eyes. Everything is covered in sand; the buildings, the cars, and the road, especially the damnable road. Everything is miserable.
A dusty, sweaty group of men sweep the street. They are in a tactical formation. They stay far enough apart to not all be killed in a single sweep of a machine gun, yet close enough to see and communicate with one another. Each of them has a look of exhaustion, peppered with determination. They are nearing the end of their patrol and are determined to finish it without any complications.
Tom keeps his head on a swivel, making sure to watch all directions almost at want. He takes in everything, from the windows, to the cars, to the people. His mind analyzes all of these variables before he can even realize it. He doesn’t spot any threats, none-the-less, something feels wrong. The market square is too quiet. There are fewer vendors than normal. The crowd is small and the children are nowhere to be seen. Something isn’t right. Tom’s gut tells him that shit is going to hit the fan.
He looks to the rest of his team, they look tense. They can sense that something is amiss as well. Jackson looks pensive; he carries his machine gun tight in his arms. Jenkins is trying to remain calm, but Tom knows him too well. He is too shaky, too jumpy to not be prepared for the worse. Loftin is the only one that looks remotely calm, mostly because the giant of a man is too stupid to know any better. He could be walking through a field of butterflies for all that anyone could tell.
Tom looks ahead of him to his squad leader, staff sergeant Hudson. The man is a beacon of calm among the sea of nervous soldiers. He alone walks nonchalantly and full of confidence all at once, his nerves not getting the better of him. Tom would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. He trusted the man to get them out of any situation that would arise. Tom knew that Hudson would pull them out of anything the enemy could toss their way.
Tom turned his gaze to his best friend and fellow team leader Juan Rodriguez. They had known each other for a long time now. They had been through basic training together and were lucky enough to be stationed in the same platoon together. They both came up through the ranks at the same time and considered each other family. Their bond was that of family, only deeper. They were brothers who would do everything within their power to protect and take care of each other. They love each other in a way that only soldiers can, knowing the other will always be there to rely on.
The crack of a rifle is heard by everyone all at once. Loftin goes down, blood squirting out of his neck. He drops his machine gun and grabs at his throat, trying to stymie the flow of blood. Someone yells for a medic as someone else yells contact to the 12’oclock.
Everything seems to be in slow motion as bullets start to fly out of windows into the street. Someone yells out “AMBUSH!” Tome attempts to get his squad in order. He has no time to attend Loftin, he knows that the enemy needs to be neutralized first. Hudson is yelling for them to start clearing buildings before he catches a bullet in the back of his head. Brain matter fly through the air as he collapses into a pile on the now blood splattered street.
Tom runs to the nearest house that they are receiving fire from and kicks in the door, knowing the rest of his team head his command and were right behind him. He enters the house and immediately begins to clear it, turning right as soon as he enters the door. He knows that Jenkins will turn left and trusts him to clear that half of the room.
The room is empty except for a stairwell near Jenkins. The team works as a machine, with Jenkins in the front moving up the stairs, followed by Tom, and then Jackson bringing up the rear. They move in a slow methodical fashion, they’ve trained for this half a million times. As they clear the top of the stairs Jenkins turns to the left and opens fire.
The world is still in slow motion to Tom. As he arrives at the top of the stairs and turns to the left he sees one of the men trying to kill his brothers. He squeezes the trigger three times. Bang. Bang. Bang. The bullets fly through the air, seemingly taking forever to arrive at their intended target. But Tom knows differently, he knows that it only take a second before his target goes down. The man he shot fires his AK-47 into the ceiling as he falls to the floor.
In moments it’s all over. Tom looks over the rest of his team; no one seems to be hurt. He looks out the window to see Juan’s team clearing another building. Someone was smart enough to toss smoke out onto the road, allowing the medic to work on both Loftin and Hudson. Bullets were still flying from all around the street.
Tom readied his team to move into the thick of combat again. They ran down the stairs and into the street, straight into the heat of things. The smoke clouded the air, making it impossible to see more than a few inches in front of you. Still, as the bullets ripped by, Tom knew which way to charge.
They cleared the building without any problems. They killed two terrorists on the bottom floor and three on the top. They made sure everyone was dead, using tactical grouping: two to the chest, one to the head. Fuck these savages.
Tom moved his team back to the casualty collection point, or CCP, to provide security and meet up with Juan. They had to come up with a plan. The squad leader was down and at some point the lieutenant had gone down as well. That left the two of them in charge of a bad situation.
“Hudson is dead,” Juan looked worried as he said those words. Hudson had been like a god to him.
“I figured, what the fuck happened Johnny? Where the fuck did they come from,” Tom asked perplexed with the situation. “Intel said this place was full of goddamn friendlies!”
“I guess Intel was wrong. Let’s call up QRF to come get us and after we make it out of here we can figure out where the hell they came from.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll take my guys and move to the end of the street, if anyone else comes we can catch the bastards in a cross fire.”
“Alright, I got you. Go with God,” they clasped their hands together and said their goodbyes.
“And fight like the Devil. See you on the flip side.”
Unfortunately Juan’s team began to take fire as soon as the exited the building. Juan took a round to the femoral artery and Jones was hit in the chest. Gregg and Diaz found cover and began to return fire.
Tom ordered his team to provide cover fire as he ran onto the street to grab Juan. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest when he came up to his brother. Blood was everywhere. Juan’s eyes were out of focus.
“My guys,” he screamed in pain. Get my guys!” Tom started to apply a tourniquet.
Fuck returning fire, fuck training, I will not let you bleed out you son-of-a-bitch. It was bad; Juan had already lost a ton of blood. It didn’t look good. Tom finished with the tourniquet and dragged Juan back to the casualty collection point before running back out to collect Jones. The man was writhing on the ground, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Tom ran to him and felt a sharp pain in his right arm. He ignored it and grabbed Jones.
“You’ll be fine, I’ve got you,” Tom screamed as he dragged Jones towards the CCP. As he dragged Jones into the house, he saw Juan’s grey lifeless body. He had bled out and Tom froze. He felt as if he had just been shot in the heart. He fell to his knees and just stared not saying anything.
He heard the bullets flying outside the building, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that Johnny was dead. He had bled out, despite Tom’s best efforts. His brother was dead and it was his fault.
“RPG,” someone screamed. Those were the last words that Tom heard before he woke up.

Chapter 2

Tom opened his eyes. The first thing that hit him was the headache, followed by the smell of stale alcohol. He looked around his small apartment. He had fallen asleep on the couch again with the television on. There were three bottles of whisky on the table between him and the TV. He sat up and looked around, his place was a wreck. There were clothes strewn all over the floor, the sink was piled high with dishes, and there were empty bottles of booze all over the tiny studio apartment.
Tom put his hands on his face and took a moment to orient himself. His head really fucking hurt, so he stood up and stumbled his way to the bathroom. He had to wade through the ocean of filth that encompassed his living area, but he didn’t mind. In fact he didn’t mind just about anything. Not as long as he had his booze and pills.
Speaking of pills, John thought as he opened up his medicine cabinet, these ought to do the trick. He reached up and pulled out his pain killers. Courtesy of the Department of Veterans Affairs, these suckers put most people on their ass. For Tom, they just get him through the day. He poured three into his hand and threw them down his throat. He didn’t need any water and didn’t give a damn that the recommended dosage was one every four hours.
As he closed the medicine cabinet Tom looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t even recognize himself from a year ago. Where he had once had a decent tan, he was now pale as a ghost. His eyes had deep, dark bags under them. His once muscular frame had given way to the small, frail creature in front of him.
What am I doing with my life? He pushed the thought aside almost as soon as it entered his head. He forced himself to go back into the living room and started to pick through the empty bottles. It took him a few minutes before he finally found what he was looking for: a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He reached down and picked it up.
Tom stared at the bottle for a few minutes, lost in thought. He suddenly jerked the bottle towards his mouth while ripping the lid off. It was only seconds before the bottle was empty. That’s better, now I can finally start my day.
As Tom entered the room he could smell the rancid food that was hidden somewhere in the war zone that was his kitchen. While rummaging through the fridge, he could see that most of his food was covered with mold. So instead he went to the pantry. It was empty except for a can of beans. He grabbed the can, but couldn’t locate his can opener. He found a knife and made due, forcing the lid open. Then he just lifted the can to his lips and started to hit the back of the can, forcing the beans to fall into his gullet. That was his morning routine.