Author's note:
This is the conclusion to the series. I know is been over two years and I apologize for that. Life has really gotten in the way, but things are a bit back on track now. I want to thank everyone for their support throughout this journey, especially my editor, Rnebular. Once you've finished with it, please rate and comment. I love to hear from you guys. Enjoy!
*****
The dusty mirror behind the bar reflected my image, though at this point I barely recognized it. My face was partially obscured by a row of liquor bottles sporting the typical metal pour spouts, which I was, admittedly, happy about. I had taken 30 days off, claiming stress, and was granted it with no questions asked. Now I dealt with that stress in the most self destructive way I knew how. I drank myself stupid.
Over, and over. Day after day.
My phone had stopped buzzing at night a few nights ago. I had sent out a text to the group explaining that I was taking some stress time and that I would get back with them soon. My phone had been one giant buzzing noise for the twelve hours following that text. I muted the conversation after that, choosing inebriation over dealing with my problems right away. Can you blame me? My heart had just been torn out, in homage to the Temple Of Doom. That was days ago now, though how many it had been, I didn't know.
Now, in this smoke filled room, I sat at the bar, blending in with the anonymous patrons who visited just a frequently as I have been. Folks of all walks of life gathered here for a myriad of reasons, probably, I mused, for the same reason I'm here. The bartender had been moving back and forth with practiced grace, filling beers and making cocktails for patrons who had come for them, as well as getting together the orders that had been brought to him by waitress. He passed by me about ten times, watching the level in my glass get low, then empty.
"Get ya another one?" He asked, his workload calming down for a minute.
"Sure thing, Sam," I replied, pushing the highball glass, along with the cocktail napkin it was resting on, toward the bartender. He grabbed the cheap whiskey, filled the glass half way and then topped it off with sweet and sour mix before pushing it back to me. I nodded, and he moved off.
I drank deep from the glass, the abundance of whiskey burning slightly as it worked its way down. Sam went back to working the bar. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with an impressive grey mustache that he would surely have to rake out after he ate. His hair was thin and matched his mustache, hanging down almost to his shoulders. His face was rough like old leather, creased and pock marked with age. Sam pulled away a bottle from the back shelf, a large bottle of scotch, and I could see myself clearly for a moment.
Gods, did I really look that bad? It was no wonder Sam had been generous with the whiskey, though whether that was because I looked like I needed it or if it was to hurry me out of here, was entirely up for debate. I looked down at my glass as Sam put the bottle back in its place. As I stared into the amber liquid I could feel the world begin to fade. I could hear the sounds behind me dying away, the sounds being replaced by those of a time long past.
"Anderson." The voice was distant and hazy, as if the speaker were on the other side of a thick door. "Anderson," the voice came again, noticeably closer now. My view changed right before my eyes. I was back in the thick of it, out of the Humvee and crouching against a rock. I could hear the rhythmic, throaty bark of the M2 .50 cal coming from the Humvee behind me, which blended with the shouts and softer, more high pitched snapping of rifles. "Anderson!"
I grabbed the radio mic from the right shoulder of my flak jacket, the source of the noise. One of the men in my squad calling for me to report in or ask for support. "This is Anderson, send it."
"Anderson, it's Adams. Enemy reinforcements coming down the east road. Looks like two trucks with combatants and a Technical," His voice was scratchy, the transmission laced with static. "This must be the group we've been waiting for, over."
"Roger that, I'll call it in. Get ready, if they get through then the Army's left flank is gonna be in trouble." I switched channels to contact the Battalion HQ. "HQ, this is Beastmaster 2-3. Enemy convoy moving down MSR Independence, two Victors with ten men each and one Technical with mounted .50 Cal. Request permission to engage."
There was a short burst of static before a voice came through. "Roger Beastmaster 2-3, you're cleared hot."
"Roger, Out." I switched my radio back to our channel and passed the word along. "Cleared hot, gentlemen. Just like we trained for."
I kept low as I moved along our position. We were off the Main Service Road about 50 meters to the right. Our elevated position gave us the advantage of being able to see for miles while the rocks that populated this particular stretch gave us enough cover to set up a good ambush position. The battalion had been ordered forward to support the advancing Army and Marine Corps units heading into Afghanistan and we had drawn the short straw of relinquishing our Howitzer to some Motor transport fools who would bring it up for us. We were needed to provide route and flank security as the massive war machine moved forward.
I stayed crouched low, moving over until I found Corporal Diaz. Andrew Diaz was a young kid from Texas with dreams of being famous. He had a boyish face that looked very much out of place in this hell hole. He was the lucky one selected to carry the AT-4 rocket launcher.
"Diaz, get ready. When they come into range, I want you to waste that Technical."
"Not the lead vehicle, Sergeant?" He asked, a bit confused. We had trained to shoot the lead vehicle and disrupt their forward momentum, keeping them in the ambush zone. Now I wanted him to shoot the rear vehicle.
"Those shitty trucks can't stand up to a BB gun," I told him. "Those two trucks full of assholes who want to kill us will be scrap in a few seconds, their survivors picked off shortly after. If that Technical brings his .50 to bear, the whole dynamic changes. Kill it."
He nodded as we watched the three dirty white trucks racing down the road, with others probably behind them hoping to exploit a gap in our tactical planning. Fools. Their engine noise grew louder and louder as they came closer. Lance Corporal Davis, mounted in the Humvee turret, called out just before depressing the trigger on his weapon.
"Fire!"
The deep bark of the .50 was punctuated by the snaps of small arms fire. The lead truck swerved, bullet holes appearing along the cab and engine compartment as those standing in the bed scrambled to get out, and died as they did. The second truck swerved to avoid the first truck and the bodies falling out of it. Those in the second truck returned fire, their shots wild and few finding the armored hull of the Humvee. The Technical pulled over to the side with practiced skill, coming to a halt as the .50 in the bed of the pickup swung toward us.
Thwoosh
A long white cloud streamed from the AT-4 Diaz carried. As soon as he fired, he dropped the now useless weapon and grabbed his rifle, sighting down the barrel to see if he was successful.
Boom
"Hit!" Diaz called, turning to engage those from the second truck. Another explosion followed as the fuel in the first truck exploded, turning it into a burning roadblock. Davis turned the .50 toward the second truck, repeating the process as we dealt with the last of the survivors. The shooting stopped after a moment, the smell of smoke, gunpowder and sweat thick in the air.
I turned toward Diaz. "Corporal take a few men and check..."
