"I thought you said he was talking to the FBI?" Francisco took a cigarette out and offered me one which I greedily took.
"CIA. FBI. What the fuck do they want?" Edith was again throwing a tantrum, her innocence and simplicity brought a smile to my face.
"Let me tell you about the job in Fallujah," I replied, "it'll clear up some questions I'm sure."
...
It had not been my first time in Fallujah, both as a soldier and as a contractor, but of all the times that I had the misfortune of visiting, this particular time would stick with me for years. Once, a woman had made a comment that I scream in my sleep, this is the reason why I do. The things we had to do that day will forever haunt me, and would forever change the way I looked at my friend. The mission was simple, roll into town, find the terrorist cells hiding, engage in some unconventional firefights, and call it a day. We would be supporting two Marine Divisions, three Army companies, along various Special Operation groups. On paper, we had an overwhelming force. The reality was far from it.
By this point, the majority of the troops were completely exhausted; weeks of back to back engagements had seriously depleted their combat strength. We were trying to take over this damned alley of death for the third time; it often took us longer to regain the city than it did to lose it again. I was beginning to wonder if all the blood we had spilled in those damned streets was even worth the effort. Some of my fellow contractors and soldiers wondered aloud the reasons why we simply didn't just nuke the fuck out of the place and get it over with. We were set to attack in the middle of the night; our technological superiority gave us a great advantage during that time of day. The temperatures dropped greatly and made moving about with all the gear almost tolerable.
By the time that the operation began we realized that the commanders had become far too complacent, far too cocky, and had greatly underestimated the local forces. They were more than ready for us; their clever ambush neatly split our forces into two. Chaos took hold as commanders shouted orders and allowed fear to overwhelm them. Left and right, men fell to a hail of bullets that rained from all around, large fires were lit and made our night vision technology obsolete. The attacks were intended to maim and wound, to slow our progress. It was highly successful. By the time the sun rose, the streets were covered in American blood and gore. Brass and spent ammunition covered the copper smell; the shushed tones of the call of prayer gave us some respite.
An American retreat, there is nothing more painful to watch. The records of course paint a far different picture, history is written not by who's right, but rather by who is left. Three days after that massacre, a second invasion was planned, this time it would be spearheaded by both Special Operations and Contractors. This time, our approach was vastly different. Again, we struck at night, this time immediately after the last call to prayer of the day. We led the attack, irritating things like Rules of Engagement did not apply to us. We brought destruction with us. Men and boys were rounded up and arrested, women were left defenseless. We neared what we suspected was the base of operations for this latest group of freedom fighters, already the main structure was under fire. Within minutes, we stormed and secured the bodies within the structure and had moved them to our own structures. No casualties this time.
We kept the prisoners tied up, their eyes and ears covered completely to give them a sense of confusion. I knew exactly what they felt, I had received similar treatment in one of the many training requirements that I had to undergo. It gave you a sense that you were completely alone, that you were truly isolated from everyone around you. The truth was that there was a second person in the same position as you, not three feet away. Sometimes, headphones were placed in the prisoner's ears and white noise was pumped into their ears, this often drove the listener temporarily insane. Imagine standing next to a loud speaker that is lasting music, you know that feeling you get in your chest from the bass coming out of those speakers? Imagine that same feeling but with no additional noise to give it credit. No solace. Nothing that will help you ease the discomfort.
"I'll be damned," the man in the battle fatigues said as he walked into the room. I had been the lucky one to be selected to guard the prisoners while the spooks were gathered to interrogate them. "If it ain't my good buddy, D, how the hell have you been man?"
"Holy shit," I said once I recognized the man, "Elvis has entered the building."
"The King is back," he replied, hugging me tightly. It had been years since I had seen this man, "so you're the Bearded Devil I've heard so much about?"
"Yeah," I said, that name had been given to me by the locals when I took my first tour as a contractor. I never carried any identification, anything that could give away my name to anyone. Instead, I was given that loving name by the group that had at one point offered 3 million dollars for my head. "I didn't know you became a spook, what's up with that?"
"Hey man," he replied, "its good money. After the second contract, I got approached by the NSA and the CIA. They made a better pitch, man. Hung the boots and here I am. How long you been in theatre?"
"This time, going on 9 months," I replied, "I've only made it back home once or twice."
"Yeah? Damn, we are definitely gonna have to do some catching up, man. But I got some business to take care off at the moment. You can step outside, D. This won't take long."
He was right, it didn't. Within minutes, we were on our way to whatever location he had managed to extract from whatever poor fool he had selected. I was not entirely sure what had gone on inside that room, but Elvis did not change his tone of voice or his cheerful nature. The house that we were to go into had been cleared already, but the intel that we had received let us know that we had missed something. As Elvis moved ahead of us, he drew his rifle before knocking. As the door was held slightly ajar, Elvis moved to kick it open, the old woman that had held the door crashed into the floor. Elvis immediately gave commands in the native tongue while the rest of us took our positions, immediately securing the bodies inside.
Elvis had grabbed a small boy and forced him to move a piece of carpet that hid the trapdoor under the house. Elvis gave the boy commands to open it, the women in the room were desperately trying to get the child back into their midst. One of Elvis' men used the butt of his weapon to silence the mother of the child, Elvis continued to shout orders. Hesitantly, the child moved to open the door, he briefly glanced over to where his mother lay in the ground. As soon as the trapdoor was opened, a shot tore through the boy's head. From under the house, screams and gunfire began to penetrate through the floor. Without much concern, Elvis withdrew two grenades from his vest, removed the primary pin, and tossed them through the trapdoor. A silence followed soon after the explosions.
"Come on, D," he looked back at me as he once again lifted the door, "let's see what's left of those bastards." Jumping feet first into the area, I could smell the burn flesh. I followed him soon after, not even my wildest nightmares could prepare me for the sight that met me as I turned around. Walls were covered in blood and intestines; there were pieces of what once used to be men. The charred remains of multiple faces were permanently burnt into the walls and into my memory. "It's a good thing we still got a few of them back in the compound," Elvis said, almost in a cheerful tone, "not much left of them to tell here."
From the corner of my eye I saw it, the gun fired three rounds in complete panic and absolutely no control. One of the rounds found Elvis' arm, the second and third rounds went flying wildly about us. Instinctively, I fired at the blurry body behind the pistol, my well controlled three round burst found the center of the face. It was a boy, no older than 12 years old that I had just killed.
"Mother fucker," Elvis screamed, drawing his rifle and took aim at the boy's body. He must have emptied an entire magazine into it, by the time he was done, there was nothing left to identify that this boy once had a head. "You got your aidbag nearby, D?"
"Yeah," I replied, "it's in the convoy vehicle. I am not the medic in this op."
"Cool, bandage me up, will you?" Elvis moved up the stairs, "boys, burn this fucking place to the ground." They did. We made it to the vehicle, as I cleaned the wound and bandaged it, Elvis looked at me with amusement.
"What?" I continued my work as I asked him.
"You are good," he replied, "far better than the book worms made you out to be. You didn't lose your cool, and you saved my bacon. You didn't even hesitate, bro, just leveled your rifle and bang, bang, bang."
"Yeah," I replied, "sucks about the boy."
