Page 10 of What We Brave
"Weapon confirmed," I say. My heart rate doesn't spike. It plummets. Ice floods my veins, freezing out the Kabul heat. "Radio it."
"Base, this is Overwatch," Jackson fumbles the handset. "Armed hostile. Northeast compound. Sector four. He has a line on the engineers."
The radio crackles. "Overwatch, this is Base. Hostile confirmed? Is he engaging?"
Through the scope, the man shoulders the rifle. He’s aiming straight down at the culvert.
"He's setting up," I say. "He's going to fire."
"Clear hot," the radio barks. "Overwatch, you are clear to engage. Take him."
I settle my cheek harder against the stock. I exhale, emptying my lungs.
Range 840 meters. Slight crosswind, left to right. I adjust my hold.
The guy in the window isn't a human being. He isn't a father or a son. He’s just a defect in the system. A threat to the guys on the ground. You don't hesitate with a threat. You eliminate it.
Squeeze.
The trigger breaks cleanly. The rifle kicks into my shoulder—a solid, familiar punch. The report cracks through the valley, sharp and final.
I don't blink. I ride the recoil, keeping the scope dead on target.
In the circle of glass, the window is empty. The man has been erased. Dropped backward into the dark.
The threat is gone.
"Target down," Jackson breathes. He lowers his spotting scope, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. "Holy shit. One shot. You didn't even hesitate."
I keep my eye on the scope, scanning the surrounding windows. "Don't make it a story, Jackson."
"But that was... you just saved those guys."
"It was plumbing." I cycle the bolt. The spent casing pings against the rock next to me, smoking hot. "We cleared a blockage. That’s it."
"You're cold, man."
"Yeah," I say, eyes still on the glass. "I fucking know."
The rideback to base is quiet. The adrenaline dump leaves everyone crashy, slumped in the MRAP seats. When we get inside the wire, the guys head straight for the mess hall, needing to eat, needing to laugh, needing to prove to themselves they’re still breathing.
I skip it. I can't be around the noise.
I go back to my sweltering room. I sit on the edge of the cot and strip the M4. Bolt, carrier, firing pin, buffer spring. I lay the parts out on a rag.
I scrub the carbon off the bolt until my knuckles bleed.
Click.Slide.Snap.
The sound of the metal sliding home is the only thing that makes sense. It’s order. Things fitting together exactly the way they were designed to. No gray areas. No messy fucking emotions. Just steel and oil.
I set the rifle down and lie back on the mattress.
The silence rushes in. This is the hard part. The day is easy—the day is the mission. The day is external. The night is just me and the ceiling and the ghosts.
My hand drifts to the metal shelf. To the dead phone.
I could turn it on. Just for a second. It’s morning in Oregon. Laine is probably getting off shift. Reid is probably making coffee.
