Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

SOUP SANDWICH By Christopher L. Irvin

They said when the winter air washes down the mountainside, ignoring armor and slipping under your collar without so much as a whistle for a warning, that it’s like an adrenaline shot directly to the spine. A crackle of cold energy that sharpens your senses, keeps you awake through the long and lonely shifts.

Special Forces bullshit.

Three weeks into a six-month stint in Afghanistan for a little R &R and bonus hazard pay had turned into a one-way trip to hell in the mountains. Randall heard all of the action-packed stories from his buddies in the DEA, seen the “official” movie of the head-cam filmed drug raid, produced with heavy metal soundtrack to get the blood flowing. Supporting Spec Ops raids on villages, kicking in doors and jamming an M4 in the face of the enemy. All with an itchy trigger finger that wouldn’t be questioned. This was real war, not the kind that found him going door to door in Detroit, rummaging through flop houses littered with week-old piles of shit and junkies who hadn’t used a clean needle in months. Even the most violent criminals laid down when ten men knocked on the door at the crack of dawn, weapons drawn, cuffs at the ready. Prison time meant respect and three squares with a side of warm bed. Wife? Girlfriend? Kids? None of that mattered. What Randall wouldn’t give to see a little fear in their eyes. To slip into their cells at night and fix his rough hands around their throats. Something to haunt their extended vacation.

Randall tightened his grip around the M4 carbine, squeezing life back into his fingers. The world around him nothing but a giant black bowl of soup. He exhaled slowly, feeling his warm breath dampen the collar of his jacket. He hadn’t even had the chance to grow a solid beard yet. Two of his academy classmates had come back from similar tours looking like they’d been recruited by the Taliban. Randall had only coarse stubble to show off for his efforts. Maybe twenty years of a daily razor had caused his meager beard to pack up and move out. So much for insubordination.

When Randall arrived “in-country,” he found himself amid a classic U.S. Government snafu: too many bodies and not enough work. His temporary duty was billed as teaming with Special Forces for drug raids and follow-up intelligence interviews. But despite the resurgence of the Taliban and the resulting poppy boom, he sat at a desk for two weeks in Kabul, shoveling stacks of paper in a windowless room. Complaining aloud got his ass in a chopper for a tour up in the mountains at a decaying UN outpost. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease, huh?” said the pilot as they touched down in the center of the cratered compound. If it wasn’t for the pit in his stomach, and the fact that the cocky asshole would be the one eventually returning to retrieve him from hell, Randall would have taken pleasure in knocking a few teeth from his perfect grin. A few introductions later and he was handed the overnight watch. FNG bitch duty. There were no scheduled missions. The skeleton crew was on orders to sit tight until negotiations were through with the Afghans. Rumor was the outpost would be abandoned and they’d be scattered elsewhere. Until then, Randall was playing human popsicle on a ridge just outside the compound.

He hunkered down in a crouch as another blast of air hit him from the north. Three shifts in and every hour just as numb as the first. On the second night he huddled next to a shrub that sheltered him from the wind and still gave him a decent view of the valley below. More importantly the bit of green provided some cover on the mostly barren mountainside. From afar Randall appeared to be an extension of the shrub, though one that constantly shivered in place. There was only so much he could wear and still be effective. The thought of sitting in a car at three in the morning in the middle of a Detroit winter wasn’t sounding all that bad.

Standard night vision binoculars clicked against his chest. He’d hung them around his neck, bringing them up on the quarter hour to conserve battery. The sliver of moon also broke through the clouds on occasion, illuminating the bleached rocks that covered the ridge. Between the two, he felt like he was doing his job. That was all that was asked of him, right? See anything, raise the alarm. The role of the sentry.

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel drove a needle into his spine that no measure of cold could match. His muscles locked and for the first time he was still. The sounds continued in his direction. Ten yards? Twenty yards? He couldn’t take the chance. Slowly he removed his trigger hand from his weapon and raised the binoculars to his face. Tens of men-fifty at least, dotted the mountainside, spread out in no particular formation with an arsenal ranging from RPGs to the common AK rifle. Dark and dust their uniform.

Randall quickly keyed the alert, three quick taps on his comms-nothing more than a series of thuds across the line. He re-keyed the alert, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself through the shock. Within moments he’d be surrounded by the enemy. Carefully he thrust the stock of his carbine into his shoulder, readying the weapon tight to his body. He flexed his fingers as the rush of the moment overtook him. More rocks trickled down the ridge as the men closed on the outpost, masked by cloud cover, the moon and stars oblivious to the disorganized advance.

A little voice in his head screamed at Randall to move, to risk his life to alert the outpost, but his training kept him locked in place. Just stay put and you’ll all go home tonight in one piece. He held his breath. The first line of the raid had passed his position. Ordinance was being readied, rifles, already loaded, were racked again, spitting unspent rounds across the ground. He twisted on his heels, finger shaking a hair’s breadth from the trigger, ready to loose fire upon their backs.

Then the whisper of a ragged straggler, fighting for air as he shambled up the ridge behind Randall.

No.

The single word eclipsed all thought as the fighter stumbled into the shrub, banging the barrel of his AK against Randall’s shoulder pad. Randall turned into the man, looked up at his face, and in his eyes glimpsed stars. Springing to his feet, he pressed the AK hard against the man’s chest, raising his M4 with his right arm. The carbine bucked in his hand as he slammed the trigger, sending rounds ripping through the Taliban’s torso and neck, the recoil shifting his aim high. The man tensed, locking his fingers down, spraying full-auto into the dark.

In a split second the night was filled with heavy gunfire in every direction. Randall lost his footing and the pair tumbled down the ridge, first in a jumbled mess and then separate, as a boulder caught Randall in the ribs, smashing the plates in his vest like they were made of glass. Each breath brought on searing pain as the cracks that veined his chest expanded and contracted. He crawled to his knees, found his weapon and dropped the clip. Above him, the night sky strobed with bursts of gunfire. He could make out the distinct crackle of a machine gun from the outpost responding to an explosion. They were fighting back, but still greatly outnumbered. Reloaded, he grit his teeth and struggled up the hill keeping low until he reached the apex. There, he tried to lay prone but cried out when the position stretched his ribs. Instead he hunkered in a low crouch and took aim at the flashes of light surrounding the outpost. The sound of each shot echoed in his ears as he fired at random, two to three shots per shadowy figure before switching targets. His vision tunneled to his site, mind on autopilot survival. He locked on the left flank, sending two more home. As he scanned back, the dirt burst in front of his feet, invisible force slamming into his right shoulder and hip, spinning him around. The carbine flew from his grip and his entire side went numb. He laid on his back, staring up at the sliver of moon. The battle briefly intensified before dialing to a whisper.

When he tried to move, the cold seeped into the wounds like a grinding fist. Shouting interrupted the pain. He turned his head as a surviving Taliban sprinted by him in retreat. Two strides past Randall, the man tripped, shooting himself as he tumbled over the rocks. Randall laughed through the pain. For once the cold kept him going. Maybe there was some truth in what those bastards had to say after all. He closed his eyes and called for help.

I’m going to make it.

I’m going to make it.

Bio:

Christopher L. Irvin has traded all hope of a good night's rest for the chance to spend his mornings writing dark and noir fiction. He is currently finishing his first novel and aspires to have one day read enough crime fiction to know what he is talking about. His stories have appeared in Thuglit, Shotgun Honey, Weird Noir, the University of Maine at Machias Binnacle Ultra-Short Competition and The Rusty Nail Magazine, among others. He lives with his wife and son in Boston, Massachusetts. You can find him online at www.HouseLeagueFiction.com and @chrislirvin.