I OPENED MY EYES.

Darkness.

I listened.

Absolute quiet.

By instinct I’d cupped a palm around my mouth to create an air pocket. And my helmet had helped. But the small bubble of space wasn’t enough. My chest was compressed, my lungs squeezed too tightly to function. The heavy armor only made the pressure worse.

I tried to breathe. Couldn’t.

I tried again. Got no air.

Panic began to set in.

How long could a person go without oxygen? Three minutes? Five?

How long had I been trapped?

I had no clue.

Again I tried to inhale. Again I failed.

My heart was banging. Pumping blood that was fast losing what little oxygen it held.

I tried moving the hand away from my mouth. Hit resistance within millimeters.

My other arm was numb. I had no sense of its position. The position of my legs.

A wave of dizziness flooded my brain. I saw images of the mesa. Of the ladyfinger rocks.

Rocks that now imprisoned me like a coffin.

How many feet? How many tons?

The panic increased. Adrenaline shot through me.

Breathe!

I tensed my neck and shoulder muscles. Bent my head forward as far as I could, then thrust it back.

My skull cracked rock. Pain exploded through my brain.

But the move worked. I heard the hiss of falling sand, felt a little less pressure on my chest.

I breathed in slowly. The dusty air coated my tongue, my throat. My lungs exploded in a series of hacking coughs. I breathed again. Coughed again.

The dizziness passed. My thoughts began to organize into coherent patterns.

Shout? But in what direction? How was I lying?

Was anyone out there? Was anyone alive to free me? Had the others also been buried?

I blinked sand from my eyes. Saw only inky blackness. Heard only stillness. No voices. No shovels. No movement.

Again, the panic.

Think. Forget the rubble. The dust. The deafening quiet.

I tried rolling to my left. My right leg was pinned. I could feel a sharp edge pressing the flesh of my calf.

I tried flexing my knee. A hot spike ripped up from my ankle.

I tried rolling to my right. Got nowhere. My shoulder was jammed tight against rock. Rock that moments before had overhung the graveyard. Rock that now buried me like the dead we’d just raised.

Think.

I willed myself calm. Willed my breathing steady. Willed the bulky armor to rise and fall.

In. Out. In. Out.

I tried yelling, but my mouth was too dry. I mustered what saliva I could and tried again.

My voice sounded dull, muffled. And which way was up? Down? Was I yelling into the sky or the earth?

My thoughts were again growing muddled. Oxygen deprivation? Or was it carbon dioxide overload? I knew the answer to that once. It was not coming to me now.

Questions winged.

An incoming mortar? A surface-to-surface missile? Launched by whom?

What did that matter?

Were Blanton and Welsted also buried? The two young diggers?

I closed my eyes. Heard only the soft hiss of sand worming through cracks.

Why was no one probing? Digging? Shouting? Had the villagers abandoned us? To let our people get us out or not?

Would I die? Of hypothermia? Asphyxia? How long would it take?

The thought of death filled me with a terrible sadness. In this place, so far from home, so far from the people I loved. Katy. Harry. Pete. Ryan. Yes, Ryan.

A tear traced a path sideways across my cheek and dropped to my hand.

My addled brain managed a deduction.

Dropped. Gravity. I was lying on my right side. The earth was somewhere below it. Dirt, rock, and sky were somewhere above my left shoulder.

I inhaled and began to test as far as my left hand could go.

My fingertips described a Lego jigsaw, gravity and pressure holding the pieces in place. Disturbing the balance might cause a shift, might bring more debris crashing down.

How much air did I have? The rocks were porous and most likely hadn’t compacted tightly enough to exclude oxygen. But how deeply was I interred? When would help arrive? To find a survivor or a body?

Then I knew nothing.

Then I awoke. Heard sounds. Watery, indistinct.

Voices?

I froze.

Yes. Human voices. High and agitated.

Desperate, euphoric, I maneuvered my left hand to grope the farthest recesses of the small vacuum in front of my face. My fingers closed on a stone the size of my fist. My heart raced as I moved it in the small arc the limited space would permit, trying to bang against the rock above my head.

What was Morse code for SOS?

Mother of God. Who gives a shit?

I kept pounding with pathetically small strokes, desperate to make contact with the outside world.

The shouting intensified. Drew near. I heard staccato commands. Answers. Grinding. Dull thuds.

“Careful!” I bellowed. Or whispered. “I’m okay, just be careful.”

The grinding continued. Separated into the sounds of individual rocks being shifted.

After what seemed a lifetime, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. More grinding, then bright needles entered from all directions, a kaleidoscope sparkling dust suspended in the air around me.

Finally, a rock lifted and harsh, glorious sunlight poured in. I squinted up, blinded.

Blanton’s face hung above me, skin flushed the color of boiled ham.

“Sit tight. We’ll get you out in a jiff.”

I could only smile.

• • •

Three hours later we were on our way back to Delaram. Aqsaee and Rasekh lay in body bags in the back of the vehicle.

When the mortar hit, both marines had been positioned behind the Humvee. Same for Welsted. Though scratched by flying shards, all three escaped injury.

Ironic. Blanton’s need for nicotine saved his ass. He had also been standing clear of the impact zone. The diggers, being young and war-wise, heard the incoming round, understood, and ran.

In other words, I was the only one dumb enough to get hurt. Parked on my knees, I’d been too slow or too green to bolt. The impact of the blast had knocked me into the grave. The debris that fell on me wasn’t that deep. Though it seemed an eternity, I’d been buried roughly ten minutes. The sides of the trench had sheltered me.

“Probably an M252A1,” Welsted speculated as we rattled along. “You get so you can tell the difference. Each mortar sings its own song whistling through the air.”

“Enlightening, but irrelevant. The important point is, who the hell fired the damn thing?”

“Impossible to say right now. Probably not friendly fire. Our people would have sent more than one.” Though addressing Blanton’s question, Welsted still spoke to me. “M252s are British-made, but our mortar platoons use them. Army and Marines. If troops are forced to retreat quickly, weapons can be left behind.”

“And insurgents collect them.”

Welsted nodded. “Pick them up and do what any savvy enemy would do.”

“Were we the target?” I asked.

Welsted shrugged a who-knows. “Could be a scout spotted our vehicle and saw a chance to nail it, or it could be a misfire, an incorrect triangulation on a different objective. Could be—”

“Could be a world-class screw-up. I came out here to do a job, not get my nuts blown off.”

Welsted slid a withering glance at Blanton.

“This is a war zone. Any assignment carries risk.”

“Will you investigate where the round came from?” I asked.

“A recon team’s already been dispatched, but I don’t expect much. These launchers only weigh seventy pounds. A two-man crew can fire one and haul ass in no time. And the mortar’s got a range of three and a half miles. That’s a lot of sand to search. I’m surprised the shooters only launched one round. Probably only had one shell.”

“Ain’t the Tali grand.” Blanton shook his head in disgust.

At that moment the Humvee hit a pothole. The sudden lurch sent fire from my ankle to my knee. Welsted noticed me wince.

“You ought to get that treated.”

“I can take care of it.”

“Suit yourself.”

I would. I was embarrassed enough. Thanks to my body armor and helmet, my injuries were limited to cuts and abrasions. But the sprained ankle had forced me to direct the remainder of the disinterment while seated graveside.

Shaken by the blast, the initial diggers had refused to return. Their replacements were equally young, equally strong, but a lot less enthused. The required supervision had been significant.

Twenty minutes after setting out, we reached Delaram and our waiting Blackhawk. Hobbling toward it, I saw the body bags being placed in the cargo hold. I hurried to catch up to Welsted.

“I think the bodies should ride in the main bay,” I said.

“Why?”

“Stowing them in cargo could be interpreted as disrespect. Like transporting a corpse in a car trunk.”

Blanton watched as Welsted ordered the remains moved, but said nothing.

As I was buckling into my harness, the village trio pulled up in a rusted jeep. The tall man and the one with the mole got out and walked toward the chopper. They would travel with us to oversee the autopsy, as per the agreement. I wondered if Uncle Sam was providing round-trip transport, or if the driver would go overland to Bagram to collect them.

I stole glances at the men as we flew. Both sat grim-faced, staring at their hands. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. Couldn’t even guess.

We made good time but still arrived after sunset. The base glowed as a grid of light in a sea of unending darkness.

I was exhausted and my ankle hurt. Not unbearable, just a dull throb. My body felt gritty and leached of moisture by the sun and wind.

But still there was work to be done.

“I’ll accompany the remains to the hospital,” Welsted said. “You don’t have to go.”

I wanted to remove my IBA and filthy BDUs, shower, drink a gallon of water, and collapse into bed.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“It’s late. Let’s move.” From Blanton.

Surprised, Welsted and I both turned.

“I can take it from here,” Welsted said.

“Not on your life.”

Blanton strode toward a low-slung, retrofitted jeep and climbed in. I limped after him. When the body bags had been safely transferred to a van, Welsted joined us and told the driver to proceed. The LNs would follow.

“Growlers.” Welsted slapped the side panel through her open window. “Two hundred thousand bucks a pop. Your tax dollars at work.”

If Welsted wanted a shocked reaction, I disappointed her. Hadn’t I read that the army paid six hundred dollars for a toilet seat?

En route, we removed our protective gear. Welsted opined that the fifty-bed facility to which we were headed rivaled any modern hospital stateside.

“The difference is they see fewer gunshot wounds here than back home in Texas.”

Jesus. Where did the woman find the energy for humor? If it was a joke.

The Heathe N. Craig Joint Theater Hospital was located in a well-lit compound on the western edge of the base. The main structure was a squat tan affair with a half dozen smokestacks pumping on the roof. An Afghan flag hung on a pole beside Old Glory. Both standards looked indifferent to their surroundings.

The van pulled into a covered bay, followed closely by our Growler. Everyone got out. As the body bags were transferred to gurneys, I looked around.

An enormous American flag covered the ceiling above our heads. Vertically stenciled letters spelled out WARRIOR’S WAY on a pillar. Signs with slashed red circles warned of weapons not permitted beyond the doors.

The village overseers arrived in a second Growler. They alighted as the gurneys were rolled into the ER.

The hospital’s interior was so cold I felt goose bumps pucker my flesh. The staff we passed watched with open curiosity, nurses and orderlies in fatigues or scrubs, doctors with surgical caps on their heads and masks half tied around their necks.

Aqsaee and Rasekh were wheeled down a long tiled hallway to a cooler not that different from the one back home at the MCME. They would remain there awaiting my examination.

I glanced at the village delegates, then turned to Welsted.

“It would speed things up tomorrow if a series of X-rays was done on each individual tonight. I need to know what’s inside before I unwrap the shrouds.”

“You could use some serious rack time.”

“We all could,” I said.

Welsted looked at me a very long moment. “If I’m present, do you trust a radiology tech to shoot your films?”

It was what I would do at home.

“Yes,” I said.

Welsted crossed to the villagers, returned after a brief exchange.

“They’re good with that. As long as we leave the bodies facing Mecca.”

“I can stay,” I said.

Welsted looked at her watch. “You call it a day.” To everyone. “That’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene here at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

• • •

Back at my B-hut, I dumped my IBA, removed my outerwear, and peeled off my sock. My ankle was a tequila sunrise of mottled flesh and abraded skin.

I knew I should ice down the injury. Hadn’t the time to worry about swelling. Telling myself it could have been a whole lot worse, I changed to jeans and a sweatshirt, tied my boot as tightly as I could bear, and headed out, hoping I wasn’t too late.

At 2200 hours the base was as busy as during the day. The roads rumbled with Humvees, pickups, jeeps, and bikes. Pedestrians hurried to or from meals, USO centers, or showers. Radio towers and light stanchions flickered against the night sky.

The air was cool, the wind fresh off the mountains. Insects swarmed the streetlamps overhead.

Asking directions, I made my way to a two-story yellow structure with a banner saying LIGHTHOUSE above its front door. A few patrons lingered outside, cigarette tips glowing orange in the dark.

“Mom! Mom, here!”

I looked up.

Katy was waving at me from the second-floor terrace.

“Come on up!”

Yes! Oh, yes!

Ankle forgotten, I beelined through the door and up the stairs.

The place was packed, only one free table. I was worming toward it when Katy swooped in, beaming, arms spread wide.

As we hugged, I was astounded by my daughter’s strength. By the new hardness of her biceps.

“Holy fuck, Mom. You really are here.”

“I really am.”

“I went by your B-hut, but you were out.”

“Yeah,” was all I said.

A Marine lance corporal approached the empty table behind us. A look from Katy and he reversed course. We both sat.

“Something wrong with your foot?”

“Pulled a muscle.”

“Wuss.”

“Right. I got your note. Did Scott Blanton contact you?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

Katy had cut her hair very short. Not required, but my daughter has never been a fan of half measures.

“I got your e-mails.”

“And didn’t reply?”

“Our unit’s been outside the berm. Just got back.”

“Doing what?” Casual as hell.

“Can’t say. You’re cool to that. Besides, we both know how you get.”

“How I get?”

Katy bugged her eyes, opened her mouth, and slapped her cheeks with her palms. “Crazoid!”

“I do not get crazoid.”

“Fine. But you worry too much.”

“Or you don’t worry enough.” The fatigue. The ankle. I regretted the words as soon as they were out.

Katy’s jaw set.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a long day.”

“I’m doing my job, Mom, same as you do yours. You came here. I came here. We both knew we weren’t heading to Club Med.”

“You’re right. Crazoid. I’m sorry.”

Katy’s expression softened.

“Don’t be sorry. I’d be crushed if you didn’t worry. Who else will do it for me?”

We ordered snacks and coffee strong enough to give a pachyderm the shakes. Ongoing conversation was confined to safe subjects. Happenings back in Charlotte. Pete’s upcoming wedding to Summer.

Before long Katy put her hand on mine.

“Early day tomorrow. And you look like you’re flying on fumes.”

“I am. And I also have to be up at dawn.”

I paid the bill. We rose. Katy turned to go. Turned back, mischief in her eyes.

“And thanks.”

“For what?” I had no idea.

“For not dissing my hair.”

When Katy left, a good chunk of my heart went with her. But I would see her again soon.

Walking through the dark, I debated. Shower? Hit the DFAC for more food and ice to pack my ankle?

Screw it.

Back at the B-hut, I set my iPhone alarm, removed my jeans, and slipped into bed.

I drifted off to the sound of engines screaming overhead.

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