tape the engineers have used to mark the lane they’ve cleared. In seconds, we’re out the other side and racing for the city. Ahead is an Abrams tank, battering its way forward. Another stands to one side, spewing flames from the tube of its 120mm gun.
Lieutenant Edward Iwan’s Humvee, with eternally unlucky Specialist Joey Seyford, slams to a halt near the breach. The heavy armored vehicles have had no issues getting over the blown railroad tracks, but the light-wheeled Humvees and trucks are stymied.
“Get this fucking bitch over the berm,” Iwan says to his driver.
As Staff Sergeant Lockwald and the engineers rig up another charge to blow the gap wider, a mortar round whistles in and lands right next to Seyford and Iwan’s Humvee.
SHHH-FROMMM!
Shrapnel blisters every inch of the rig’s windshield and side windows.
“What are the odds it hits us,” Seyford shouts down in amazement from atop the cupola of the Humvee.
“Pretty good with you around, Seyford. When this calms down I want you as far away from me as possible. You are fucking cursed.”
“Cursed? We’re fucking lucky. That should’ve taken my head off,” Seyford replies with a laugh.
Boom! An RPG. Boom! Boom! Two more strike nearby. More IEDs explode. Mines, more explosions, dirt, smoke, and flames erupt all around us. We’re surrounded by detonations, and our Brads plough through squalls of shrapnel, which sound like hail on a tin roof.
A Humvee driven by the Air Force controllers pulls between two First Platoon Bradleys and Lieutenant Iwan’s borrowed rig. The sight of the Humvees unable to cross the breech encourages the enemy. They direct their fire at these vulnerable vehicles. Two RPGs scorch the night. One scores a hit on the Air Force Humvee, seriously wounding Senior Airman Michael Smyre in the foot.
Joey Seyford, standing in Iwan’s turret, takes a piece of shrapnel and his hands fly to his face.
“Fuck! My eye!” he screams. Seyford clutches his open wound with both hands. Blood pours down his face.
“You’re right, dude, you are lucky. You get to go home, Joey. You lucky bastard,” shouts Iwan over the battle’s din.
“I’m not going anywhere, sir. Fuck that shit.” Seyford wipes the blood from his face, racks the bolt on his 50-cal M2, and starts hammering the enemy with it.
Another rocket sizzles into Staff Sergeant McDaniel’s Bradley to our right. It explodes below the turret. Behind us, Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s Brad takes a direct hit and bursts into flames. Fire scorches its flanks as the vehicle lurches forward. Seconds later, it runs across an IED, which explodes with such force that the entire back end of the Bradley leaves the desert floor. It plummets back down, causing the rig to rock backward and lift the nose up.
Shit.
Our own Brad suddenly stops. We tumble against one another and curse. Our driver, Luis Gonzalez, has hit something. He backs up and floors it. We spring forward, jump clear of the obstacle and crash back down on the wrong side of the engineer tape.
Voices boom over the radio. “Oh shit! You’re out of the lane! Get right! Get right.”
We start to swing back to the lane. A shattering blast engulfs us. The back end of our Bradley is thrown upward. Dust and smoke spiral around us. I choke and gag and try to scream for my guys. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp. I can’t hear anyone respond. Lawson, just inches away, doesn’t answer me either. I wonder if I’ve been deafened by the blast. Or maybe everyone but me is dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Machines of Loving Grace
Smoke. Eyes burning. I suck air, which sears my throat. I paw my eyes, smearing grime across both cheeks. I blink. The Brad’s interior comes into view. Through the smoke I see the red lights on our gunner’s panel. Gossard is firing the 25mm cannon, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is a steady, high-pitched buzz.
Lungs full of smoke, I try to shout again. All that comes out is a hoarse, “Smack my knees.
Lieutenant Edward Iwan’s Humvee, with eternally unlucky Specialist Joey Seyford, slams to a halt near the breach. The heavy armored vehicles have had no issues getting over the blown railroad tracks, but the light-wheeled Humvees and trucks are stymied.
“Get this fucking bitch over the berm,” Iwan says to his driver.
As Staff Sergeant Lockwald and the engineers rig up another charge to blow the gap wider, a mortar round whistles in and lands right next to Seyford and Iwan’s Humvee.
SHHH-FROMMM!
Shrapnel blisters every inch of the rig’s windshield and side windows.
“What are the odds it hits us,” Seyford shouts down in amazement from atop the cupola of the Humvee.
“Pretty good with you around, Seyford. When this calms down I want you as far away from me as possible. You are fucking cursed.”
“Cursed? We’re fucking lucky. That should’ve taken my head off,” Seyford replies with a laugh.
Boom! An RPG. Boom! Boom! Two more strike nearby. More IEDs explode. Mines, more explosions, dirt, smoke, and flames erupt all around us. We’re surrounded by detonations, and our Brads plough through squalls of shrapnel, which sound like hail on a tin roof.
A Humvee driven by the Air Force controllers pulls between two First Platoon Bradleys and Lieutenant Iwan’s borrowed rig. The sight of the Humvees unable to cross the breech encourages the enemy. They direct their fire at these vulnerable vehicles. Two RPGs scorch the night. One scores a hit on the Air Force Humvee, seriously wounding Senior Airman Michael Smyre in the foot.
Joey Seyford, standing in Iwan’s turret, takes a piece of shrapnel and his hands fly to his face.
“Fuck! My eye!” he screams. Seyford clutches his open wound with both hands. Blood pours down his face.
“You’re right, dude, you are lucky. You get to go home, Joey. You lucky bastard,” shouts Iwan over the battle’s din.
“I’m not going anywhere, sir. Fuck that shit.” Seyford wipes the blood from his face, racks the bolt on his 50-cal M2, and starts hammering the enemy with it.
Another rocket sizzles into Staff Sergeant McDaniel’s Bradley to our right. It explodes below the turret. Behind us, Sergeant First Class Cantrell’s Brad takes a direct hit and bursts into flames. Fire scorches its flanks as the vehicle lurches forward. Seconds later, it runs across an IED, which explodes with such force that the entire back end of the Bradley leaves the desert floor. It plummets back down, causing the rig to rock backward and lift the nose up.
Shit.
Our own Brad suddenly stops. We tumble against one another and curse. Our driver, Luis Gonzalez, has hit something. He backs up and floors it. We spring forward, jump clear of the obstacle and crash back down on the wrong side of the engineer tape.
Voices boom over the radio. “Oh shit! You’re out of the lane! Get right! Get right.”
We start to swing back to the lane. A shattering blast engulfs us. The back end of our Bradley is thrown upward. Dust and smoke spiral around us. I choke and gag and try to scream for my guys. All that comes out is a hoarse rasp. I can’t hear anyone respond. Lawson, just inches away, doesn’t answer me either. I wonder if I’ve been deafened by the blast. Or maybe everyone but me is dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Machines of Loving Grace
Smoke. Eyes burning. I suck air, which sears my throat. I paw my eyes, smearing grime across both cheeks. I blink. The Brad’s interior comes into view. Through the smoke I see the red lights on our gunner’s panel. Gossard is firing the 25mm cannon, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is a steady, high-pitched buzz.
Lungs full of smoke, I try to shout again. All that comes out is a hoarse, “Smack my knees.
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