D23’s turret. Kale must have sensed him, because he turned and made eye contact. Moose smiled. Kale looked like a man waiting for anesthesia. What was he thinking? Moose brought a salute to his helmet, acknowledging Kale’s look and hoping to give him a boost.
Time to get serious again. Moose pulled his dark goggles down from his Kevlar. He felt like a welder firing up a blowtorch. His mind now underwent a purposeful change, a conscious separation from insignificant thoughts. External lights only—on whatever he was looking at. No introspection. No silly memories. He put FOB luxuries behind him. Only the gun, his crew, and the platoon were important.
Kale, after exchanging glances with Moose, found himself once again wishing he had the man’s single-mindedness. Kale wanted it to feel right. Why was he different? Fuck! How would he react if something went wrong today? Unlike most other Wolfhounds, he had yet to fire a gun in combat. Sometimes, back on the FOB in the evenings, he would check out a machinegun from the arms room and take it to his trailer. After dark, alone in the trailer, he practiced repeatedly disassembling and reassembling the gun with his eyes closed. Assembly and disassembly of the gun would make him more self-assured, maybe bring a spiritual familiarity with the gun. Confidence gained from practice minimizes failure.
Did Moose ever question things? Moose appeared immune to doubts.
Last night’s dream hovered around Kale like an insect squadron. Could he handle another attack? Could he kill? Thus far he’d done his duty. He’d survived the bombing that killed Ramirez. He’d gone on every mission. Yet his insides stewed.
The idea that others would know if he failed revolted Kale more than anything else possibly could. Frustrated, he put the gun on safe and rotated the turret so that the gun faced forward. He sat on the seat sling, his upper body already sweat-soaked.
Wynn glanced around at D21’s crew: Gung, Lee, Singleton, and Cengo.
Each soldier was making final equipment adjustments. Gung pulled the wrist end of his gloves to tighten them against his fingers. He switched on the truck’s Warlock counter-IED system and revved the Humvee’s engine twice.
Singleton unlocked the turret and swung it once from side to side, and then pushed the stock of the 240B downward, lifting the barrel skyward. He shuffled his feet to get a comfortable stance, as if he were a batter getting ready for the pitch.
Then Singleton cranked his music loud for a few moments, as he normally did just before the platoon left the FOB, and Wynn heard, as usual, Seal's soulful lyrics to "Crazy."
“We sure is crazy,” Lee echoed.
Lee pushed his goggles up higher on his nose with his gloved index finger. He looked left and right once, reflexively, hunting for anything suspicious. Then he did it again, concentrating harder the second time. Whatever was out there was out there. They were ready to roll.
Wynn repositioned his radio earpiece behind the left straps of his helmet, making sure he could hear well. He leaned forward and turned the SINCGARS’s volume up and tapped the remote speaker with the knuckle of his right index finger. He checked his rifle and repositioned it, the black barrel down in the floorboards, the stock secure in a holder. This must be something like what NASCAR drivers feel just before race start , he thought. He checked his watch a final time before departing. The designated census area was about 25 minutes away.
The convoy paused for a few seconds at the end of the road leaving the FOB, and Wynn called HQ to report the Wolfhounds departure time.
“All right, old mule. Time to move again,” Gung said to the truck.
“Let’s do it,” said Wynn to the crew, then to Singleton up in the turret, “You awake, old man?” At 29, Singleton was older than all but Cooke.
“Always, Sir.”
“Sleep more later, old sarge,” Gung said, piling on Singleton.
“All right, go,” Wynn
Time to get serious again. Moose pulled his dark goggles down from his Kevlar. He felt like a welder firing up a blowtorch. His mind now underwent a purposeful change, a conscious separation from insignificant thoughts. External lights only—on whatever he was looking at. No introspection. No silly memories. He put FOB luxuries behind him. Only the gun, his crew, and the platoon were important.
Kale, after exchanging glances with Moose, found himself once again wishing he had the man’s single-mindedness. Kale wanted it to feel right. Why was he different? Fuck! How would he react if something went wrong today? Unlike most other Wolfhounds, he had yet to fire a gun in combat. Sometimes, back on the FOB in the evenings, he would check out a machinegun from the arms room and take it to his trailer. After dark, alone in the trailer, he practiced repeatedly disassembling and reassembling the gun with his eyes closed. Assembly and disassembly of the gun would make him more self-assured, maybe bring a spiritual familiarity with the gun. Confidence gained from practice minimizes failure.
Did Moose ever question things? Moose appeared immune to doubts.
Last night’s dream hovered around Kale like an insect squadron. Could he handle another attack? Could he kill? Thus far he’d done his duty. He’d survived the bombing that killed Ramirez. He’d gone on every mission. Yet his insides stewed.
The idea that others would know if he failed revolted Kale more than anything else possibly could. Frustrated, he put the gun on safe and rotated the turret so that the gun faced forward. He sat on the seat sling, his upper body already sweat-soaked.
Wynn glanced around at D21’s crew: Gung, Lee, Singleton, and Cengo.
Each soldier was making final equipment adjustments. Gung pulled the wrist end of his gloves to tighten them against his fingers. He switched on the truck’s Warlock counter-IED system and revved the Humvee’s engine twice.
Singleton unlocked the turret and swung it once from side to side, and then pushed the stock of the 240B downward, lifting the barrel skyward. He shuffled his feet to get a comfortable stance, as if he were a batter getting ready for the pitch.
Then Singleton cranked his music loud for a few moments, as he normally did just before the platoon left the FOB, and Wynn heard, as usual, Seal's soulful lyrics to "Crazy."
“We sure is crazy,” Lee echoed.
Lee pushed his goggles up higher on his nose with his gloved index finger. He looked left and right once, reflexively, hunting for anything suspicious. Then he did it again, concentrating harder the second time. Whatever was out there was out there. They were ready to roll.
Wynn repositioned his radio earpiece behind the left straps of his helmet, making sure he could hear well. He leaned forward and turned the SINCGARS’s volume up and tapped the remote speaker with the knuckle of his right index finger. He checked his rifle and repositioned it, the black barrel down in the floorboards, the stock secure in a holder. This must be something like what NASCAR drivers feel just before race start , he thought. He checked his watch a final time before departing. The designated census area was about 25 minutes away.
The convoy paused for a few seconds at the end of the road leaving the FOB, and Wynn called HQ to report the Wolfhounds departure time.
“All right, old mule. Time to move again,” Gung said to the truck.
“Let’s do it,” said Wynn to the crew, then to Singleton up in the turret, “You awake, old man?” At 29, Singleton was older than all but Cooke.
“Always, Sir.”
“Sleep more later, old sarge,” Gung said, piling on Singleton.
“All right, go,” Wynn
Similar Books
