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Roth raced away from the farmhouse as fast as his legs would carry him, guessing it was the target if the drone carried explosives. Behind him, PawPaw and Mercedes had just exited with the two natives when the explosion demolished the structure, the fireball engulfing the four figures who were too close to survive.
Roth was knocked to the ground. The flash rolled over the area, just missing him, but the heat from it was something he’d never forget. From around him, cries of his teammates filled his ears. He crawled towards the first downed body he saw. Darren McGiles, callsign Mickey Dee, groaned in agony. He smelled charred, like a quarter pounder with cheese that had been left on the flat top too long. And he was cut to hell from the sheet metal roof that had fragmented during the explosion and been driven outward with enough force to impale anyone in its path. Mickey Dee had been in its path. He was bleeding from at least a dozen gaping wounds.
Roth tried to stop the bleeding enough to move him when they extracted. Through his comms he heard all the chatter from the Ops Center and the SEALs who could still talk. Chris Jones, callsign Doctor Jay, called in the incident and requested immediate exfil. Roth knew they needed to know the source of the drone and neutralize the pilot, or they needed to shoot down the drone before they’d risk the chopper coming in.
“It’s making a second pass,” the Ops Center transmitted.
Roth stood and hustled towards another of his downed teammates, hoping to reach him before another missile or RPG, or whatever the fuck it was they’d used to take out the house, was fired. He wasn’t successful. The explosion shook the ground as a deafening blast created another fireball. He found himself lying on his back. He saw the hunk of metal protrude from his left knee and felt the searing pain that accompanied it.
He’d also heard the screams from some of his team members, his friends, so he knew he wasn’t the only one injured. The silence of the others and knowing that they’d expired would haunt him. There was nothing left he could do but pray and self-administer a syrette of morphine. And at some point, thankfully, he lost consciousness, believing that he would die there.
***
Sebastian Roth woke in the worse pain he’d ever felt. He was shocked to be alive. He had no recollection of the extraction or transport to a medical facility. He had no memory of the surgery that saved his limb. He was in what he recognized to be a surgical ward, his left leg elevated and wrapped in bandages. He felt his lower extremity and could wiggle his toes, even though it hurt like a bitch to do so.
He was grateful to be alive. He knew several in his unit were not.
Weeks passed. He was transported to the military hospital in Germany and then shipped stateside. He was on crutches and beginning physical therapy. His military future was uncertain. He feared the worst. His career just may be over. And the mission wasn’t finished yet. He understood why his father kept going back.
His mother, Jill Roth, was thrilled to have him home if even for just a few weeks while he recovered. She hadn’t been thrilled with his decision to enlist, and she was even less thrilled when he became a SEAL. She had told him she didn’t have it in her to lose her son, too.
“If you can’t do a SEAL’s work any longer because of your injury but can remain in the Navy, as a corpsman, you can still serve at one of the many stateside military base hospitals. Your career isn’t over, son,” she told him, knowing it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Adventure and risk had always been in her son’s DNA.
“I know, Mom,” he’d told her. “But I have to try to get back. It’s who I am.”
She knew that.
But months later, at Norfolk, when the military doctors told him his knee had healed all that it would, he was given the final decision. He could remain active duty, but he could not return to his SEAL Team. His rating would be switched to HC, regular corpsman. Or he could take the medical discharge.
He sat alone in one corner of the physical therapy room after the surgeon left and held back his tears. He was alive, which was more than five of his teammates could say after the attack. He had no right to cry. He could be pissed, and he was. He could want to hit something, which he did. But he wouldn’t cry from the blow fate had delivered.
He walked across the base to the enlisted club and ordered a beer. He had to make a decision. Remain in the Navy and be a regular corpsman, or take the medical discharge and maybe get hired by a military contractor. There were several organizations out there he could get a position with that would put him back in the Sandbox and in the action.
It was four in the afternoon on a Wednesday and the bar was nearly empty. He was on his second cold one when some guy sat beside him. Seriously? In this nearly empty room, this guy felt the need to sit right beside him? Without looking at the rude dude, he scooted to the next barstool over and slid his drink with him as well.
“You’re going to want to stay next to me for the conversation we’re going to have,” he said, drawing Roth’s eyes to him.
Roth glanced up at him. He looked familiar. He was an older guy with graying dark blond hair clipped short in a standard military cut. His eyes were a steely gray color. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve met,” Doc said. “You don’t remember? Let me remind you, a very special training session here in Norfolk. Ringing any bells?”
Sebastian Roth had a lot of training take place at the base in Norfolk. It hadn’t been as intense or as exhausting as SEAL training in San Diego, so he was kicking himself for not remembering this guy. At his age, he had to be one of the instructors. “I’ve had a lot of training at this base,” Roth said. “Most of it was highly classified, and I’m not allowed to discuss it.”
“Good man,” Doc said. “This training, in particular, you were a star on Fire Team Red. I haven’t forgotten you.”
The time, place, and training came to Roth’s mind, and he remembered this man. He smiled and offered his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Doc knew Roth recognized and remembered him at that moment. “Nice to see you, too. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Roth asked.
“Your injury,” Doc said.
“How’d ya, know?” Roth asked, running his fingers through his longer than normal dark brown hair.
“Scoot back over,” Doc said. “I’ve got an offer for you.”
The bartender came over and took Doc’s order. Neither man spoke until after he’d brought his beer and moved away.
