Page 13 of Point of Contact

“In fact, I don’t like this,” someone else muttered.

“Why, too quiet?” Riley asked astutely, tightening his grip on his weapon.

“Yeah. All the women and children are being kept inside,” Parker answered, sweeping his eyes over the houses in the village and the shadowed forest. “Usually this place is swarming with activity. Keep alert.”

A wave of adrenaline moved through Jesse, snapping him out of his exhausted daze. He scanned the area thoroughly. Nothing seemed out of place, the wind in the trees and the yammering of monkeys off in the distance the only sound.

Their shoulder mics crackled. “Be advised, we’ve picked up enemy chatter about our troop movements, and ‘being ready.’”

“Okay, contact is likely.” Parker’s voice was calm, steady. “Pull back, and keep your wits about you, your eyes peeled. If we’re lucky, we get to take some of them out.”

“If we’re lucky?” Watkins squeaked, and Parker turned a gimlet stare on him, making Watkins flinch.

“Yeah. What exactly do you think we do up here, asshole? We ain’t like the Fobbits down at the cushy air base at Bagram, with their fuckin’ coffee shops, pizza parlors and shit. We patrol, kick shit over and make the roaches scurry so we can squash ’em.”

Watkins swallowed hard, and Parker went on, “It’s them or us, cherry. Them or us. Let’s move out.”

A sense of urgency grew as the squad turned to head back to the outpost. The veterans set a brisk pace along the road, their faces hard, no-nonsense. Jesse’s adrenaline ramped up even higher at the tension he could feel radiating off of them, his sweat suddenly feeling cold as ice on his skin.

“Contact west!”

Before the words even died away, there came a faint staccato tapping, like someone pounding on a piece of metal with a hammer. Branches over their heads shredded, and tree trunks splintered. All the men jumped off the trail into the grove as a withering hail of bullets suddenly rained down on them from the ridgeline above.

“Take cover,” Parker yelled. “Spur to the west. Light it up!”

Jesse and Riley threw themselves behind a rock formation several feet away and started hammering the cliffs with deadly bursts from their weapons. The guys from the outgoing unit were like wraiths as they fought, their movements crisp and precise, a well-rehearsed combat ballet.

The gunfire died away as the Taliban faded back to where they’d come from, the ambush over as quickly as it had occurred. A small element of men, headed up by their lieutenant, charged after them. Jesse didn’t even have time to process his intense feeling of relief that the worst was over when suddenly Watkins screamed, “I’ve been shot!”

Smitty, their platoon medic, dashed over to where Watkins sat on the ground, his back to a tree trunk, hand clapped to his cheek and blood welling through his fingers. Jesse stood frozen in horror, thinking Watkins had taken a bullet to the face, but Smitty briefly checked him out, then handed him a thick piece of gauze. Watkins looked like he was hyperventilating as he pressed it to the bloody cut.

Parker spat on the ground in disgust. “Piece of ricochet or something gave the widdle baby a widdle owie. Jesus. Might as well shoot him now and save the Taliban the trouble.”

Riley pursed his lips. “Tell me something, Parker,” he said, his voice granite. “Are we gonna turn into total fuckin’ pricks like you by the time we leave here?”

Jesse tensed as the taller man turned his cold eyes in Riley’s direction. The two of them stared at each other for a breathless moment before Parker turned away, not even bothering with a reply.

“Shit. That guy is like, I don’t know, a burned-out ghost or something,” Riley muttered. “There’s nothing left, is there?”

“Yeah, and you just had to call him a prick,” Jesse retorted, pissed at Watkins for scaring them all and Riley for trying to provoke Parker. “That dude could wipe the fuckin’ ground with us, so I’m sitting here wondering whether you’re brave or just stupid.”

Riley shook his head and gave Jesse a weak grin. “Definitely stupid. But letting him disrespect one of our brothers right to our fuckin’ faces? No way. My dad taught me better than that. Didn’t yours?”

Shame burned a bitter path through Jesse as he pictured his quiet, dignified father. “Yeah,” he said through stiff lips, thinking how much he still had to learn about brotherhood and loyalty, “of course he did.”

“Hey.” Riley elbowed his ribs. “At least we survived our first firefight. Fuck, yeah.” He swayed a little on his feet.

Jesse looked more closely at him, noticing with sudden horror that Riley had blood on his right shoulder, and it was dripping off the ends of his fingers.

“Medic!” he bellowed, and everyone snapped their heads toward him, following his line of sight to Riley. Loud exclamations, and Smitty appeared next to him, gloving up quickly. He eased Riley’s BDU jacket off and probed at the wound. Riley grew even paler, but he didn’t say a word, though an occasional hiss escaped him.

“Nasty, but just a flesh wound,” Smitty finally grunted, relief in his voice. “Nothing’s embedded. Fucking lucky bastard.”

Riley managed a wink as Smitty handed him a fentanyl lollipop to suck on while he cleaned and bandaged the wound, joking with Riley about having a sexy scar to impress the ladies with, trying to keep his mind off things.

By the time he was done, the small group who’d chased the enemy fighters reappeared, dragging a body with them. They laid the dead insurgent by the side of the road for the villagers to find and bury.

“Dude was gut-shot,” Jesse heard Enriquez say. “We followed his blood trail up into the rocks. Died right in front of my goddamned eyes.”