Page 3 of Keeping a Warrior

Tech Sergeant? That wasn’t a Navy rank.

“You’re Air Force?” Spec ops guys didn’t wear rank or insignia, so Devon had just assumed he was a SEAL. “A PJ?”

Short for pararescue jumper. Although their official title was pararescuemen now, everyone still called them PJs.

“Yep. Twenty-Fourth Special Tactics. An enabler just like you.” Rhys touched his fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. “Even more reason for us to stick together.”

Before Devon could respond, J-Rob ordered the platoon to move out. He took point and set a steady, confident pace. Devon found herself in the middle of the pack. Through her NVGs, the terrain looked like moonscape, rugged and inhospitable. Fine dust with the consistency of talcum powder covered what seemed like every inch of her skin, sinking deep into her pores and coating her tongue. At this altitude the night was cooler, but exertion soon caused sweat to pool under her Kevlar helmet and drip down her face.

When they paused to double-check their coordinates, Rhys dug in his pack and silently handed her an extra shemagh, a black-and-white-checked tactical scarf, which she took with a grateful smile and wound around her neck to sop up the worst of the sweat.

After that one break they didn’t stop again. Mile after mile slipped away, the path steepening as they ascended into the foothills. The pack on her back grew heavier and heavier, until Devon’s lungs were on fire, her legs burning.

Gritting her teeth, she dug deep and pushed through the pain.

Can’t let the guys down. Can’t prove the doubters right. You’re in the middle of goddamn Afghanistan so suck it up before you get someone killed. Step by step. You can do it. One more step.

When they finally halted on a narrow ridgeline, Devon was struggling not to puke again. She swayed on her feet and pulled in deep breaths through her nose, blowing them slowly—quietly—out her mouth.

“Okay, we did make good time,” J-Rob murmured. “I wasn’t sure, you know, with—”

She tried not to bristle at what he didn’t say: I wasn’t sure with the woman around. Then she straightened. Of course they’d be skeptical. These were men at the peak of physical fitness, who’d undergone years of brutal training in order to call themselves SEALs. She herself might be fit, she might be agile, but she was nowhere near their level of ability, no matter how much determination she had.

Yet...she was an important part of this mission and all that mattered was that she’d kept up with them.

J-Rob glanced at his watch. “It’s midnight,” he whispered. “We have about five hours of darkness left, people, so let’s get moving. Our battle-space owners are ten minutes out.”

They wended their way down the trail to the tiny, remote village, which at the moment was peaceful and silent. A few sleepy-sounding goats bleated in the darkness as the SEALs arrayed themselves around the perimeter. Devon sank to her knee at the rear of the group, well out of the way, her weapon at the ready.

The minutes crawled by, but at last she became aware of footsteps in the darkness. J-Rob held up a closed fist, meaning for everyone to hold their positions. Devon tensed, her gloved finger hovering over the safety on her gun. She wasn’t part of the assault team, but she’d been trained to fight if necessary.

Relief surged when a group of men wearing the unmistakable uniforms of the United States Marines appeared out of the gloom. These were the battle-space owners, the unit responsible for the area of operations the village resided in. Accompanying them were some members of the Afghan National Army, and square in the middle of the pack, a small figure wearing an ill-fitting and mismatched set of body armor. A woman.

The point man approached J-Rob, and after a short conversation, which included some pointing toward Devon, one of the Marines escorted the woman over to her.

“I’m Roshana,” she whispered as she knelt on the ground next to Devon, her face slick with sweat. “Your interpreter.”

Devon touched her arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Roshana sucked in a few gulps of water from her CamelBak straw. She appeared very young, but her jaw was set with a steely resolve that Devon knew all too well. It mirrored the same emotions roiling in Devon’s gut, that feeling of being so far out of her element, yet determined not to fail—the look of a woman trying to make her mark on what had so long been a man’s world.

After Roshana had finished her water and wiped her lips on the back of her hand, Devon leaned in close. “We got this, okay?”

Roshana looked her square in the eye. “Hell, yeah, we do.”

They shared a fist bump as one of the ANA guys cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in Pashto toward the village.

“He’s telling the men to come out,” Roshana translated. “That they won’t be harmed, but to come out and show their hands.”

He shouted it twice, three times, before a few men emerged from their homes. Some Marines swiftly approached them, zip-tied their hands in front of them and had them sit with their backs up against a wall.

The rest of the Marines and the SEALs not on perimeter duty flowed into the village and fanned out. Devon stayed on her knee, carefully watching her assigned sector, alert for the sight of any “squirters” who might be trying to escape into the mountains. Rhys was with the detained men, nitrile gloves on, as he helped to search and question them.

The minutes crawled by, until finally Devon heard the call she’d been waiting for.

“We need the CST over here!”

Rising to her feet, Devon safed her M4, let it hang from her shoulder and reached down to assist Roshana to standing.