“You trust your own fuckin’ self,” Buster observes without malice, and with a grin. “Sometimes I don’t think you trust us.”
“Getting there,” I tell him, honestly.
“Oh, we pass, do we?” Tailor tosses in with a smirk.
“Guess we’re honoured,” Slice chuckles. “We all know how high your standards are.”
“Stormy’s standards have saved many lives,” Pooh puts in to support me. “I, for one, am fuckin’ glad he’s with us.”
“Hear fuckin’ hear.” Tailor adds his endorsement, then changes the subject without giving me time to get embarrassed. Praise from him is praise indeed. “Anyway, good news, after the op tomorrow, we should be heading back Stateside.” He pauses to light a cigarette. “What are you guys doing when we go back on leave? What do you have planned?”
It’s the normal shit, the discussion just a way to pass time. I listen but don’t offer anything. My contribution would only consist of finding a place to get drunk and a willing woman or two to fuck. Slice and Buster will be visiting family, Pooh, his wife and the son he hasn’t yet seen in the flesh. Gun’s a loner like me and states he’ll just go with the flow. Tailor will be returning to his on/off girlfriend. I gather from what he’s been saying, the tumultuous relationship’s on again now.
I listen, nodding in all the right places. I’ve no home other than the accommodation I have on base, and no family anymore. Without me there, Dad had taken up driving once more and wrapped his car around a lamppost a year back. Did I feel guilty? Hell no. He’d have done the same whether I’d been a football player or SEAL. Even Stateside, I wouldn’t have been there to chauffeur him around.
My lack of remorse hadn’t worried me, and I hadn’t bothered to ask for leave to attend the funeral.
Sometimes I feel adrift, having no roots, no one apart from the men around me to grieve were I to die in this forsaken desert overseas. No one, other than them, would give a fuck if I wasn’t around. My job is my life, my mistress the country which depends on me. Though sometimes I do wonder what I’m missing, as I had when I looked at the photos of his newborn son Pooh proudly showed around. Having a baby hasn’t softened him, in fact, I’d say it’s made him more determined to make the world a safer place for him and his family.
Does having something to live for make everything more worthwhile? I can’t see that. Having a son meant fuck all to Dad. It would have been better for me if he’d never procreated. Maybe it’s best to be unencumbered with distractions or to make commitments it’s not inside me to make. The fear of exactly what I might have inherited from my sperm donor raises its head again. My other parent’s contribution wasn’t particularly admirable, she’d walked out when the going got tough.
Conversation carries on around me, but I’ve descended into a sombre mood. With murmured ‘goodnights’ I take myself off to grab a few hours’ sleep.
I’d been a football star at high school, my virginity lost long ago to one of the cheerleaders. What was her name? Dana? Dinah? Something like that. And while it hadn’t been my intention for it to have become a one-night stand, it had been around the time my dad had lost his licence to drive and I had gained mine. The threat that he’d kick me out if I didn’t toe the line curtailed my social life so he could have his. I’d made the sacrifice, driven by the fear of not being able to complete the education I needed to become a SEAL if I was made homeless.
Maybe I’d have run from a relationship anyway. Maybe my frustration with him had been tinged with relief. What did I know about women? The only female who’d been in my life had been my mother, and she hadn’t cared enough to stick around or even stay in touch. Now, at thirty years old, I think I’ve got so set in my ways, I’d find it hard to share a home with anyone.
Of course I’m a sexual beast and my urges don’t go unsatisfied. I’ve fucked, tens, probably hundreds of women. Though I might not have gotten close enough to anyone to admit I’m a SEAL, the fact I’ve got a Navy uniform is enough to get many a female into bed. I don’t see the harm in it as long as I make the expectations clear from the start. It’s more a rest from my hand for the night which is damn all I get when I’m on a tour.
But Pooh’s rightful excitement at seeing his family makes my future seem lonely. In the darkness, I shake my head. I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if I found one—apart from the obvious that is.
As I lay my head on the pillow, I don’t dwell on the mission ahead or in wondering what I’ll do with my time on leave. Instead, I switch off fast. Like many enlisted men, I’ve learned to take the opportunity of downtime when it occurs. My thoughts never keep me awake for long.
The next morning I awake one hundred percent focused on the task ahead, attending our final briefing just to hear a confirmation of what we already know.
Instead of training the indigenous forces, today we’ve got an op of our own. I can already feel the excitement churning inside me. Seated around the table in a makeshift conference room, we go over the plan one more time.
I may not have a lot of time for Lieutenant Commander Smythe, but I do pay attention. The town we’re heading for was once slap-bang in the middle of the war zone. There’s barely a building left standing, all residents moved out long ago. But satellite images have shown activity in a broken-down warehouse that once stood proud.
While the area has been relatively quiet, trucks have been coming in under the cover of darkness and dropping off loads. Advance intel from one of the local forces is the deliveries have consisted of weapons, explosives and mines. We can’t know what they intend to be used for, but something definitely is planned. Our op is to get in and blow that damn armoury up before the Taliban have a chance to plant said mines and take a chunk of our force out.
Any tangos we find will be interrogated and hopefully provide the explanation for the build-up of what’s supposed to be an impressive-sized munitions dump. That’s the reason we’re not just launching a ballistic missile and taking the whole thing out.
“We’ll go in at 2300 hours. I’ll stay in the bird and monitor operations. You’ll rappel down, landing on the roof, here.” Smythe points to a diagram.
“Stormy. You and Pooh will make your way down to what we’ve been told is the store.” Smythe indicates it out. “That’s our target, the munitions. Pooh, you cover Stormy while he’s setting the explosives. You’ve got twenty minutes, no more, okay? This is a quick in and out.”
I raise my chin. Nothing unusual.
“You want me to do an inventory so we know what they have stored there?”
“No point,” Smythe replies. “Just blow the fucking thing up.”
I suppress rolling my eyes. If we knew exactly what they’d gathered it could provide intel as to what they’re planning. But Smythe’s got his orders—blow the darn thing up. Sometimes I wonder whether he’s even got a brain.
The man himself is continuing, “Tailor, Slice. You’ll give cover to Stormy and Pooh. Make sure they have a clear route out of there. Gun, Buster, you’re to go through floor by floor and take out or preferably capture any tangos. We want at least one alive, okay? Everyone, keep your eyes open, that building’s already unstable.”