Tears of Abraham

CHAPTER FIVE God Help Us

ALBERTA, CANADA

Soldiers in white winter-warfare fatigues descended into the valley. Henry and the rest of his unit remained silent and concealed, weapons ready while the soldiers below picked over the wreckage of the cabin and the smoking helicopters. The small arms fire ceased; apparently some of the men below had itchy trigger fingers.

Henry had no idea where Colonel Bragg was, whether he’d even made it out of the bunker, and he could make out only two positions where his teammates lay beneath snow and branches. Henry hoped the troops below would decide the airstrikes had done the job, leave without further bloodshed. He remained prone in the thick snow, motionless, alert, and cold.

Moments later he heard the faint sound of an unmanned drone. The drone, like a distant mosquito buzzing high in the air, would find the Wolves, no matter how well hidden. Thermal imaging would light the Wolves up, their bodies bright in the screens of the drone pilot who might be three thousand miles away sitting in an office beside a steaming cup ofcoffee. The operator would communicate with the men on the ground, and that would be that.

The .50-caliber opened up, red tracer rounds tearing into the clustered soldiers below. All along the ridges, the Wolves attacked, firing into the men in the kill zone. A second or two later, the first Hellfire missile slammed into the ridge, destroying the .50, then another smashed into the rear entrance to the bunker.

Henry controlled his breathing, firing slowly and deliberately. The soldiers below dove for cover and began to return fire from behind smoldering wreckage and trees.

Behind Henry, Carlos was firing continuously, swearing, shouting. Clouds of snow erupted near Henry’s head as rounds fired from across the valley sought his flesh. Henry wiggled backwards. The sound of battle was angry and close, thousands of rounds zipping through the winter air, a wind of metal.

Someone laid down a barrage of M203 fire, grenades launched from under the barrel of one of the M4 carbines favored by some of the Wolves. The grenades were small, rounded canisters with a kill radius of five meters, and sprayed hot shrapnel in all directions, wounding out to twenty or thirty meters. Smoke hung in the valley.

Even from a distance of more than two hundred meters, Henry could see blood staining the snow below, shockingly red against the white. There was no time to ponder the significance, but Henry felt it in his guts, nevertheless. The sense that what was happening was a great sin. Tragic, avoidable, and in the end, evil.

A part of him yearned to stand up and wave his arms, shouting “Go home! We’re all Americans!” But the metal tearing through the air made this idea ludicrous.

Henry switched magazines, his third. “Reloading!”

“They’re trying to flank us,” Carlos said. “Reinforcements coming along the ridge at three o’clock. Firing.” Carlos switched his sector of fire to target the incoming troops.

“Wilkins, suppress that ridge line!”

Henry turned and saw men darting from tree to tree, rock to rock. There were too many.

“We’re gonna have to pull back,” Henry said.

“No shit. To where?”

Henry fired at a muzzle flash. A heavy round smacked into the tree above him, and Henry could smell the sap from the tree. He scooted backwards, using his elbows. Snow had gotten inside his smock and thermals and was wet against his belly.

“Moving,” Carlos said. He got up and edged backwards while Henry continued to fire, shifting his aim to the troops moving along the ridgeline.

Henry scooted back further, then risked coming to a crouch and made for a boulder a few meters up slope. The small arms fire was less intense now, as the Wolves conserved ammunition and the attacking troops sought targets from behind cover.

This might just be the day I die. I’ve been in some fixes before, but none as bad as this. Outnumbered, drones hunting me, and my own guys trying to kill me. His ears were ringing and his heart hammering and his mouth tasted like a copper penny. Why do they have such a hard-on for us? We shouldn’t matter. We’re just a few guys who bugged out of the base. They hunted us all the way into Canada. Who the hell are we up against?

Henry scanned the area. Carlos was making his way toward the top of the ridge, and Henry decided that was the right idea. If they could make it over the ridge, they’d be out of the line of direct fire. The drones would still be a threat. But, so far, there had just been the initial attack. The drones probably spent their ordinance, still circling overhead, but unable to engage. But they might have friends.

Henry was cresting the ridge, struggling with deep snow and a steep slope, when the world rocked him sideways. His hearing was gone and his bones and organs and brain seemed to convulse and all of the oxygen in the valley disappeared. He pitched face-first into the snow with the shock wave as the second bomb hit.

There was smoke and fire. Trees burned and the wreckage where the cabin had been was a roiling crater, a perfect mushroom cloud forming in the valley. Henry was aware of Carlos, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him back from the slope. Henry looked at his friend, saw his mouth moving, but there was just the high-pitched ringing. From the expression on Carlos’s face, he was shouting and speaking slowly. Henry felt sluggish and punch-drunk in the way he’d felt after stepping into the ring with his first hand-to-hand combat instructor at Ranger School. He’d been wearing headgear, but after a flurry of fists and chops and one particularly nasty kick, he was swaying on his knees, gasping for breath, not entirely sure what his name was. He felt that way now.

Carlos gave up on trying to talk to him and hauled Henry to his feet. Carlos wasted no time, moving out. Henry staggered behind him, taking one last look at the wrecked valley.

The sun had slipped behind the mountains and the valley was tinged in blue, dying light, tainted by smoke and blood. The bombs, probably JDAMs, laser-guided bunker busters fired from an aircraft, had killed many of the attacking troops. Henry could make no sense of it.

He knew he probably owed Carlos his life, though. If he’d been on the other side of the ridge, the bombs would have turned his insides to jelly. If Carlos hadn’t decided to make a run for it, that would have been the end of Henry Wilkins. As it was, he knew most of his fellow teammates lay dead in the snow. He grieved as he ran and slid through the twilight and powder.

While the Wolves, like other elements of the special ops community, were trained and indeed selected for their individual ability to make decisions and act independent from the chain of command, every operation was carefully planned and rehearsed ahead of time. Before any given direct action, the men invariably went into the mission armed with contingency plans, fallback rendezvous points, and clear mission objectives. Henry had become accustomed to this structure. Even if things went sideways on an op, which they often did, there was always another move, a planned step in the face of chaos. There was at least the hope of extraction. Henry felt lost now.

He’d been cut off in enemy territory before, back when he was a Ranger humping it over the hopeless mountains of Afghanistan, waiting on a medevac that took days to come because the Rangers were actually operating in Pakistan and the politicians and brass couldn’t get their shit together. They’d pursued a high-value al-Qaeda target across a border without markers, an alien world of thin air and hate and snipers and mortars fired from hillsides miles away. No matter where you were in Afghanistan, there was always someplace higher, and the mujahideen were always there, sniping from cover. It seemed no matter how high he climbed, there were loftier peaks and crags and rocks and the enemy was there. He’d watched guided munitions smash enemy positions, seen the Spectre gunships pound hillsides, shouted with his fist in the air as a squadron of Cobra attack helicopters hammered hillsides with Hellfire missiles. But the enemy always came back. Millions of dollars in munitions up in smoke to kill a five-dollar camel that seemed to never die.

Lieutenant Michael Cox, a soft-spoken young man from Lexington, Kentucky, had taken a round to the thigh high on some unnamed mountain in Pakistan. Lieutenant Cox was the kind of man who inspired others without seeming to try. He was not given to fiery speeches and angry exhortation. He cared about his men, unwilling to take foolish risks with their lives, and he was more likely to quote Jesus or Kipling than utter a harsh word. Henry, along with the rest of his platoon, loved Lieutenant Cox. Henry was only twenty years old then, and although Cox was maybe only twenty-five, he seemed wise and calm and just. Lieutenant Cox was a venerated warrior, and Henry trusted him with his life without question.

“You are the MOST OUTSTANDING FUCKING Rangers in the battalion,” he’d tell his men. “The baddest men on the planet. Take a knee. Oh, Lord, protect my Rangers this day and watch over them. Protect them with Jesus fire and the Sword of Righteousness. Amen.”

And then Lieutenant Cox would lead them into battle. Henry had watched the lieutenant hunkered down beside a boulder, calling in fire missions from artillery units or radioing for air support while rounds peppered whatever it was he was using for cover that day, the rounds missing him as if God himself turned them aside. One of the men had dubbed Cox “Meshach” for the Old Testament man who had endured a furnace in the name of God and emerged unscathed. The name stuck.

On January 2, 2014, Lieutenant Cox, aka Meshach, bled out on a mountainside in Pakistan that God, command, and the rest of the country did not seem to care about. Lieutenant Cox went hard, fighting it to the end, issuing orders while his lips were turning blue and his face turned gray. The medic had done what he could, but it wasn’t enough. Lieutenant Cox’s eyes seemed to sink into themselves.

“Wilkins,” the lieutenant said. His voice was strained, but calm, not the voice of a dying man. He couldn’t die. But his eyes were fluttering and he was in shock because a .50-caliber round had torn through his leg and severed his femoral artery. Doc Wilson was swearing and trying to staunch the bleeding. Lieutenant Cox gripped Henry’s wrist and pulled him close, face twitching with pain and visions of whatever it was he could see in that awful moment, something urgent on his lips.

Maybe he was about to order Henry to take the men to higher ground, or to leave him until they could come back for his body, or tell his wife or momma that he loved them, or reveal the secret of the universe.

Henry would always wonder what Lieutenant Cox meant to say on January 2, but he would never know. The man died in his arms. No ring of Jesus fire that day, no hedge of protection. The last thing he’d said was “Wilkins.”

America had long since lost its fascination with that particular war. Henry and the rest of his platoon were stranded, and repeated requests for evacuation were denied. The Rangers had to climb twenty miles of hard ground back into Afghanistan before they were extracted. Throughout the trek, they were harried by enemy sniper and mortar fire. On those jagged, windy mountains, Bart lost his knee, Henry became a leader, and Jesus Christ abandoned the Rangers and Henry and especially Lieutenant Cox.

Later, Henry would admit that the lieutenant would have disagreed with Henry’s assessment of life and even his own death on that forlorn mountain. The only people he would share those thoughts with were fellow Rangers. Lieutenant Cox probably would have told Henry to keep the faith, to trust in God even though God appeared absent.

Stateside, after a long ride in a cargo plane, Henry stood with some of his fellow Rangers in a field of stone. Arlington was somber and gray, and the rows of markers stretched off into the distance over rolling hills. The grounds were manicured and somber, and many of the graves were from the first Civil War.

A preacher from Kentucky spoke kind words and a widow received a folded-up flag, and Lieutenant Cox’s eight-year-old son cried quiet tears while Henry sat next to Suzanne. Henry did not cry that day, although he wailed inside. His face was a mask, a hard shell, clean-shaved and false and strong-jawed. The honor guard fired shots with crisp efficiency and pressed uniforms and the rain drizzled cold and bleak.

Henry sent Mrs. Cox money over the next ten years. Budget cuts had reduced veterans’ benefits, making it hard for a surviving widow to get by. When Suzanne got her first big check, she graciously agreed to make an anonymous donation to Lieutenant Cox’s son’s college fund. Whatever it was, it was not enough, and could never be.

With a thought, Henry activated his night vision lenses. The twilight became clear and crisp following a moment of vertigo. The wind was a blade with a keen edge cutting his face, and the snow was up to his waist in places. Ahead, Carlos blazed a trail like an elemental force of nature. Over the ridges behind them, the sound of sporadic gunfire still echoed through the deep forest.

Henry could only hope some of his fellow Wolves made it.

KEY WEST, FLORIDA

The night appeared normal as Suzanne swept Taylor up into her arms at the dock. Bart helped Mary step off the boat, then secured the lines. Taylor wrapped her tiny arms around Suzanne’s neck, and for a moment there was peace and relief. The canal behind her home was quiet; the Christmas lights along some of the windows at homes up and down the waterway cast friendly reflections onto the dark water, and a group of teenagers in a skiff went past, waving, the sound of their engine like a lawnmower.

Ginnie stood hugging herself several feet back. “The net is down,” she said.

“I know,” Suzanne replied. “Do you want to leave? You can, if you need to. Or you can stay, whatever you like. You’re welcome here for as long as you want. Your call.”

“I don’t know,” Ginnie said, her face in the shadows and her voice full of worry. “I tried calling my folks in Miami, but there’s just a beeping sound. One of the neighbors came over earlier to check on us. And of course, there’s Bobby. He’s taking a nap on your couch.”

Suzanne led the way down the coral path lined with palms and orchids. The pool lights were on, and, it seemed, every light in the house as well, as if Ginnie had tried to banish the war with wattage.

Ginnie had been with Suzanne for about two years. The only child of affluent parents in Coral Gables, Ginnie had an artistic bent, and was taking a few years off before going back to college. She helped Suzanne take care of the home and watched Taylor for four hours every morning so that Suzanne could write. Ginnie was good-hearted, but with a sadness on her Suzanne felt she understood. The girl’s childhood had been lonely and full of great expectations.

On the leather sofa, old Bobby Ray snored. Bart padded into the great room and took a seat in the easy chair while Taylor sat on Suzanne’s lap. Ginnie sat down beside Suzanne, and Mary squeezed in beside Bobby. Mary looked vacant, a shambling, shocked woman.

“I guess for now, we should wait here,” Bart said. “We’ll go into full hurricane mode. Fill up the bathtubs with water. Start stockpiling our food. We’ll make a run into town in the morning and see what we can find out.”

“You don’t want to try for the base tonight?”

“No. Too risky. It sounds like everything is pretty calm here. But I’ll feel a whole lot better going out in the daytime.”

“All right.”

“Tonight we’ll alternate watches. I’m gonna need the code to Henry’s gun safe. You all get showered and fed, then try to catch some sleep. I’ll take the first watch, then wake you up at about four.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’ve got a lotta windows. Somebody could throw a brick through and be on top of us before we knew it. We’ need to stay vigilant. One of us will remain awake at all times.”

“Right.”

“Um,” Mary said. Everyone turned to look at her. She was sunburned, and her hair was a riot of curls.

“What is it, dear?” Bart said. The exasperation just below the surface.

“I was just wondering if you had anything?” Mary’s voice was small and thin. “Anything to help me sleep maybe?”

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up,” Suzanne said. “I’ve probably got something.”

“It’s just… My nerves, you know.”

“I know, hon. It’s all right.”

Great. Mary is in full-blown helpless mode. What have I got? Maybe some Lortab from the last time Henry was home. He had a prescription, but he never takes anything. Worst comes to worst, I bet Ginnie has some weed.

Suzanne went into the bathroom and searched for a bottle, ultimately found one beneath the sink. She handed it to Mary.

“You might want to save them,” Suzanne said. “That’s all there is.”

“Thanks,” Mary mumbled, looking at the floor.

Suzanne went back into her bathroom and stripped out of her clothing. Her bathing suit was dry, but the residue of salt made her itchy. Steaming water blasted the salt and stress from her. She washed her hair and luxuriated beneath the jets, knowing that this shower might well be her last for a long time.

She was grateful Taylor was safe, but as she thought about what might be happening around the country, a chill came into her bones in spite of the hot shower and she turned up the heat.

Hopefully, this will be over quickly. Hopefully, it’s not as bad as people are saying. Yeah, the country is divided, but America is stronger than that. We’re not some third-world hellhole where people are used to slaughter in the streets.

Even as she attempted to push away desolation with hope, ugly thoughts and images sprung unbidden to her mind. A senator banging his fist on the podium, face red and angry. A militia group with white hoods and swastikas and guns spewing hatred for the cameras. Inner city war zones after hurricanes, looting, shootings, beatings, gangs, and riots. Black-and-white images of the first Civil War with trenches filled with dead American boys, bloated, uniformed, and clutching guns fitted with bayonets.

The country, she decided, had forgotten what war is. To them, war was something to watch on the net, entertainment. A video game that didn’t affect them in the real world. War happened someplace else. She thought about generations of soft, angry people who were convinced they wanted a fight; they would bleed and regret and then die. Because soldiers are not soft. And if they are unleashed on our own soil, pitted against one another, they’ll do what they have been trained to do. They will kill.

God help us.