Nickeli slouched in his black office chair, boots kicked up on the plain wooden desk, blue eyes staring blankly at the white screen of a loading webpage on his laptop. Life around the base had reached somewhat of a cycle of boredom, and the young corpsman found himself slowly but surely running out of things to keep busy.

A meager pile of stapled reports was neatly stacked in a corner of the table, what had once been enough paperwork to keep him busy all day completed before evening chow. Blood tests, incident reports, and any number of other medical documents all completed, stapled, and waiting for him to hand them in at the aid station. After a few months of doing the same sort of thing Stateside, clerical work had quickly lost its novelty.

Checking his watch, Nick frowned. It wasn't even six yet.

Glancing to the piles of crisp white paper, he ran his hand through his cropped brown hair, fighting back a yawn. He'd been wasting time in his barracks for the better part of two hours under the pretense of working, and he could still stroll over to the medical building at any time with the documents to be commended for his efficiency. The only issue was that Lieutenant Gradler would simply drop someone else's reports in his lap and tell him to get cracking, but given the way he'd been climbing the walls as of late, more busywork might be exactly what he needed.

Turning the chair to look into the rest of the barracks behind him, his boots fell from the desk and the Private First Class began tapping a pen on the wooden counter, the dull whap it produced filling the small room as he absent-mindedly looked around and debated what to do for the remainder of the evening—and for the next day, and for the day after that…

The marine groaned as he realized how terribly monotonous things had become, half-praying for something—anything to explode. Hell, if a goat wandered into the perimeter and spontaneously combusted or something, that was fine by him. Not that he expected anything that interesting to happen. Relations with the locals were good and Farah Province was quiet, even placid, by Afghanistan's standards.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open and he turned to see Lance Corporal Ditore, fresh from duty, step inside, greeting Nickeli with a nod as he pulled off his helmet and set it atop the post of his bunk.

"Hey Aaron," the corpsman greeted first, the inane musings leaving his mind just as quickly as they'd arrived. "What's up?"

The New Yorker was one of the five other marines Nick shared the housing unit with, and about the only person on base he was close enough with to consider a friend. The two had been part of the same platoon before they'd both been transferred to different units over a year ago, and now they had met again at their latest posting.

He was about a year Nick's elder, with thick black locks that sat neatly on the top of his head and hefty shoulders that gave him the appearance of a much larger man, despite his moderate stature.

"Grub's up in the Mess," the other marine declared, brown eyes lazily surveying the room. "Spaghetti, I think." He added after a moment of thought.

The housing unit was rather spartan; simple whitewashed walls and bare cement floors, punctuated by the sterile white light cast by the two large florescent lamps overhead. The room had only several bunk beds and two small wooden desks for furniture, but despite this, it was still rather cramped. In the front left corner of the rectangular room, someone had placed a grungy chair pulled from one of the trucks, and the walls near it were adorned with an array of pictures and posters that had been scotch-taped up there by the room's other tenants.

Standing, Nick quickly closed his laptop and placed it into its case. Zipping it shut, he quickly scanned the desk for anything else of importance he needed to secure before departing. It wasn't the he was afraid anyone would walk off with it, but he didn't trust his bunkmates not to spill something on it or otherwise abuse anything left in the open, and the private considered momentarily looking for someplace to stow the stack of papers. However, when he was unable to find a convenient folder or empty drawer to put them in, he gave a shrug, figuring the room would be empty while he was gone anyhow.

Searching the room for his Berretta, he found the handgun under his bunk in the footlocker the marine kept his few personal effects in.

Aaron tugged at his collar while his companion checked his weapon, the logistics specialist still garbed in his desert camouflage utility jacket and body armor as he paced near the entrance.

Collecting his sidearm and drop holster from the crate, he turned to find Aaron leaning on the doorframe waiting on him. With a nod to his fellow marine, the two departed.

Stepping into the dull evening light behind his companion, Private Vandas glanced around the dirt courtyard of firebase Paladin, looking for any faces he recognized.

The barracks, like all the other buildings in the small fire support base, was a narrow, single-story structure formatted much like a motel with numerous separate rooms leading out on to a small, covered concrete walkway.

Combat Outpost Paladin was a small, unremarkable base of operations in the mountainous northwestern region of Afghanistan and only one of two western military installations in the province; more of a supply center than a combat installation.

Nick peered over the wall of stacked Hesco bastions that formed the base's perimeter at the mountain behind it, shadows already present to cloak the peak's contours and turn the rocky incline into a massive black pane on the horizon. The sun was a brilliant orange on the rose background of the evening sky, casting a warm but quickly fading glow over the base. He'd found Paladin to be a quiet posting—the sector had been calm even before the Marines had arrived, and there was little for him to do but paperwork.

"You know," Aaron offered, drawing the private's attention. "For all this sitting around you do, you could transfer to a ship. The food would be better."

Nick didn't answer immediately, his face wrinkling thoughtfully.

While the young marine would admit this was the more boring of his two deployments to Afghanistan, part of him didn't mind. As a corpsman, there were worse things than getting up every morning to warm chow and the occasional hot shower, and while the mountains meant the outpost didn't have some of the same amenities that their urban counterparts enjoyed; it seemed a small price to pay. If he kept busy crunching numbers for medicine dosages and administrative work, it was because they weren't being attacked on a daily basis.

However, that boredom just didn't translate into switching to the 'Blue' side of the Navy, and the medic wasn't sure it was just the prospect of cramped quarters and even less action that didn't appeal to him.

"Maybe, but at my rank? Hell, I'd scrub bedpans all day."

The lance corporal chuckled as Nickeli continued.

"Or, I could just swap over to Logistics, they'll take anybody." The brown-haired marine mocked, playfully elbowing his companion in the side. "I even hear they find the ugliest one and put him in charge."

The marine laughed again, shaking his head with a grin. "If Sugar Daddy hears you say that you're never going to get a piece of kit newer than Desert Storm."

The corpsman snorted and nodded his agreement.

Despite how much of a pain in the ass he could be, Aaron was the only person at Paladin that Nick reliably hung out with. They argued and antagonized each other constantly and while they might manage to thoroughly piss one another off occasionally, they generally stayed on good terms. It was one of those weird friendships between platoonmates that had already spent a combat tour living out of each other's back pockets.

After the momentary silence, Aaron abruptly turned to his companion as they walked. "Your birthday's coming up, ain't it?"

The corpsman nodded, though there was a hint of suspicion in his voice. "It's a couple months off, yeah."

"Any idea what you're going to do?"

Nick gave a shrug as he answered, sounding disinterested. "I don't know, man," It was the third time the lance corporal asked that week—as if he'd given it any further consideration—but since he was boring himself to death in the aid station every day, he understood that his companion had become equally tired of his duties as well. "Ask Rhodes for a five day pass and go to Kandahar?"

For a moment, the two again walked in silence as they neared the cluster of buildings containing the command center and the mess building. However, the raven haired marine scratched his chin with his thumb thoughtfully and broke the silence his counterpart had hoped would last.

"You're turning what—nineteen?"

"Twenty-two." The marine groaned.

"Yeah. So I figure hop in the back of a supply truck to Kabul and see if we can't get you laid." The lance corporal proposed enthusiastically and grinned at him.

The private glared, but was drawn away as a voice rose from ahead of them.

"Hey, Doc!"

Surveying ahead, the corpsman spotted someone ahead waving slowly in his direction. Raising a hand in acknowledgement, it took him a moment to recognize the man as one of the base's postal clerks.

Glancing to Aaron who'd been watching quietly, he nodded in the direction of the clerk. "I'm going to see what's up."

The lance corporal gave an affirmative grunt and split off, heading for the mess building.

As he neared, the clerk ducked into the outpost's tiny mail office and Nickeli followed, catching the screen door as it swung back at him.

Stepping inside, he was immediately presented with the mail clerk's back as he awkwardly reached over the tall wooden desk and grabbed a few things on the other side.

Straightening himself, the marine produced two items, a clipboard and a box.

"Vandas, Nickeli T., serial: three-seven-zero-five-eight-two?"

"Yep."

The man suddenly turned and dropped the box in Nick's hands then thrust the clipboard to him, offering a pen he'd pulled from his front packet.

Jotting down his signature on the receipt, he returned the small plastic pen and turned his attention to the package.

It was a plain, utilitarian brown cardboard box a little smaller than the clipboard he'd been given, and sealed with clear packaging tape. Over the seam was a black and white shipping label, and suspicion grew in Nickeli as he looked it over in detail.

His name wasn't actually on it; instead the tag bore his service number and a number of barcodes. There was no postage on the box, and the label gave no hints as to its sender.

"Log says it came from a distribution center on the West Coast." Schwan stated plainly, glancing at a pink shipping manifest on the desk. "You have family around there?"

The other marine shook his head. "No, not really." He replied as he studied the package carefully balanced on one palm.

He gave a grunt. He hadn't been expecting any mail, but he suppose it was a welcome surprise.

Nodding his thanks, Nickeli departed, tucking the box under his arm and heading to the mess.

It wasn't long before Nick found himself in the dinner queue; the still unopened box tucked awkwardly under one arm as he filed along with his tray held in both hands. It had earned him a few curious glances, but no one had made any comments. No doubt a few of his platoonmates would hear about it and stop by later, hoping he'd been sent chew or something else of interest.

The private shuffled a bit as the line progressed, looking through the glass of the serving station while the kitchen personnel worked efficiently on the other side. Dinner was indeed spaghetti, and while the marine typically had a ravenous appetite, he took a somewhat meager helping of the pasta and a single piece of garlic toast.

He took his small meal to where Aaron had sat down and set his tray down across the table from him.

"You feelin' alright?" The lance corporal asked with a note of concern, a stray noodle still dangling from between his slips.

Nickeli rolled his shoulders in response, sitting down and setting the box that had been cutting into his armpit next to his tray. Aaron's plate was piled high with spaghetti and toast, and also held a diet coke and small bag of chips he'd purchased from the outpost's tiny PX.

The medic just wasn't as hungry as usual, not least because he was a little preoccupied. In truth, the arrival of a package was more than a little confusing. It just got stranger the more thought he gave it. He hadn't ordered anything, and the simple truth was that the young corpsman didn't receive a great deal of mail. A magazine might find its way through the military postal service on occasion, but other than that there weren't many people sending him stuff.

The few correspondences he'd had with old buddies in the States or at different bases during the early parts of his deployment had died out or become electronic, and his family—well, his family wouldn't be sending him anything.

After a few minutes of silence between the two, Aaron finally spoke.

"Okay, what's in the box?"

Nick glanced up from where he'd been inattentively starting to eat to see Ditore pointing his fork at the object, a drop of tomato sauce falling from the utensil to create a red stain on the table.

"Uh, I don't know," he admitted, and went back to eating his supper.

"And?"

The corpsman looked up from his meal, his brow cocked in unspoken questioning at the inpatient lance corporal. Much to the irritation of his companion, he gave another one of his infamous shrugs and went on eating.

Ditore gave a sigh, then reached across the table and picked up the parcel.

The private watched quietly as he pulled at the tape along its edge, eventually wadding it up to and tossing the sticky mass of plastic at the corpsman, who continued to look unimpressed as it bounced off his arm and fell to the floor.

Setting the package down, he pulled back the two cardboard flaps of the box.

Inside, a small black device rested imbedded in white styrofoam packing blocks. Reaching inside the box, Aaron unceremoniously pulled the object from its packaging and held it up to examine.

It was a touchscreen phone, with no decoration or writing in its black case, giving no indication to its brand or model. Thumbing the silver power button, the logistics specialist frowned. "Dead battery."

Taking the device from his friend, Nickeli tried the power and giving his companion a doubtful glance, turning his hand to Aaron to show a glowing welcome message. Manipulating the touch screen for a moment more, the marine was prompted for a password. Keying in the first four numbers that came to mind, the device responded with an error message and, seeing he was making little headway, Nick dropped the phone into one of his pockets, resolving to look through the box for a manual later.

Glancing at his empty tray, he stood and set the box next to his plate and silverware.

"I've got some stuff to finish in the barracks," he explained to Ditore who still had half his meal before him. His friend said nothing, but gave a nod as he brought his soft drink to his lips.

Dumping his plate and tray on the way out, Nick dodged the next wave of hungry marines as they entered the mess and squeezed past them to exit into the courtyard.

Night had fallen quickly as it always did in the mountains, and the brilliant sunset that soaked the base in crimson light was quickly fading to usher the moon and stars into the sky.

Crossing the lot, the corpsman cast a disinterested looked around the base, returning a small wave thrown by a sentry as he chatted with several others near a parked MRAP, their voices lost to the soft putter putter of the idling guntruck's engine.

However, as he got nearer to his quarters, Nickeli became aware of a shadow following close behind him.

Glancing over his shoulder, the private found that he was indeed being followed and turned to address his unannounced companion. "What'd you want, Doc?"

Doc gave no response, the young pup instead cocking his head inquisitively at the corpsman, tail whipping side-to-side with enthusiasm.

The dog had been one of the many strays from the villages in the valley below the base, it had followed one of the patrols back to Paladin, likely enticed by the bits of food passing marines occasionally tossed. Technically, strays weren't supposed to be permitted on base, but nobody really had to heart to shoo the pup, and Doc had made itself a home around the outpost, sleeping under parked trucks during the bustle of the day and exploring the grounds when it quieted down in the evenings.

It had been named 'Doc' after an incident a few weeks after Nickeli had arrived on-post. The private had been caught napping outside the barracks in a folding chair, and when the pup came across this, it decided the snoozing marine's boots looked like a comfortable place lay down.

When passing enlisted man woke the corpsman with a jeer, the groggy medic retorted sarcastically that he had more in common, "with the damn dog" than the rest of the outpost's garrison, and some of the other marines had taken to calling the dog by his nickname.

Now the small animal sat near his feet, hazel eyes watching Nickeli expectantly. The young man stooped for a moment, scratching Doc behind the ears.

Righting himself, he stepped around the dog as it continued to dance near his feet, nimbly dodging the private's heavy combat boots as the mutt continued to vie for his attention; the prospective payoff of something tasty should he get it.

Entering his barracks, Nickeli tossed the empty box to the side as he headed for his workstation. With a heavyhearted sigh, the corpsman examined the area and picked up several scattered pieces of paper, silently cursing as he did so. Gathering what remained of his reports, Nick brought one of the ruined documents to eyelevel and groaned. "Damnit, Lake…"

The hours of work written neatly on the treatment plan had been destroyed, a long series of black lines marring several rows of text. Below that, "1. Fuck Bitches 2. ? 3. Profit" Had been scrawled in barely legible black marker in what could only be his bunkmate's handwriting.

Glancing around the room as if he suspected Craig might still be hiding nearby, the marine wadded up the piece of paper and threw it in the direction of small waste bin that sat near the door.

The medic scratched head in pondering, this didn't have anything to do with the incident last month, did it? Nick hadn't had anything to do with that, at least, not as far as Lake knew—besides, anyone on base could've gotten their hands on a dozen latex gloves, a cell phone, and four liters of JP-8.

After a moment of fruitless thinking, the medic discarded the thought and pulled a chair up to the desk and set to work once again.

The efficiency of Private Lake's laziness was borderline admirable. While Nick's roommate hadn't cared enough to cross out every line he'd written or tear up all the reports he'd typed, he'd been very selective about what documents he'd vandalized.

Dosage charts, treatment notes, and anything else handwritten had apparently bore the brunt of the attack—judging by the 'confetti' that littered the floor and desk surface. Nickeli sat with a frown, staring down at a fresh manuscript as he attempted to recall a detail from one of his lost reports.

With a sharp sigh, he tossed his pen next to his laptop and set both his elbows down on the desk, either palm against his temples as his gaze bore into the piece of paper.

In a very brief window of time, he'd gone from having a stack of reports waiting to be turned in the following morning, to having several hours of work to recreate before he retired to his bunk for the night.

Checking his watch, the private found that nearly two hours had already passed.

The corpsman rose from the chair with a groan as his back protested movement after sitting for so long. Stretching, Nick looked around the again empty barracks.

Aaron and a few others had stopped in over the course of the evening to speak to him for a few minutes or to grab something, but they had all eventually disappeared to more lively sections of the base.

Craig hadn't turned up, which was probably wise given the mood he'd put his bunkmate in. But, unless he intended to sleep in one of the trucks, he'd have to face the corpsman before the end of the night.

If Nickeli hadn't been paying any more attention, he might not have noticed when his pocket vibrated. Digging one hand into his pocket he—with no small amount of surprise—pulled out the phone he'd received only hours earlier and realized he was getting a call.

Tapping the Accept button on the touch screen, he brought the device to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Nickeli Vandas?" A male voice questioned flatly, an odd buzzing in the background.

"Yes, who is this?"

With a click the line died and the private pulled the device from his cheek, the reflective glass screen showing only the confused expression on his face.

He let the phone hang at his hip, glancing around the barracks as he was left to ponder the evening. Sitting back down, he laid the phone next to his laptop and went back to work.

Firebase Paladin sat silently in the night, the blanket of deep violet that cloaked the installation broken by the orange glow that spilled through windows and open doors. In the courtyard, a trio of sentries was huddled near a parked guntruck.

Nearby, a group of marines sat on a covered cement platform near the vehicle shed, between them a piece of plywood situated precariously on several small crates to create an impromptu table.

"Fold," The man across from Aaron spat, throwing his cards on the table. "I swear to God, you guys're giving me bad hands on purpose."

The marine looked around the group accusingly, and his eyes lingered particularly long on the corporal with the deck of cards next to him. There was a collective groan amongst them, and Aaron simply went back to his cards.

"Relax, Lake." The eldest among them—a thirty-something staff sergeant—replied calmly as he glanced to the corporal, signaling for him to resume.

The non-commissioned officer obeyed, meticulously shuffling the deck then laying down the next two cards.

The game continued quietly, someone occasionally commenting on a bad hand or remarking that they had other things they should attend to, but staying nonetheless.

Then, the silence was broken by a deep, concussive thump and everyone looked around before glancing unsurely to each other.

The sound rang out again, the crisp night air also carrying the clatter of metal-on-metal, and Staff Sergeant Brodie stood abruptly, his eyes fixed in the direction of the base's 81mm mortar battery.

He quickly scooped up his M4 carbine from where it leaned against a nearby support pillar and he murmured a question to the others. "Who the fuck is fir—"

The first explosion was bone-rattlingly close, and the sheer, deafening sound of the detonation sent Aaron tumbling backward over the crate he was sitting on. For a brief second, the ringing in his ears drown-out the cries of alarm of his comrades and the only indication of the following salvo of explosions was the sensation of the concussions resonating in his chest, loaning the situation a peculiar sense of surrealism as the lance corporal lie staring numbly at the stars above him.

However, he was quickly pulled back into awareness as a silhouette appeared over him and took hold of him by the vest, lifting him off the ground and setting him on his boots.

The stranger's hands still clamped around his collar, the man closed the distance between Aaron's face and his to reveal himself to be Brodie.

Ditore's gaze drifted from the expression of his friend, looking briefly at the smoking crater where a shell had landed frighteningly close then at the shadowy figures of other marines racing by, shouting as they went.

"Hey- hey, you with me, man?" Brodie yelled into his face, the staff sergeant's eyes clearly searching Aaron's for some indication of cognition. The lance corporal nodded fervently, though the words were scarcely audible against the piercing ringing invading his senses. By chance, the supply officer spotted his companion's bloddied, the sleeve of his utility jacket shredded. Meeting the man's eye once again, Aaron said nothing, though is expression conveyed his concern.

"It's fine," the other marine reassured him, picking up a rifle from where it sat nearby and pressing it into the corporal's chest for him to take. "C'mon."

Nick flinched involuntarily as several incoming rounds whizzed by, noisily ricocheting off the armored body of the MRAP he was crouched behind or landing in the dirt near him.

"Keep the light steady," the corpsman instructed over the deep clatter of heavy machine gun fire, looking up to the horrified face of the marine holding the flashlight, the man's expression of mix of helplessness and fear.

Regardless, the small cone of light continued to shake as it illuminated the casualty at his feet. "Get the trauma kit out of the truck." Nickeli said to his aide, the order almost swallowed by the sound of the vehicle's turret spewing lead toward the hills. The young mechanic, Darrow, obeyed, one hand shooting into the back of the transport while the other tried with moderate success to keep the flashlight focused on the downed sentry.

The private had rushed from the barracks with nothing but his sidearm and knife, and had been forced to work with whatever medical supplies he could find. The fact he'd left his body armor hanging on his bed was a secondary concern at the moment. The medic lifted his palm away from the wound to examine it in the light and was immediately met by the grisly sight of the sentry's wound.

The marine had been shot in the neck, though by some stroke of luck the round had passed cleanly through without hitting bone or breeching his airway. Still, there was the very real risk of his nicked carotid artery hemorrhaging and killing him if the bleeding couldn't be quickly brought under control.

Feeling around blindly in the back of the humvee, the marine holding the light finally felt cloth. "I've got it!" He declared, extracting a drab green package with reflective white tape on the cover to form a small cross.

Nickeli's light disappeared momentarily as his companion open the bundle and spread it out on the ground, neat rows of medical dressings and sterile plastic packaging glistening slightly in the light.

"Good, now find a pad of combat dressing and fold it over on itself." The medic instructed as he reapplied pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding.

The man obeyed, extracting a field dressing and tore open the plastic casing before offering it to the private who quickly placed it over the wound, freeing one of his hands.

The wounded man groaned weakly, and the corpsman looked from his pale face to his assistant. Wiping one bloody palm on his sleeve, he beckoned for the flashlight.

Receiving it, he turned its beam on the medical kit. "Find a dose of morphine, and stick it in his thigh."

The marine bobbed his head in acknowledgement, pulling a small tube from the bundle and pulling the small plastic cap off the top of it to reveal a two-inch needle.

"Wh-What about his pants?" Darrow asked hesitantly, drawing a sharp frown from Nick. As much as he'd preferred to be working with another corpsman, he needed another set of hands at the moment, whoever's they may be.

"Don't worry about his pants—just stick it into his leg and push the release on the end of it."

The marine complied somewhat hesitantly then tossed the empty injector aside, looking to the corpsman for farther instructions.

"Go back into the kit and find a pressure bandage; we need to dress this wound." He stated flatly, returning the flashlight.

The rifleman dug into the package again, thumbing through each pouch hastily as enemy fire continued to rain down.

Nickeli watched from where he sat over the casualty, but was suddenly blinded as warm blood splattered across the side of his face and he recoiled, and a surge of adrenaline sending his heart thumping against the inside of his chest.

His free hand shot to his eye, smearing blood across the side of his face in the shape of a palm and obscuring his vision further. Wiping the viscous fluid off his face with his wrist, the numbness of the endorphin rush subsided enough for the private to realize he was unwounded.

"Damnit, I'm hit." A voice off to the corpsman's left admitted, and Nick could hear that he spoke through gritted teeth.

Looking in that direction, he saw through the open door that the marine manning the M2 .50 caliber machine gun was sitting oddly inside the Cougar's turret. A moment more of examination revealed that he'd been hit in the thigh, a round having punctured the armored frame of the vehicle and caught him just above the knee, subsequently splattering blood in the direction of the other marines. It didn't look too serious, but he'd still need medical attention.

Nickeli glanced from the gunner to the casualty with concern, pondering how to treat them both. Seeing the conflicted medic, the marine in the turret shook his head and took hold of the machine gun once again, loosing tracer rounds and expletives into the darkness.

Glancing around the chaos of the night as it unfolded around him, the private spotted his assistant still struggling with the medical equipment.

"Darrow, a pressure wrap!"

"Th-There's nothing here," the rifleman stuttered, the beam from his flashlight racing over the pouch as he continued to flip open pouches and thumb through pockets.

"Here, swap me," Nick ordered, scooting sideways to allow some space for the other man. The two quickly exchanged places, Darrow being careful to keep pressure on the bandage that had been hastily applied to the wounded trooper's neck as the corpsman took the flashlight.

Still crouched behind the vehicle, the medic shuffled to the kit and began searching it, carefully patting down each pocket.

The corpsman carried himself with an air of exactness, and even with enemy fire landing only feet away his actions were measured and his hands steady. It was the kind of confidence born through experience and training, both of which Nickeli had in abundance. Was he afraid of being shot? Absolutely, but right now, the wounded man in front of him demanded his full attention.

Cursing, the marine glanced up from the bundle of medical supplies near his knees. He couldn't find a compression wrap or a hemostat dressing to work as a substitute, and he cast a concerned look back toward Darrow and the wounded marine.

"Darrow," Nick called the man he'd met only a few minutes ago and the marine looked up sharply. "I need to get supplies from the infirmary, keep pressure on that dressing and keep him still. I'll be right back."

To the man's credit, he simply nodded in spite of the expression of dawning horror that was creeping across his face and he went back to the wounded sentry as Nickeli crept toward the back of the stationary vehicle.

Clicking the off the flashlight, he shoved the black metal cylinder into his holster that his sidearm had occupied a moment before. It made for an awkward fit, but it would have to work the twenty-one year old decided as he fixed his grasp on his pistol, the weapon made slippery by the blood that coated his hands.

He peered from cover, waiting for a break in the fire. The medical building was only a few dozen meters away, but it may as well have been a kilometer. He would be very exposed, and with only his olive green T-shirt to protect him during his sprint, the mortar and small arms fire would be less than merciful to Nickeli should their paths cross.

Gazing toward the mountains, Nick watched the flickering pinpricks of enemy gunfire, and cursed himself for having left his rifle in a dozen pieces on his book after he'd gotten part of the way through cleaning it. It was tempting to find another weapon to return fire it, but he quickly reminded him that he had other priorities.

"Damnit," Vandas swore as he realized no break in the fire was coming. He turned to the guntruck's gunner. "Hey, cover me!"

The man in the turret said nothing, his reply the heavy drumming of the machine gun as he picked up his rate of fire.

All around, the air was filled with streams of glowing red tracers that arched toward the hills like swarms of angry fireflies. Nickeli leapt from cover under the protective wall of fire and dashed toward the aid station.

Despite the enemy rounds that continued to whiz by and snap in the dirt near his boots, the corpsman reached the shack breathless, but unharmed. Throwing the door open, he rushed into the building. The single-room structure was a mess; papers and writing utensils scattered across the floor by his fellow corpsmen as they'd rushed out into the conflict and holes punched in the structure's thin walls by the firefight outside. Grabbing the nearest medical pack, Nick hastily rifled through the bag, grabbing a few other items from cabinets and shelves around the room. Shoving them into the pack, he struggled momentarily with one of the zippers before throwing the straps of the rucksack over his shoulders and returning to the door.

Suddenly, as his foot met soil as he dashed from the infirmary, he felt a wave of heat creep down his back and was carried forward as it surged past him like a massive gust of wind as the medical building exploded in a brilliant orange and brown behind him.

The first thing to reunite with the ground was Nickeli's forehead, quickly followed by the rest of his body as the air was pushed from his lungs. Ears ringing and face still buried in the brunette soil, the dazed private found he couldn't muster the strength to pick himself up as the world began to retreat into darkness.

The corpsman groaned, the noise sounding distant and hollow in his ringing ears. His chest burned, and the taste of blood registered in his mouth.

Fuck, was this what dying felt like? What a shit thing to do.

On the other side of the base Aaron pressed himself deeper into the shadow of a Jersey barrier as rounds continued to snap as they cut through the air overhead and took small pieces out of his refuge, spraying cement dust in every direction.

The lance corporal's knuckles whitened against the grip of his M4, the carbine the only weapon available to him in the chaos of the attack. Mentally counting the number of rounds remaining in his lone magazine, he waited for a break in the fire. He and a number of other marines had found themselves pinned down in the large clearing on the far side of the mess hall, forced to find cover near the front gate.

Ditore swore, flinching as another incoming round impacted the wall to his back and blasted broken cement fragments into his face. In truth, he should've been counting his blessings—a handful of the other men who'd rushed out from their dinners or bunks didn't have the advantage of body armor, and he was silently thankful he'd neglected to take it off half-an-hour ago.

From a distant part of a the outpost came the heavy report of a mortar and an illumination round streak across the sky, bathing the hills in harsh yellow-white light. The lance corporal gave a grin, allowing himself some satisfaction in the knowledge that the base had dug its heels into the rocky ground and was finally pushing back in earnest after nearly ten minutes of confused fighting.

Now, with more marine lead in the air than that of the enemy, it became a matter of inevitability. The insurgents would either withdraw under the intense fire of the combat outpost's heavy ordinance, or be crushed by the imminent arrival of the friendly air support that hung over the installation's shoulder like a vengeful guardian.

That was to assume they were insurgents, of course. Without night gear, he hadn't seen anything of the enemy and he—along with most of the other marines—were firing at muzzle flashes.

Suddenly, Aaron felt the concrete behind him rumble and heard the bellowing sound of a diesel engine approaching. From his right the massive silhouette of a Light Assault Vehicle appeared, the imposing six-wheeled transport jerking to a halt between the lance corporal and the incoming fire.

Orienting its gun toward the enemy, the armored vehicle's punishing autocannon spoke—erasing an enemy position on the hillside. Behind it, a trio of MRAPs lurched to a halt and infantry marines poured out.

At the moment, it seemed like the entirety of Combat Outpost Paladin breathed a sigh of relief—Ditore included. The swift return of the long-range patrol from the valley below promised that the installation would survive to see the light of a new day, no matter how the odds had been stacked against them before.

Moving alongside the LAV, a fireteam appeared and sought cover near their rolling shield, firing on the slope as they did so. Tapping one on the shoulder as the rifleman crouched into cover next to him, the supply specialist indicated his magazine with a frustrated gesture, his ears ringing from the clamor of the battle around them. The lance corporal's newfound comrade understood, and he was quickly provided two fresh mags.

Taking a moment to exchange magazines, the marine then brought his weapon to his shoulder and rejoined the fray.

Over the rattle of his carbine, he heard the marine next to him shout. Releasing the compressed trigger, he was suddenly aware of the roaring buzz of a helicopter's blades cutting through the night air in the distance.

"Radio! I need a radio, goddamnit!" A voice rose above the others.

Looking over his shoulder to the desperate call, Aaron spotted Captain Rhodes—the installation's ranking officer—half-crawling over one of the earthen-filled barriers to extend a grasping hand.

It took a moment for the revelation to dawn upon him that the commander was beckoning to him for a handheld radio. His hand first distinctively shot to his shoulder where a small black combat transmitter usually resided. However, when he felt only the burlap-like texture of his Kevlar, he returned the Captain's gaze—his expression filled with confusion and questioning.

However feeling a tap on his shoulder, his attention snapped right and he found that a radio had been pressed against his arm. Following the gloved hand holding the end of it, he looked to the shadowy face of the marine, two white orbs staring at him with impatient expectance.

Aaron's expression went from inquisitive, to confused, and finally to alarmed as he made the connection. Recover from his momentary lapse of thought, he took the device and quickly tossed it to the waiting Captain who pushed himself off the barrier and brought the transmitter to his lips.

"Air, this Paladin Actual. We're taking fire from the ridgelines to our north and east, requesting you suppress those positions. IR strobe marks friendlies, be advised danger close, over."

"Paladin Actual this Talon Two," Aaron heard the reply from the newly arrived aircraft through the radio of a nearby marine, the loud whine of the engine audible in the background. "Roger your last, confirm danger close."

High above the conflict, the small Army scout helicopter crested one of the ridges that revealed the valley beyond. The aviator scanned the darkness, his night vision equipment turning the world a murky jade.

"Those guys are getting lit up," he commented, and he saw his copilot bob his head in agreement.

In the distance, the combat outpost was a mass of flickering pricks of light, each weapon and tracer round a glowing dot in the night. In the heart of it, an infrared strobe flashed steadily.

"We've got firing positions overlooking the base," the other aviator observed, operating the thermal camera on the helicopter's nose.

Peer down at the display near his right knee, the man at the controls gave his acknowledgement as he found the small signature along the crest of the ridge. The entire mountain side was a mass of white-hot blurs on his thermal scope, the small glowing objects appearing and disappearing amongst the cold rocks as they received and returned fire.

The pilot changed his radio channel and adjusted the small microphone that sat on a metal boom near his mouth. "Talon Two to Havoc, we've been cleared hot by forward observer. Starting our run."

"Havoc copies all. Good hunting."

The Kiowa pitched forward, its nose lowering as it dropped nearly a hundred feet and fixed its sights on the rocky peak. The pilot compressed the trigger and the minigun mounted on one of the helicopter's stubby wings roared, sending a band of bright tracer fire cutting through the night. The aviator noted with some satisfaction how the tiny thermal signatures on the hillside scattered.

"Switching to rockets." The pilot stated to his colleague calmly as his thumb twitched minutely on the joystick. Tapping the trigger lightly two more times, the night was filled with the piercing howl of two rockets as they raced through the dark followed by bright orange tails. The projectiles buried themselves in the mountainside and seemed to carry part of the landscape with them as they exploded.

Noticing the altimeter growing slim, the Army aviator eased the flight controls back, leveling the aircraft from its dive and he pushed on one of the foot pedals, gently rolling the OH-58 to circle and make another run.

Without warning, the helicopter jerked hard to the left. In the cockpit panels suddenly went black and only those systems on separate battery reserves like the radio and night operations equipment continued to work, though the pilot's vision momentarily scrambled as the optics in his helmet went out of focus before correcting themselves.

"We just lost main rotor power." The copilot relayed over the craft's internal channel as he pulled the joy stick back into his chest and the aircraft began to lose altitude.

"Restart main powerplant," The pilot ordered, throttling the struggling engine as the base below grew larger. The engine awoke and strained to keep the craft in the air as the various panels and indicators powered-up, bombarding the two aviators with flashing emergency lights and the shrill cry of altitude and engine alarms. Hauling the control stick to his chest, the pilot pulled the helicopter's nose up, struggling to begin a late auto-rotation in a bid to set them down.

But it was too much for the rotor-wing's single engine, and the pilot made a quick call across the radio's emergency frequency. "Havoc, Havoc—Talon Two is hit, and going down. Grid zero-two-eight, zero-four-one, keypad three."

There was no grace to the Kiowa's descent—it simply fell from the sky like a stone, its rotors still beating the air in a futile bid to stay aloft.

It came to earth fifty meters outside the perimeter, the craft's small landing skids instantly buckling under the force of the impact and smashing the nose of the fuselage into the ground. The rotors shattered like glass as they spun against the rocky terrain, throwing segments of broken steel in a lethal torrent of flying metal.

It bounced a short distance before coming down to a symphony of shattering glass and the moaning of steel being pushed to the breaking point. For a brief moment, the screeching of the airframe being torn apart by the ground was the only thing that could be heard in the valley before it came to a halt with an air of finality about it, leaving the night in an eerie silence as the gunfire abruptly ceased on both sides.