A/N: I hope there's still some Numb3rs fans out there... I sure do miss this show. :(
This story is 100% AU, but does make a subtle reference to an episode in season 4.
The sound of the air raid sirens were so deeply ingrained in his mind that when they went off for the third time that week, he was out of his bunk, into his boots, and halfway down the hall of his barracks before he was even fully awake and aware of what was happening.
He'd grabbed his pencil and notebook, too. It was a bright red, wire-bound, five hundred sheet (well, less so since he'd ripped some pages out for letters) college-ruled notebook that his brother had given him before he had to leave for basic training. At first, it had been primarily for letters, since he'd been too busy during basic training to use it for anything else. But now that he was actually overseas, it had become pretty much his only lifeline to his life before the war began; a journal for writing down what was going down in the present and a scrapbook for jotting down memories of the past.
Even in the midst of the wailing cacophony and widespread panic, everyone's military training was in full swing. No mad dashes for the bomb shelters; while everyone was hurrying for shelter as quickly as possible, there was still an amount of orderliness to everyone's rush. No shoving, no stampedes, and amazingly, everyone kept more or less in line as they headed down the stairs into the shelter.
One of the lieutenants ushering the soldiers into the shelter thrust an M16 at him, which he grabbed without thinking about it. He gave the rifle a look of distaste. It wasn't that he was against using it when it was necessary; it was the fact that his excellent marksmanship skills were what got him sent overseas in the first place.
As he descended into the semi-darkness, he heard distant explosions. Picking the furthest corner he could find that was still lit up, he settled down, opened the notebook, and began writing...
Dear Dad,
It's been a rough week out here. Right now, it's somewhere around midnight (local time, of course) and we're in the bomb shelters again. This is the third air raid we've had this week. I don't like this. You know me, Dad; I hate just sitting around letting someone else take control of the situation. But then again, you already knew that. That's why I started working for the FBI.
One explosion hit very close, seeming almost directly overhead. He jerked his head up as bits of dust and small debris fell from the ceiling onto the notebook. Not seeing any obvious damage above him, he brushed the dust off the paper and continued writing.
But even when I'm actually on the field, I'm not entirely in control. I'll do my duty to my country, of course, but it feels like I'm more machine than man. When I'm told to do something, I have to do it, complete with a "Yes, sir", "Hooah" and "God bless America". No room for argument, is there?
You know, war is a much different experience than being on crime scenes. There's still violence, still bloodshed, and still death. But it's different somehow. There's more of it, for one thing, and there's nothing I can do to stop it, for another. In fact... in retrospect, I'm really helping contribute to it, and that's hard to deal with. I know this is probably painful for you to have to read – and I apologize for that – but you're the only one I can talk to about it.
He noticed someone sit down next to him, one of his bunkmates. "Johnson," he acknowledged with a nod of greeting.
"Eppes," Johnson returned, glancing at the notebook. "Is that another letter to your dad?"
He didn't answer vocally, but gave a short nod as he continued writing. Johnson took the hint and didn't say anything else.
There are so many memories I have to deal with. That day when I received my draft notice was especially difficult. I had no idea I was still old enough (well, young enough) to be drafted. Then when I actually had to leave Los Angeles... he probably doesn't realize this (so don't tell him) but when I saw my brother weeping openly as the bus drove off, it was the most agonizing thing about this whole war thing. Sure, I'd seen him upset (you remember how he gets, all quiet and sullen, pretending everything's fine while you can still see the pain in those brown eyes of his), but watching him – and you – so obviously crushed that I was being sent who-knows-where made me NOT want to be doing this even more.
Naturally, that doesn't change anything – I'll still serve my country. But I'm still scared. I know; what a surprise that I'm actually admitting that! Of course, being stationed out here in the Stans is enough to scare the living hell out of anyone (A little note about that term, which I've mentioned a couple of times in previous letters. We have no idea where exactly we are, just that it's somewhere in the Middle East. To quote one of my bunkmates, we're in "Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan – one of those '-stans'!" Thus, the Stans).
An even louder explosion drew his attention once again. This time, it was closer to the entrance of the shelter. Looking toward the door, he saw through the tiny window a reddish glow permeating inky black smoke.
Things are getting really bad right now, and I don't want to scare you but it's not looking too good (fire rarely is). I just want you to know that I love you, and I'm sorry for all the pain I put you and Mom through growing up. Even as an adult, I'm sure I've put you through a lot of misery (unintentionally, of course) and I apologize for that too.
Through the heavy doors, gunshots erupted. Automatically, he clutched his M16, juggling it as he rushed to finish the letter.
Chances are, we'll make it through this (we've been lucky thus far; nobody on my platoon's been killed or seriously injured), but keep praying for us. I love you.
Another loud blast erupted, this time from a grenade. The door exploded away, showering everyone inside the shelter with hot debris. Knowing that time had now officially run out, he quickly scribbled his signature:
Your son,
Charlie
As the enemy soldiers burst into the shelter with their guns blazing, Charlie Eppes shoved his emotions aside, lifted his M16, and returned fire.