Beneath The Sands, The Streets

by Deathmaster98

How does a large, modern formation of the US Army descend into madness and self-destruction? it takes the perfect storm. Prequel to The Line and spiritual companion/prequel to Zulu Squad: No Tsukaima and its spin-offs.

Author Note:

This is a story that has been floating around in my head in one form or another for quite some time now. When I first played Spec Ops: The Line about a year after it came out, I was absolutely blown away by it – by the deconstruction of the "rah-rah America saves the day" FPS genre, of course, but also by its captivating setting and worldbuilding. The idea of at large, modern unit of the US Army going rogue and tearing itself apart whilst cut off from the outside world stuck with me. Having served in the Army myself and explored The Line's source material in the intervening years, as well as contributed to others' works set in the same universe, the beginnings of a story began to take shape in my mind. Beneath The Sands, The Streets is the result, my effort to tell the story of the 33rd's descent into madness and damnation in the months leading up to the events of SO:TL. I sincerely hope you all enjoy it.

Big thanks to my girlfriend for tolerating and indulging my musings and helping with editing and proofreading, and to my friend and collaborator No Country For Old Men78, without whose generous assistance, input, and contributions this story would not be possible. BTSTS is also something of a prequel to his own excellent The Line stories; Zulu Squad: No Tsukaima and its sequels, all of which I highly encourage you all to check out as well, and as such many characters from those stories appear in various capacities and prominences in this one as well.

My intention is for this to be a 100K+ word story, with updates every few weeks or so. That will depend on my work schedule and of course is subject to the unpredictability of life and writer's block (of which I am admittedly a frequent victim), but I will make every effort to stay consistent.

Presenting without further ado;

BENEATH THE SANDS, THE STREETS

Part I: The Storm

Chapter 1: The Last Flight from Kabul

December 30th, 2011

Hamid Karzai International Airport, Islamic Republic of Afghanistan

Sergeant Will Holliday dumped another stack of thick, orange-labeled Manila folders into the burn pit and added a few loose sheets on top for good measure, finally emptying the wheelbarrow and filling the pit to the nearly to the brim. Pausing to wipe the sweat from his already soot-stained face, he picked up a plastic can of JP-8, the ubiquitous high-octane fuel that the US Military uses for everything from pickup trucks to attack helicopters, and emptied its contents over the mound of papers, maps, files, and photographs filling the pit in front of him. He fished around in the cargo pocket of his ACU pants for a match, found one, and unceremoniously struck it and dropped it onto the gas-soaked papers. It went up with a whoosh and a jet of flame that made Holliday jump back a few feet, although he could still feel the welcome heat of the flames on his skin and smell the less welcome stink of burning fuel even through the olive green shemagh he wore wrapped around his neck and lower face. He turned and walked back into the SCIF, grabbing his M4 as he passed it where it lay against a Hesco barrier. Only about a million more to go, he thought ruefully.

He'd been at his current task since mid-morning, when the order had come down from the G2 to initiate the destruction of all sensitive material that wasn't being taken out with them, which was almost all of it. With every plane loaded to capacity with troops and refugees and the sound of distant battle growing less so by the hour, there was little room, and little time, for anything else. It had been easy going at first with help from a swarm of other intelligence types, American and otherwise. Now he had almost none.

"Who the fuck decided to leave all of this shit in place? There's like an actual metric fuck-ton of this shit, all fucking classified out the ass. Why is everything so goddamn fucked all the goddamn time?!"

That was SPC Tyler Burke, one of the two soldiers from Holliday's section that higher had seen fit to spare from perimeter duty to help him with his monumental task. Burke sharply kicked the shredder he'd been stuffing files and papers into for the last hour or so. Tiny white shavings filled the air. He looked up and noticed Holliday had come back in, and now directed his ranting at his NCO.

"And go figure we get stuck with this fucking detail, maybe the dumbest shit we could be possibly doing right now, which is really fucking saying something. They must really hate us."

"No Burke, just you specifically," the other half of Holliday's help, SPC Morgan Beatty, said dryly.

"Fuck you, Beatty," Burke shot back. The older Specialist ignored him, turning to look at Holliday instead.

"He isn't wrong though. I don't know what they were thinking leaving this behind. Couldn't have been MI, whoever made that call."

Holliday shrugged. "Hard call to make. I guess whoever did figured we just don't have the time or space to fly it out, classified or not. Look at all the other shit we're leaving."

The rows of vehicles, connexes full of weapons and gear, and piles of munitions were plain to see. The sounds of the engineers scrambling to blow it in place was indistinguishable from the ominous sounds of the battle raging ever closer to the base's perimeter. The aircraft taking off every ten minutes or so were packed to standing room only with troops and refugees, and had absolute zero room for anything else.

"At least we're warm. Probably more than you can say for Arroyo and the others."

And not being shot at, he didn't need to add.

"Come on, let's just get this done."

Holliday had deployed to Afghanistan with the rest of his unit, the highly-decorated 33rd Mobile Infantry Battalion, back in April. They'd been on the ground for less than a month, just barely having settled into their routine of patrols and raids and nation-building efforts in and around Kabul when the news had come down that Osama Bin Laden had been killed in a JSOC raid on his Pakistani compound. The celebrations had been immediate and widespread; Holliday supposed this was the natural reaction to the closest thing to a slam-dunk victory that could be had in a war so bereft of any form of clarity, in terms of enemies, outcomes, and everything else. As a member of the 33rd's Intelligence, or S2 section, he'd been in this very building when Lieutenant Colonel Long, the battalion XO, had burst in and broke the news. The memory of the ensuing celebration was stained bittersweet by more recent developments. The decision to accelerate the already-planned Allied withdrawal from Afghanistan had been announced less than a week later, with everyone barely having finished their collective organizational victory laps. The head had been cut from the body of the snake, and the Taliban and Al Qaeda, already on the ropes before, were finished. The ANA was ready to take off the training wheels, and there wouldn't be a better chance, the President had argued, to "bring our troops home with honor."

Good intentions, Holliday thought. Someone, he couldn't remember who, maybe Hemingway or someone like that, had said that the road to hell was paved with those. The Taliban, accustomed to playing the waiting game since before the 23-year-old Holliday had even born, had simply played dead and waited until the bulk of the ISAF troops withdrew before launching a ferocious renewed offensive against the ones who remained. The administration had dithered, dodged, and denied for weeks, even as the vaunted ANA crumbled and it became increasingly obvious that the 4,000-odd American, British, French, Polish, and German troops were too few in number and spread far too thin to do more than delay the onslaught. Rumors of Pakistani or even Chinese involvement swirled as city after city fell even in the face of the highest-intensity air campaign since the Gulf War two decades earlier. Finally, just a few weeks ago, the administration had sent in a task force centered on the 75th Ranger Regiment and the secretive 2nd SFOD-D "Viper Battalion" to stop the bleeding. By then though it was too late, the enemy was everywhere all at once and gaining more ground every day, the ANA mostly routing, the Afghan government packing their bags and getting out of dodge as hundreds of thousands of people crowded into Kabul hoping to do the same. That had left them here, with an ever-shrinking perimeter and an ongoing evacuation effort mired in logistical and bureaucratic red tape, and Will Holliday pouring jet fuel over classified documents. He had just finished dousing another stack with gas when he heard a voice boom over the incessant blaring of the base's extremely irritating emergency alarm.

"Sergeant Holliday? Thank Christ, we've been looking everywhere. It's time to go son."

Colonel John Konrad stood in the SCIF doorway in full battle rattle, his weathered face stained black and green by soot and smeared camo face paint, his M4 slung across his chest. There was a glint of urgency in his brown eyes as he approached. Holliday was apologetic.

"Sorry sir, lost track of time. Radio's been spotty too. Everyone's all over the net."

Konrad waved off the apology. "No worries, just glad we found you guys. Where are we with the documents?"

Holliday gave a frustrated shrug. They'd been at it for hours and it felt like he'd barely made a dent.

"We're getting there but there's just so much. Pardon my French sir, but I don't know what the hell command was thinking leaving this shit here. I need another hour at least, and as many guys as we can spare."

Konrad shook his head and intoned gravely, "Timeline has changed, we don't have another hour. Last plane leaves in about 15 minutes, and we need to be on it."

Holliday was stunned. "Wait, I thought we had another day! what changed?" He asked. Konrad looked at him gravely.

"Perimeter keeps shrinking. The runways are coming under heavy fire. We lost an Indian C-17 with over 100 people on it to mortar fire half an hour ago. That was the big boom you guys probably heard. The Air Force is making one last run to get us out and canceling all further flights. Ditto everyone else."

Holliday was speechless. That meant-

Beatty beat him to it. "But sir, what about all the refugees? There's gotta be 200,000 people out there! How can we just abandon them?"

Burke punched Beatty in the arm and silenced him with a death glare. Konrad didn't respond but wore his feelings undisguised on his face. He turned and hefted one of the gas cans from the stack by the door, deftly twisting it open.

He looked over at Holliday and the two specialists. "Here, help me with this," he said.

Konrad walked over to the stack of gas cans, hefted one, and unscrewed the cap. Then with a glance over his shoulder, he started pouring the contents of the can liberally over the nearest desk. Eyebrows raised and still in shock, Holliday dutifully moved to follow suit.

There was another man in the doorway. 33rd Command Sergeant Major Erik Wolfe, whom Holliday hadn't noticed standing behind the colonel at first, met his gaze and smiled darkly as he lit up one of the little Dominican cigarillos he carried in a tin case. He nodded acknowledgement at Holliday, who picked up another gas can and followed Konrad's example. Burke did the same, a wicked, mischievous smile on his face. An almost incredulous voice spoke up from behind them.

"We're gonna torch it, sir? The whole thing?"

That was Beatty again, ever the good soldier. The Colonel stopped pouring the gas for a second and met his deeply skeptical gaze with a sad smile.

"Don't worry Beatty, I'll take the heat for it."

Holliday snorted, sharing a look with Burke. He thought he could even see the faintest hint of a smile crease Sergeant Major Wolfe's craggy face, but it might have just been the light. The Colonel was definitely smiling though, his grin humble and self-deprecating as always. Beatty just shook his head and picked up a gas can.

Moments like these, Holliday thought, were when John Konrad truly shined. He'd heard plenty of leaders, even some good ones, preach about leading from the front, setting the example, leaving nobody behind. It was a common cliche, but Konrad embodied it. He lived it. Here he was with now with everything going to shit around them, cool as can be and looking out for his guys. He couldn't have been prouder to serve under him.

Holliday and Beatty methodically poured gas on the remaining files and over the rows of computers and the desks they sat on top of, the pungent odor of the high-octane fuel filling his nose and sinuses while Konrad and Burke did the same on the other side of the room, the four of them emptying their cans and meeting back at the doorway where Wolfe had impressively smoked his cigarillo down to little more than a roach in the meantime. With a glance from Konrad, the Sergeant Major took one last drag and flicked the butt onto the gas-soaked grey carpeted floor.

"That'll be that, then," he growled.

Black oily smoke followed the trio outside as the building where Holliday and the rest of the section had spent much of this deployment went up in flames, joining half a dozen other blazing structures in casting their fiery glow on the embattled evacuation effort. He thought back to the night they got Bin Laden, when he and a few dozen others had stayed up in the SIPR control room watching the drone feeds as the SEALs went about their deadly business. Now, a little over seven months later, he was watching it burn to the ground.

Surreal. That's the word I'm looking for, he thought. surreal.

The night air was both refreshing and bitter cold, and Holliday pulled his dusty shemagh up around his neck and face as the group walked out of the burning building, flames casting their long shadows out into the darkness as they moved purposefully toward the flight line.

The scene was apocalyptic. Besides the fire they had just set and the half-dozen other buildings blazing away unchecked, more raged out in the city and the surrounding suburb, giving off an acrid smoke tinged with jet fuel and gunpowder that hung like a shroud over everything. Allied Jets streaked fast and low overhead, and Holliday heard thundering booms out in the city as they released their ordnance before climbing steeply away into the night. The irregular chatter of gunfire came from all directions, and tracers streaked across the sky where the smokey orange haze gave way to star-specked blue-blackness. And over it all, the deafening, amorphous screaming of over a hundred thousand people crowding around the base. You didn't need to speak the language to understand the terror and desperation in their voices. Holliday could feel it in his very being. He knew this was something he'd never forget as long as he lived, no matter how much he might want to.

Beatty, who was only a few feet away, seemed to read his thoughts.

"This is our Saigon," Holliday heard the tall Specialist mumble.

But worse, he didn't need to add.

The group passed between a pair of hangers, dark and abandoned, and looked out onto the tarmac. A few hundred yards away, another Galaxy roared up and away into the night. Colonel Konrad raised his voice over the cacophony.

"That's us right there," he boomed, pointing a gloved finger at the next big jet – the last - where it sat on the runway. A ring of armed troops, crouched behind jersey barriers or just down on one knee, were pulling security around it.

"Let's pick up the pace, people," Wolfe added gruffly.

Wordlessly, the five men started to run. Other small groups came from different directions, also heading for the waiting plane. The last of the men from the checkpoints, Holliday knew. They'd only have a few precious minutes before the crowd – no, mob – and then the enemy following close behind them swarmed through the now unguarded gates and over the double fences. They began sprinting, weighed down by damn near 50 pounds of gear, Holliday panted with the effort. Sure enough, they reached the jet just as the first streams of refugees. Holliday followed the others, shouldering his way through the rapidly growing crowd that crashed like a wave over the Americans pulling security. They backed their way up the ramp, rifles at the ready, covering the handful of troops still forcing their way through the crowd. Slowly but surely, they made it through.

Captain John Foley, the commander of the 33rd's Headquarters Company, waited with a clipboard in hand.

"Konrad, Wolfe, Beatty, Burke, Holliday…," Foley droned, saying their names as each soldier passed and checking them off of a list.

He looked up at Holliday, a sad amusement in his blue eyes.

"Congratulations, Sergeant Holliday," Foley said, and tapped his clipboard with his pen.

"As far as the official records of the United States Army are concerned at least, you're the last American soldier to leave Afghanistan."

Foley turned to Konrad before Holliday even had a chance to process that. "That's everyone sir," he said to the Colonel. "We're good to take off."

Konrad, who had been in the midst of an animated discussion with Sergeant Major Wolfe, Lieutenant Colonel Long, and a few other officers, turned his attention to Foley. Holliday followed the Colonel's gaze as it swung between the desperate crowd pushing at the row of rifle-armed men on the ramp and the crowded but not quite completely full cargo bay. Holliday's attention settled on a woman at the very front of the crowd. She was young, 21 or 22 at the oldest, her almond-colored skin streaked with grime, her tangled black hair worn in long, uncovered curls, dressed in rumpled, dirty western-style clothing. She was a picture of the "new" Afghanistan. For a moment, she locked eyes with the American sergeant. Her eyes, emerald green, were full of desperation and panic and burning intensity. Holliday felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Then she was gone, pulled back into the roiling crowd. Beside him, Colonel Konrad's face had hardened with decision.

"Hold up a second," he said sharply to the Airmen standing by the control panel, "We still have room."

Konrad took his radio out of its pouch on his plate carrier and put it to his ear. He spoke loudly to be heard over the combined noise of the crowd, engines, and gunfire.

"Chaos, this is Damned 6, we're ready to take off but there's still some room aboard." A pause. "Yes sir, requesting permission to load as many of these people as we can. Won't take more than a couple of minutes, over."

Holliday couldn't hear the General's reply over the noise, but Konrad was frowning.

"Yes sir, I understand that, but with respect we can worry about that - "

More chatter that Holliday couldn't make out. Then Konrad again, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"Don't ask me to abandon these people, Jim. I'm begging you. Five minutes. Even if we can fit 20 people, a dozen, that's better than nothing."

More chatter. Then Konrad cut in, angry now.

"No, you listen-," he began, before being cut off by the now much louder voice on the other end. He looked at the radio in disgust as the line abruptly went dead. His blue eyes flashed.

"Godfuckingdamn it! Fuck! Fuck!"

John Konrad dashed the radio to the deck, shattering it into a dozen pieces. Holliday flinched. Those nearby were silent, their eyes averted. The knot in Holliday's stomach only tightened, he'd never seen the Colonel lose his temper like that. He doubted many people had. Left without direction, the two Airmen standing by the ramp didn't seem to know what to do. Finally, the older and taller of the two - a Major, according to the insignia on his nylon bomber jacket - turned to Lieutenant Colonel Long, who looked about as shocked as Holliday felt.

"Is everyone on?" The Major pressed.

Long hesitated for a moment, but offered a curt, wordless nod before turning away as if he couldn't bear to watch any longer. The Major in turn looked to the younger airman, a boyish, blonde-headed 2nd Lieutenant.

"Alright, close it up."

And with those four words, barely audible over the deafening sounds of four jet engines and mass human desperation, Will Holliday watched as the cargo ramp of the C5 Galaxy nicknamed "Ladybird" by her Qatar-based crew was drawn upward with a slow mechanical rumble, and the American war in Afghanistan came to its indignant end just about 3 months past a decade to the day it began. Feeling as if he might be sick, he numbly stripped off his plate carrier, helmet, scarf, and beanie, sank into an empty seat, and buried his face in his hands. Beneath him, he felt the big jet's wings grab the air and lift them skywards. He'd had only a few minutes to process this latest trauma when he heard a familiar voice shouting his name.

"Sergeant Holliday! Sergeant Holliday!"

Specialist Angela Fuentes, also of the 33rd's S2 section, was shoving her way toward him through the crowded bay. He cocked his head at her disheveled appearance, taken aback. She reached him a second later.

"It's Sergeant Arroyo," she blurted breathlessly before he could say anything. Holliday leapt from his seat.

"What? What are you talking about? What happened?" He demanded.

His mind raced, and he tried to fight the rising panic. SSG Sebastian Arroyo was the S2 NCOIC, but more than that he was one of Holliday's best friends. The big Puerto Rican NCO had taken him under his wing when he'd been a young Specialist new to unit and taken it upon himself to mentor him. When Holliday had been promoted to Sergeant himself the previous summer, it had been Arroyo who had pinned the rank on his chest. Fuentes continued in frantic, distraught tones.

"There was a bomb… we were coming back and… it must have been a stray round. Below his chest plate…" she trailed off; head hung.

Holliday's heart sank. He knew what was coming before Fuentes even got the words out. She continued.

"Doc Randy says he doesn't have long. He's asking for you. We didn't know where you were until I found Beatty and Burke a few minutes ago."

He felt like he a passenger in his own body. He heard himself say, "It doesn't matter. Just take me to him."

Sebastian Arroyo was lying on his back on a bunk in the Ladybird's small crew compartment. He was surrounded by just short of a dozen others; the rest of the S2 section as well as battalion surgeon Dr. Michael Randhawa, and the Chaplain, Father Steven Ruth. Hearing their approach, Arroyo turned slowly toward them, seemingly with great effort, and cracked a weak smile.

"Took you… long enough," he rasped.

The others moved aside to let Holliday though, Randhawa patting him sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed. He fought down the lump in his throat and forced himself to smile back.

"Hey Bas," he said lamely. "How're you feeling?" Arroyo's laugh died with a strangled cough.

"Been… better," he wheezed. Holliday could tell every word was a struggle. "One… more piece of advice…going forward… for you Will… don't go and get yourself... shot. It's not fun."

Holliday felt a tear roll down his cheek. Arroyo sighed. "You… take care of yourself… okay?" He coughed. "And… the others."

Arroyo's eyes flicked to Fuentes. Tears cut furrows through the dirt and grime that caked her face.

"Especially… this one," he said with a smile. Fuentes sniffled and wiped her face with a filthy ACU cuff.

Arroyo's eyes welled up now, too. He reached a hand out and Holliday took it. His grip was clammy and weak. He struggled to go on, every word an extraordinary effort.

"I…love… you… guys. Tell Brenda… I…"

Holliday felt Arroyo's grip slacken, and the big man's eyes closed as he gasped lightly. He sighed and folded Arroyo's hand over his chest, and stepped back. Tears stained his dusty, sweaty uniform top. Rosary in hand, Chaplain Ruth took his place and began administering Last Rites in a low, solemn voice.

"I will Bas," Holliday whispered numbly, mostly to himself.

Captain Jeff Bowles, the section's OIC, reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a nondescript plastic flask. Eyes red, he unscrewed the cap, raised it over his head and tipped it pointedly, allowing a small amount of the liquid to pour out.

"To Sergeant Arroyo," he said simply.

Bowles sipped it and passed it to Holliday, who drank in turn. The hooch was as strong as it was illicit, and it burned his throat all the way down.

"A great leader and a better friend," he offered and handed the flask to Fuentes, who in turn toasted Arroyo and passed the flask around the circle until it got back to Captain Bowles. He stashed it with a sad, conspiratorial grin.

"All right people," he said to the group, "we got a long flight ahead of us. Best try to get some sleep. Any of y'all need anything, and I do mean anything, don't hesitate to come get me. Bit of an update, there's apparently a cyclone out over the gulf, so we'll be laying over in Dubai instead of at Al Udeid. That means you can look forward to good food and fancy hotel rooms and everything else that entails. Then we'll be home before you know it." Bowles sighed.

"The hard part is over."

With that, the group broke up, and Holliday moved to follow Fuentes back to where he'd been sitting before. He still felt like he was on autopilot. He knew that the grief of Arroyo's loss would hit him in earnest, but for now it was one more heavy stone in a ruck full of them. For now, all he could do was carry it. Reaching their seats, he sat down with a groan. None of them had slept in almost 24 hours and suddenly Holliday felt very tired. His head was a swirl of emotions. Sadness, of course. Grief. Anger, at the Taliban, at the Army, at his own government, at nothing and nobody in particular. The overwhelming Numbness that was all that was keeping him from completely losing it. Mostly though, he was tired. He sank back into the nylon bucket seat, stretching his stiff neck.

"Arroyo, man. I swear I can't… I just..."

He sighed and trailed off. Fuentes put her hand on his shoulder as he felt the plane begin to level off.

"Nothing you could have done, primo."

Holliday shook his head sadly and turned towards her. Her deep brown eyes, big and bright as ever, locked on his own.

"No, I know that. Of course I know that. It's just, what the fuck was even the point? He didn't die for some noble purpose. It's just random. We were packing up and running away, we DID run away, I mean we just abandoned all those people back there and he just caught a random fucking round. It was fucking pointless. Him and all the rest. From the very beginning it turns out, from the first second, it was pointless. Bas, Olsen, Stevens, McNabb, all the rest, and now probably all of those people back there just too, dead, and for what?"

Holliday felt his throat tighten, and his fists clenched involuntarily. He fought the feeling away and looked his friend in the eyes.

"I'll never forgive them for making us do this," he said hardly.

"I'll never forgive them."

He shook his head again and let out a heavy breath, scowling. Fuentes just sat patiently and let him vent, the sympathetic look never leaving her face. His anger fizzled out, and he felt a rush of gratitude for her friendship, which went all the way back to when they'd met in AIT down at Fort Huachuca, almost 4 years ago now. They'd been together ever since, first with the 221st MI Battalion at Fort Gordon, then with the 33rd since last year. Though they couldn't have been more different in many ways, the two of them just got each other on an uncommon level. It had never been a romantic thing, despite what some people thought, but Holliday was okay with that. Angie was the best friend he'd ever had, and he damn glad she was here with him now.

"Sorry for dumping that on you," he said lamely.

She shrugged. "Who else would you dump it on? And besides, you know I agree with you. I feel the exact same way. This was bullshit, the whole thing was bullshit, I know that."

She sighed deeply.

"You can't dwell on it though. Not right now, it'll eat you alive. Gonna be plenty of time to think about it at home. And at least we're going home."

Holliday just nodded and put his head back against the metal bulkhead, and adjusted the balled up Multicam ACU jacket he was using as a pillow. His adrenaline and anger had left him, leaving only a tired sadness, although he knew better than to think he could possibly sleep. Not a chance of that, he thought. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Speaking of. What's the first thing you're doing when you get home?" He asked after a pause.

Fuentes brightened a bit at that.

"Easy, I'm spending the whole time getting drunk, getting laid, or doing a whole lot of nothing. Maybe I'll go catch a Dodgers game or something. Same as you'll be doing in Philly, I expect."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Holliday smiled.

"Whoa, whoa, me?" He said with mock disdain. "I'd never be so irresponsible." He paused for dramatic effect. "I wouldn't be caught dead at a Dodgers game," he said smugly.

She punched him, playfully. "Asshole!"

Holliday shrugged grandly, an intensely Mediterranean gesture that belied his Greco-Italian heritage. "My Fightin' Phils own your poverty baseball team. That's a simple fact, my friend."

He chuckled and they were quiet for a minute before Fuentes spoke up again.

"You still coming out to Cali?" A twinge of sadness had crept back into her voice. Holliday nodded affirmatively.

"You know it. I've already got a bag packed for the beach. It'll be nice to finally put some faces to names too."

She nodded approvingly.

"You'll have a great time, I promise. My brothers and cousins are gonna love you. Maybe I'll even set you up with Jackie if you behave. you remember I told you about Jackie, right?"

Holliday affirmed that eagerly. He remembered the pictures he'd been shown of Angie's very eligible childhood friend, too. Fuentes laughed.

"Easy tiger. But for real bro, I'm glad you're coming. We'll have a blast. Not to mention I'd hate to make the drive back to Fort Lewis by myself." She paused, and her eyes grew more serious. "I don't want to spend too much time alone right now, you know?"

Before Holliday could agree, Ladybird's PA system crackled to life and the voice of the pilot, a Major Thomas or something like that if Holliday remembered right, came through.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have officially left Afghan airspace."

It wasn't like the movies, or the old black and whites of GIs leaving Europe or Korea or Vietnam, all cheers and confetti. Instead, silence hung like a pall over the men and women of the 33rd. Holliday shut his eyes. He thought about what Captain Bowles had said about laying over in Dubai. THAT should be a good time at least, he mused. He'd been once before, years ago, as a tourist. The city was technically dry, which was unfortunate, but you could find a drink if you knew where to look. He wondered if they'd even be there long enough for that. At the very least, he would enjoy the plush digs and jacuzzi tubs while it lasted. Then, home.

It felt anything but, and yet it was real. They were going home.

AN:

So, this took much longer than I expected to get done. part of that was just writer's block when I first started, and then life got in the way as it tends to and I ended up taking a full-on hiatus from writing much of anything for a couple months. Inshallah, as they say, that won't be the case going forward.

With regard to the story itself, I'd appreciate any and all feedback as this is the first project I've "published" in quite a long time. Thanks for reading!

-DM98