Again, I've opted to split 3000 words in half, mostly because I'm on a crusade against the plot holes and expository dialogue currently wreaking havoc on the second half of Chapter number 9. No author's notes. The author is trying to end this thing before it turns into Beowulf.


"In our top story tonight, Johanna Gilchrist, SCN's new embedded correspondent in the Ninawa province confirmed that a Medevac helicopter was shot down earlier today by an RPG in the al-Hudaba neighborhood of Mosul killing its crew. Though yet unconfirmed by U.S. military officials, there are speculations that the attack was in retaliation for the destruction of a mosque by coalition forces two weeks ago in the neighboring city of Qadiya where ten Iraqi citizens lost their lives. U.S. Central Command has yet to verify the number of dead and wounded and is withholding the names of the soldiers involved pending family notification. We join Johanna in Mosul for more details."

"Good evening Tipper I am Johanna Gilchrist with S.C. Newsgroup. As you can see from my injuries, I got a little too close to the action today. I was covering what should have been a routine medical evacuation for the second-up flight crew of the 1159th Medical Company Detachment when they received an emergency call to pick up a critically ill soldier being transported to Camp Marez for treatment by ground troops until his convoy suffered mechanical setbacks en route."

"So you were in the helicopter when it crashed today Johanna?"

"No Tipper, I relinquished my seat at the last minute to make room for a medic. Now what I find most disturbing is how easily this conflict that cost the lives of five American soldiers could have been prevented if one of the vehicles in the convoy had not overheated. A source speaking on condition of anonymity has revealed it is not unheard of for vehicles out here to go without scheduled maintenance much longer than it is recommended and I am investigating these allegations for our viewers at home."

"Thank you Johanna. Up next we'll have U.S. Representative Barney Thompson weighing in on the issue of war spending but now let's go to your footage of today's tragic events."

The cued tape of the crash, the rescue attempts and the subsequent explosion rolled on screen. SSgt. Silas muted the news report and kicked the helmet at his feet across the 'morale' tent. He'd been alone in there for half an hour after not even the bravest of the sergeants sitting around a card table in the middle of a game of poker dared stay when they saw him stalk into the tent and sink in the couch wearing a face best known for provoking incontinence in many a prisoner treated to the sight of it up close.

His head felt heavy on his shoulders. He pulled at the ICOM headset like it was made of something toxic and tried to focus on quadrants of the mayhem on screen instead of what any of it meant. He concentrated on the dirt on his boots as he carried the copilot out of the helicopter a second before it exploded instead of how he'd been thrown into the air by the resulting shock wave.

He tried to remember if he'd heard the whistle of the incoming grenade. The sight of Jerusalem running away from the burning Blackhawk with her clothes on fire, screaming as her features were swallowed up by the flames filled the 27" screen. She had lived for 15 minutes in harrowing pain with no way to give her morphine. Her brother's body been grotesquely quartered by the blast. The medic and the pilot had burned to death inside and the amputee flatlined on the way to the hospital. Meanwhile Lt. Alexander Hunter was expected to recover fully in a week's time.

Familiar with the story, privates Mitchell and Del Rio were standing by the entrance to the tent peering at Silas through the space between the frame and the door unsure of what if anything they should do. They'd already checked on the rest of the fire team as each of the men arrived. Dumphy's hands were bandaged to his elbows to protect the first and second degree burns he'd incurred helping Nassiri put out Capt. Harms' clothes with their own jackets and Williams and King had survived physically unscathed so both women left their squad mates alone because at least they were talking and as hard as it was to admit it, they had nothing to add.

"You can't go in there now man," Pfc. Del Rio said in a stage whisper to the man crunching gravel in the direction of the tent. He was dressed in PT sweats, looking foolish and bored. She recognized him as a fellow mechanic as he got closer.

"Blow me," he answered walking past them puffing his chest like an angry chicken. Brenda wedged her foot between the door and the frame for a better view. Del Rio stood behind her.

The mechanic sat next to Silas leaving a cushion between them. He picked up the remote and flipped through the channels with disinterest. A beauty queen waved at him from the back seat of a pimped out Lincoln at the Puerto Rican Day Parade, a pock faced man tried to look meaningful in his CSI Miami reruns. Two more news channels were running the crash footage and the mechanic picked the network with the prettiest anchor. He put up the volume as they transitioned into the video.

"Turn that off," Silas ordered in a tone resembling politeness. His Hapless Companion stared sideways, a victim of too little patience and a sore lack of brains.

"No way man," he replied turning up the volume some more. "I wanna see this." SSgt. Silas ran his hands through his prickly buzz cut and leaned in far enough to reach the 'power off' button on the console. The mechanic stood up itching for a fight. He had height and weight on his opponent so he pointed the remote and turned the news back on. Mitchell and Del Rio poked their heads into the tent. "What you gonna do now?" He asked skipping a 'fool' that would have made him sound too Vanilla Ice.

Silas leaned in towards the TV again and turned up the sound as far as it would go. He stood up slowly, surely, like someone who never had to question the outcome of any fist fight, and the Hapless Companion jumped back startled by rank, his own gross miscalculation and the fierce look in Silas' eyes when they bore into his.

"Which part's your favorite?" He yelled grabbing the man by the collar of his sweatshirt, lifting him off the ground a whole inch. The taller, heavier mechanic went limp opting for the Carlo Rizzi approach to self defense. "Don't let me stop you now!"

Silas relaxed his grip on the mechanic's clothes. The man fell on his butt and crossed his arms protectively over his face. Silas looked through him with derision. He picked up his ICOM headset and stared at the TV screen. A fourth network was now airing gruesome close-ups of Harms' charred body with a large 'graphic content' banner flashing over the images at three second intervals. He kicked the television set on the side and sent the mammoth flying a whole foot before it fell and cracked the plywood floor.


I'm hungry.

Thy Author.