XIII. Catalyst
February 14, 1989.
Mshauri, South Africa.
Mshauri changed my understanding of the world. When I first saw their faces gathered at the side of the road, bandaged and starving with guns clutched in their hands and babies at wasting breasts, I felt something foreign burning inside. I had been to Russia, put bullets in politicians and burned hostile camps to the ground, and I had watched my best friend bleed to death in the desert, and I had listened to my brother cry when my dad slapped him in the face – but this was new. I had never felt this blend of a strong desire to help, and such a pure, unchecked rage.
It was a town under siege. Instead of one hand to reach out and grab, one person to drag out of the writhing tides of war, there were hundreds. Instead of one voice crying out injustice, begging for food, pleading for allies, there were dozens of them blending into a chorus. It was impossible to understand them all, impossible to spread pity over all of these waiting faces.
We were only in the town for half an hour, pausing to breathe, and then we were off to free their neighbors from a large group of hostiles. Mshauri was peaceful right now, it's corpses hidden away, but it showed me profound suffering.
We walked together, ten of us, and the people touched out shoulders and backs, murmuring to themselves, maybe praying for their neighbors. I made it a point to look at all of their faces, because in training my instructors put a big emphasis on the casualties of war. It looked like this, it smelled like this, it felt like this. It fueled the rage, fueled my need to chase the enemy from this area and kill as many as I could in the process.
Neely was our squad leader, twelve years in special forces with guerilla war as a specialty. I was one of the youngest there, fresh out of the cold wastes of Russia, and I had only been in the special forces for a year. I was in the back, the tail of our party, and he was in the front. We were one of four squads, all moving in from different directions, like missiles honed in on the besieged village in this remote part of the world.
Forty people marching through a jungle.
We never saw the attack coming.
One moment I was following behind Cooper, watching his helmet bob against a lush green background, and the next he was gone and the greenery was popping and shredding.
Gunfire.
I dove, landing hard on a root and rolling over it to take cover. Bullets rained from every direction, and smoke, and sound, and the light of the canopy grew more intense. Beyond the thunder there was shouting – English and something else – and groans and plants snapping and boots thumping.
Bodies moved everywhere. I staggered upright, grabbing the non-ally I could and wrenching the gun from his hand. He hit the ground, rolled, and pulled a pistol from his belt. I went for the nearest tree, the nearest cover, and felt my vest get tagged on the way.
His pistol emptied into the tree trunk and he lunged for Cooper, who lay in a mass on the forest floor, trying to get to his gun. I ducked out and fired, and sprayed him down.
He crumpled like a ragdoll to the jungle floor.
And then the explosion came.
I got the sensation of flying. My heart beat in slow motion. My arms flailed and I saw clouds, and earth, and clouds, and earth. I landed with my mouth open, my jaw lodged into the soil, my hand twisted unnaturally around a rifle. Everything went eerily, painfully silent.
Something in me decided to count the seconds.
One.
Fourteen.
Seventy-six.
Gradually, like emerging from deep water, I began to hear again. Leaves crunching, foreign voices murmuring in another language.
And then I could see.
Leaves, spattered with blood – my blood – and dirt smeared over my contorted wrist. A forest floor with boots moving about, and the bodies of my squad lying all around.
With no sense but survival, I stayed absolutely still and watched the boots walk past me. I kept my eyes open, imitating Cooper, who lay a few yards away. Eyes open, heart hammering, wrist throbbing, I lay there for countless seconds.
The boots walked past, away, and the race was on.
I wrenched my arm free and scrambled to my feet, staggering one way and then the other, crashing into a tree, snapping a vine. I ran like a child, with no mind for where I was going. I had images burned into my mind, bodies lying on the ground – nine of them wearing faded green camouflage. Bile bubbled up in my stomach and covered the front of my uniform.
Before long the pain found me.
I was hit. My whole torso was burning. I clawed at my vest, trying to get it off, to dig the bullet out of it while still running, but I stopped paying attention to the ground and tripped over a root. I stayed down, jerking my shirt open to find some relief.
There was a hole in my vest.
A strange wonder filled me as I pulled my uniform gently away from my chest. I had a hole in my stomach. My undershirt was soaked with blood. It ran down my belt, over my pants, and turned everything a dark burgundy. Just looking at it made me nauseous.
"Oh, God," I whispered, forgetting everything but this oddity, "Oh, God… Oh, God…"
It started throbbing, and I felt lightheaded. Gradually, the adrenaline faded, and fear and grief found me again. Everyone was dead. Everyone in my squad was dead. Were the other teams ambushed as well? Were there other survivors? Were they looking for me?
Precious minutes passed and the sound of another language and boots crunching was almost enough to get me to my feet. I made it halfway upright before I slumped back down and the pain in my stomach brought tears to my eyes. So I sat there, fat drops on my face, and waited for them to find me and put a bullet in the back of my head.
I saw them through the trees, formed up in a line, scanning the woods and waving powerful automatic weapons back and forth. No wonder they were able to take out my squad so easily – they had weapons that could mow down crowds of people in seconds. One of them spotted me and raised his gun, whistling and pointing to the others. For a few moments they waited, trying to suss out if this was a trap, and then they advanced.
Years of training, of fighting, of killing, and in the end I was just a scared kid with my hands in the air and tears on my face.
Two combatants broke out of line to come toward me and the line reassembled itself. The remaining soldiers fanned out to compensate for the missing members, and they passed right by, continuing their search. They obviously didn't think much of me, either.
I stood face-to-face with two jacked commandos, regretting my decision to join the military for the first time. My experience in combat could be summed up in a few hostile takeovers, one raid, and armed prisoner transport. I had never been so close to death, and I was terrified.
The one on the right, a black-skinned hulk of a man holding an assault rifle with both hands, used the barrel of his gun to tip my chin up. He scowled and said something in another language. I recognized the dialect as a local one, but I had heard very little of it.
"Wait," I said, my voice trembling. I knew I sounded like a kid, but I tried to force an edge into my words. "D-D-Don't kill me."
Hulk looked at his friend, a lanky, tattooed, bulldog-faced man, and scowled, but there was no malice in the expression. He did this out of obligation, not for enjoyment. I was nothing to him. I shut my eyes, putting everything I had into keeping the tears out of my eyes. I thought of anything but this moment. I thought of everything except a face full of lead.
Two gunshots went off, muffled by a silencer, and my attackers fell to the ground.
Blood sprayed over me, entering my next panicked breaths. I kept my trembling hands up, staring at the corpse that might have killed me by now, if someone had not gotten to him first.
Like an angel come to deliver me from darkness, a man in American camouflage emerged from the woods. He was holding a rifle, looking strangely calm in this hostile place, with no blood or dirt on his uniform. For a moment it seemed like a merciful mirage.
And then his backup arrived.
Four men in black combat gear moved like wraiths through the forest, holding camo nets embedded with leaves over their heads and wielding nothing more than handguns. Three broke away to clear the area and the fourth hung around, making slow circles around me and the man who had saved my life.
The leader crouched down in front of me, looking right into my eyes.
"Easy, kid," he said, his voice rough. He was in his thirties, maybe, with short, non-military issue brown hair and gray eyes. I only saw them for a second before the ground rushed up. He caught me by the arm and laid me out on my back, easing me to the ground.
I barely managed, "I have to get back to my unit. We're taking fire. We're taking fire."
"Step one, shut your mouth." The man seemed unconcerned by my pleas, and when I tried to move, to leave, he held me down by one shoulder. "What's your name? Where are you from?"
"Why does that-"
"Name, kid. Give me something."
"Michael."
"Well, Michael, you got yourself into a lot of trouble out here."
"We have to go back!"
The man had empathy in his eyes, but everything else about him was business. "I approve of your loyalty, Michael, but everyone out there is dead." He dug through his bag, placing medical supplies on the ground near me. "I'm gonna patch you up, and you're going to limp to the nearest installment. You gotta report this catastrophe while the rest of us deal with this mess."
"What? I can't… I was shot!"
"You weren't shot in the leg, were you?"
"Who are you? What company did you-?"
In one quick motion, as quick as a snake, the man reached up and flicked me in the ear. He waggled his finger. "First thing's first, how far up did they hit you?"
I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach. "Less than a mile from the village."
"Ahh." He smiled grimly as he broke the safety seal on a bottle of alcohol. He poured it over my stomach and the burning was horrific, but I did my best not to react. He went on, "Listen, kid, sometimes a tactical retreat is just preparation for a later victory. Never let your fear of losing keep you from running away when you need to, because you only lose when you die. Got it?"
I nodded, clenching my jaw to keep myself from groaning.
"I like you, Michael. You got guts. But going back out there would be suicide, and I think you have a long life ahead of you."
He worked quickly, quietly, and announced that the wound was painful but not life threatening – so long as I listened to him and 'hobbled' to the nearest US camp. He helped me stand, and loaded my jacket pocket up with painkillers, and splinted my stomach to keep it from gushing blood.
When he was done, he started walking away, just like that.
I called after him, "Which direction is Mshauri?"
He circled back, nodding to himself in a strange way, and pulled his dog tags from around his neck. He put them gently over my head, and tucked them into the front of my uniform. With a sullen face, and a voice soft like the grave, he said, "Kid, that place was the first to go."
I had been there ten minutes ago. "We were just-"
"Bunch of villagers with thirty-year-old rifles and no training," he went on, patting me hard on the shoulder and almost knocking me over. "It happens."
"But… where do I go?"
"Walk that way, find a road, and commandeer a vehicle. Get yourself closer to the coast, and identify yourself as an American to the local militia – the ones in red."
"But-"
"One more pro tip for the road. Let it go. People die all the time, every second of every day. If you wanna cry, you wait until the mission is over. Until then, get your ass in gear."
I had the image of Mshauri in my head, a besieged village, those sad faces. I felt their hands running along my uniform, felt their hope as my unit came through to help them and liberate their neighbors. He had to be mistaken. How could all of that disappear so quickly?
The man put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, "If you make it back in one piece, you tell 'em Larry sent you, and I have this all under control."