Distractions.
July of 1995.
Kuwait.
I was thinking about our last good Christmas.
Nate was barely a year old. Dad had gone to every store in town for weeks to get him one specific toy, and at the end of the day, he found the damn thing. He brought it home, wrapped it, and put it under the tree. I got to put the bow on it. I wrote that it was from Santa.
But when baby Nate opened the package, he could not be less interested. He threw it aside, went to play with his cheap noisemakers from the bargain store. Dad had been angry before then, showing his true colors for years, but never on Christmas. I could see it brewing in him that night, threatening release – but he kept it contained. He just laughed, scrubbed Nate on the head, kissed my mom on the cheek, and gave me that old, charming side-eye he used to be famous for.
It was the last time I really thought I loved him.
Sometimes it's best to hold onto a happy memory when all you want to do is quit.
I stabbed my feet into the loose sand, pitching forward, leaning. Just trying to keep moving. Every muscle burned, throbbed. It felt like my shoulders were on fire, my neck prepared to give in and detach, my forearms stabbed through and through with knives. I grasped at memories of that Christmas, of fixing up the car with my dad, of watching cartoons with my mom, of playing pool with Andre, and tried to shut out reality.
Kuwait.
It just had to be Kuwait.
"Put me down, put me down," Sam begged.
I paused, heaved him off of my shoulders. I faced away from the wind as much as possible, though the sand still cut into my eyes. I pulled my blindfold down and hunkered by his side, spreading the torso of my shirt to give him some respite.
Sam was breathing heavily. I could barely hear his voice through the howling wind. "You can just leave me here, Mikey, please."
He was desperate to stop moving. It had to hurt, to be carried with a wound like that. But there was no room for compromise in my mind. I had to think of a less dramatic way to tell him that I was going to carry him until we both died, or we made it out.
"Not a chance, Sam," I said, lifting my blindfold so I could get a glimpse of his leg. The tourniquet I put on was holding up, with not too much extra blood from the last half-mile push. If I could just get him out of the sandstorm without getting buried, find some shelter, he would be fine.
Sam had this look in his eyes. Classic Sam. He always saw the best in me. He said, "I'm gonna owe you big time for this."
I stood up, swaying in the wind, rotating my arms to loosen up the knots in my shoulders. It was time to put all that PT to work. "Yeah, you are," I responded, and hauled him back up.
XxXxX
I found a single, solitary boulder hours later. We had crossed a road in that time, nearly disappearing into the sand, but no cars. It was for the best, no way to know if the people who shot Sam were out here looking for us – or if they were doing the smart thing and hunkering down.
When he was on the ground again, Sam groaned, massaging his thigh with both hands. "I know the answer, but can we take this thing off?"
I said, "The whole leg?"
He snorted, "Yeah, sure."
I had to focus on catching my breath. Sam was not overweight, but he was dense with muscle like any SEAL. Carrying him was like having a lead weight on my back.
"I'm serious," Sam went on, panting, though he was not the one doing the walking. "If you left me here and went for help-"
"And find you how, Sam?" I cut in. "You'll be buried in the storm."
"One of us has to make it out," he said.
"You're wrong." I got up again, done arguing, now more motivated to push myself beyond my limits. "Both of us are making it."
XxXxX
I became numb as the miles pressed on. I was never the type of put on excessive muscle, but I was not scrawny, either, and I was suddenly glad for every extra push-up and pull-up I had ever done. Nothing had prepared me more for this moment than my physical training when I first joined the army, when I carried Hart through that obstacle course.
When you go to war with someone you become part of each other, forever.
And there was my conversation with Ford that same night.
"If I got shot or something, would you carry me to safety?"
Ford looked back to his book, and answered simply, "Like a sack of pure gold potatoes."
If he were here, he would've gotten Sam to safety by now. But he was dead, and we would be soon if I let any doubt slip into my mind.
XxXxX
When I saw the first American flag waving, I got a second wind.
We were nearing the edge of the storm and I had just been thinking I might now be able to get us out, after all. But there it was. An entourage escorting some diplomat. American flags. Our longstanding friendship with Kuwait was my saving grace.
I got too close to the vehicles before someone noticed us. Maybe it seemed silly to watch out for human dangers in a violent sandstorm. Soldiers poured out of Humvees and pointed rifles at us.
I tried to speak, ended up coughing instead. I collapsed, and Sam rolled off my back.
"I'm American," I said, hands up, "Michael Weston. Please, my friend's been shot. Sam Axe. United States Navy SEAL."
A few doubtful glances, and then the help we needed.
Someone pulled me upright. Sam was lifted by three guys, who, after a brief debate, shoved him into the back of one of the Humvees for triage out of the whipping sand. I was escorted into another vehicle, passed a wet towel. I got to work scraping the sticking sand out of my eyes.
"How did you get out here?" one of the soldiers demanded of me. He was not unkind, but flabbergasted.
"We were just south of Al Abraq, hunting down some information on an American defector. It went wrong, and Sam got shot as the sandstorm was starting up."
The soldier exchanged a glance with his comrades, said, "Al Abraq is six miles from here."
I laid my head back against the seat, every muscle burning, "Is that all? Felt like longer."
The soldier patted my shoulder, said, "Rest up. We'll get you right. Your friend is with our doctor, Shamir – we were on the way to the airstrip in Al Abraq when the storm started. Is that where you need to be right now?"
"A plane would be great."
XxXxX
September of 1995.
Poland.
"I thought we were meeting up in Vedeno? You missed your plane, there, Mikey."
I looked up at Sam, managed a smile. I was the only one in the airport lounge at three in the morning, waiting on a flight to Iceland. An American diplomat was waiting for an escort, and I was on easy jobs for a while.
Sam saw something on my face. He saw Vedeno on my face. He sat beside me, stretched, started flipping through one of the brochures from the table. "I was told the posting ended six months early, but they didn't give me a reason. You alright?"
He was such a good guy. I imagined him running out of that burning building, his shirt engulfed in flames, and I had to look away.
Sam moved past it, "Where you off to?"
I cleared my throat, grateful for the topical question, "Iceland. Got a few escorts lined up. You know, someone smells trouble, they call me."
He didn't comment on how jobs like that were below my paygrade. He must have known more than he said. He had the knowledge in his eyes, in his voice. "You know I'm here if you need me."
"How'd you find me, Sam?"
"Friend of a friend said I might find you here." Sam stood, tapped my shoulder, "I'm going to the snack machine. Want anything? Long time 'til our flight leaves?"
"Our flight?"
"I may have snuck onto your itinerary. I'm laying low for a little while. If anyone asks, I need you to tell them how badly I was needed."
I wouldn't have to lie
I had just killed over a dozen people out of convenience, frustration. I watched them burn, heard them scream. I killed them in that brief moment that I forgot that people matter. But now those words were ingrained in me, branded in me. Collateral damage was avoidable. It had to be.