Near Falluja, Iraq

August 2012

Squinting into the late-morning sun, Sergeant Wayne Wilkins was doing his best to maintain his composure. The driver of the Humvee, Sergeant Price, was flying down the artillery-pocked road at a ridiculous speed, adeptly maneuvering the vehicle around potholes and debris as though he were playing a video game. But this was a real war zone, and there were no extra lives, no second chances here. And yet, despite all that, and despite the sweltering heat that already claimed the day, the atmosphere inside the Humvee was, for the most part, jovial.

"We're goin' home, baby!" Corporal Sedaris, a scruffy – at least by military standards – young soldier crooned from the front passenger seat. He had fashioned himself as somewhat of a bad boy, his longer-than- regulation hair and permanent three-days-growth bread mirroring his jocular and sometimes rebellious personality. It was his AC/DC mix CD that was playing on the boom box he'd brought along. He took a swig of illegal Iraqi moonshine from his non-regulation flask to celebrate.

"Dude, you're gonna be out of the country in just a few hours and you can't even wait that long to drink?" came the voice of Private Jenkins from behind Sedaris. The baby of the group at only twenty-two years of age, Jenkins's congenial and caring nature had long endeared him to Wayne. Raised by his grandmother on the streets of downtown Detroit, Jenkins had found God at an early age, and, under the guiding hand of a church deacon with a heart for impoverished youth, he had grown into a man full of compassion, rather than the drugs and desperation that filled many of his peers.

"You sure you don't want some, bro?" Sedaris offered, dandling the flask just out of reach for Jenkins.

"Dude leave him alone. And you'd better not have any of that on your breath when we get to the airstrip or I'm disowning your ass," Price said. Price was the soldier with the most experience in the car, but after fifteen years of service and eight tours of duty, his face still retained the boyish charm that had made him popular with the ladies back in high school. A leader by example, Price had won Wayne's admiration and respect within days of their first meeting. Price, Jenkins, and even good old Sedaris definitely deserved this vacation. If only fate would be so kind.

"Eh, whatever," Sedaris said. "We're almost home free." He took another swig, audibly relishing it for emphasis. "Mmmm, mmm, mmm. Dee-lish."

Price bounced the right side of the vehicle through a pothole, jarring Sedaris and Jenkins in their seats.

Sorry 'bout that, Jenkins," Price said with a mischievous smile, glancing at Sedaris through the rear-view mirror.

All but oblivious to the what was going on around him, Wayne stared out the windshield, the rocks and road rolling by too fast, too fast. The faster they traveled, the sooner they arrived, and the closer they got to that moment, the more Wayne felt his resolve slipping away.

"Hey Wilkins, what's eating you?"

The words barely registered, and he hadn't the slightest idea who had said them. Wayne continued to look at the road ahead with distant eyes, his mind too wracked with gilt and doubt, with sorrow and confusion, for any one emotion to emerge dominant and betray itself in his countenance.

"You carsick, dude?" Jenkins asked.

Wayne thought a moment. "Yeah," he replied, only half glancing at his compatriot, his friend. "Carsick."

Price eased off the accelerator, lifting his eyes to the reflection of Wayne in his rearview. "Sorry about the driving, Wilkins. You know, just excited and all."

Wayne met his eyes in the mirror. "It's alright," he mumbled. His eyes drifted back to the road, the worst place for his eyes to be, carsick or not, but he just couldn't keep from starring. The road being eaten up, the miles ticking away, the time vanishing before his eyes. The twisted shell of an old roadside bomb – a blackened and rust-ravaged corpse that had claimed human lives, and automotive suicide bomber – lay one side. The road itself was buckled and broken. The gray the yellow, the sand and dirt, the desolation of the desert and the horrors of war stretched out as an endless canvas around him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout for Price to stop, to turn around. To tell them the truth, to tell them that he couldn't go through with it, that they needed to turn around now. But it was too late for that. Powerful machinery was already turning, and he had passed the point of no return long ago.

It was too late.

"Aww, the hell…" Price groaned. A trio of Humvees – two of which were parked across the road – and four human figures appeared on the horizon. The markings indicated they were American, so they didn't have to worry about insurgents, at least, but it was still a momentary hitch. Price motioned for Sedaris to kill the music, the scruffy Corporal complying with a scowl.

"They'd better not be trying to rope us in for more time," Sedaris said through his teeth. "I've got a flight to Vegas to catch."

"They wouldn't do that, would they?" Jenkins asked, his voice slightly less confident than he'd intended. "Grab us right as we're going on leave?"

"Sure they would, kid," Sedaris said. "Screw you over every chance they get."

"Sedaris, cool it, already," Price ordered. "It's probably just a routine checkpoint. The airfield's just a few klicks away. All they need is for some terrorists to get in there with a truck full of explosives and blow up the whole damn field."

"Whatever." Sedaris muttered, slumping down in his seat. From his seat, Wayne watched as the road block grew closer and closer, the vehicle decelerating as the men standing sentinel came into focus. Three of them brandished M16s their expressions blank despite the beads of sweat that trickled down their faces. The fourth man, older and with more decorations on his uniform,, approached Price's window with a clipboard in hand.

"Morning, soldier," came the booming voice of the man outside, the insignia on his uniform marking him as a Colonel. "Brown" read the fatigue's name tape. His face was red with sunburn, his hair graying at the temples. Yet, despite the man getting on in years, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, positively exuded power and confidence. It the three men standing at attention in the blistering heat were any indication, his leadership skills were impressive.

"Morning, Colonel," Price said. Brown offered a tight lipped smile in response, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. In the rearview mirror, Wayne saw Price's features tighten. More orders, Price must've been thinking. Sedaris scowled, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"I'm looking for a Sergeant Wayne Wilkins?" Six eyes turned toward Wayne, followed by the pair belonging to Colonel Brown. Wayne slowly turned his face to the Colonel, wishing he were anywhere else but here.

"I'm Wilkins."

"Glad we got you before you left the country. We got word that you'd be leaving by this route, so we had to close it off. Sorry about the trouble. I've got orders here for a special debriefing for you. You need to come with me."

Wayne stared mournfully at his comrades, his motions trancelike, the look in his eyes more distant than usual. He swallowed and slowly opened his door and climbed out of the Humvee, his feet sinking in the loose sand.

"You should be on the next plane out of here, Wilkins," the Colonel added. "Just a few loose ends to tie up."

Another soldier exited from the back of one of the Humvees and walked briskly toward Colonel Brown.

"Ah, I'd almost forgotten." The Colonel motioned toward the approaching soldier. "this is Private Jameson. He has an emergency meeting at the airfield in about thirty minutes. And since you've got a seat open now, I need you to take Jameson to the airfield." Price nodded in tacit consent. Sedaris remain silent, face forward, a guilty half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Jenkins looked at Wayne with genuine concern in his eyes. Wayne saw all of them but could not meet any of their eyes. Not anymore.

For a brief moment, as Jameson moved to enter the Humvee, the Private and Wayne stood next to each other. Jameson was about Wayne's height. About his build. In fact, their bone structures were almost identical. but everyone in the vehicle, seemed to have their thought occupied with what had just happened and failed to notice the similarity.

The similarity did not escape Wayne.

"Look us up when you get back, man," Price offered out the window. " We'll have to get a few beers together. Maybe catch a few games."

"I'll save you a spot at my table in Vegas, dude. Have a few cocktails…. maybe a few cocktail waitresses," Sedaris added with a coarse laugh, leaning towards Price's open window.

"take care of yourself, brother," Jenkins said. Wayne had crossed and burned his bridges. There was no going back.

With one final glance at Wayne standing alongside the Colonel, Price gunned the engine, Sedaris cranked up the stereo, and the Humvee zoomed down the road, whoops of elation mixing with the sound of AC/DC, fading as they sped off into the distance.

Wayne kept his eyes trained on the vehicle as it entered a small valley between the rising hills on either side. Suddenly, from positions hidden amongst the war-torn landscape, four plumes of smoke converged from all angles upon the vehicle, followed by four deafening explosions, all traces of '80s metal dying away and being replaced with the screams of his former comrades, nearly drowned out by the concussions but echoing in Wayne's ears nonetheless.

"Again," came the voice at his side, a two-way radio raised to the Colonel's lips. Four more plumes. Four more explosions. No more screams. Wayne wanted to look away, but knew he couldn't. He had seen some truly horrible things in his time in the military. Two tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq. He had seen his fellow soldiers die before his eyes. But never had he been responsible for the deaths of his brothers-in-arms. And certainly never like this.

Images came flooding back to him: Price's clam leadership, his pictures of his twin five-year-old boys and their mother on vacation at the beach and waving to Daddy; Sedaris's gruff but generally good-natured attitude, his ambition to some day – when he finally got out of service – write for Saturday Night Live; Jenkin's compassion the he bestowed on his comrades.

Despite the heat of the desert sun, growing warmer by the minute, and the raging heat of the flames the engulfed the bodies of his former friends, the look in Waynes eyes, if anything, grew colder.

"Well, it's official," the Colonel said, squinting at his watch, then extending his hand to Wayne. "Wayne Wilkins is dead."

Reluctantly, Wayne took the Colonel's hand, struggling to keep his stoic resolve in place.

"Agent Wilkins," The Colonel said, looking firmly at Wayne as he shook hands, "illuminatus."