Then I knew nothing.
Then I awoke. Heard sounds. Watery, indistinct.
Voices?
I froze.
Yes. Human voices. High and agitated.
Desperate, euphoric, I maneuvered my left hand to grope the farthest recesses of the small vacuum in front of my face. My fingers closed on a stone the size of my fist. My heart raced as I moved it in the small arc the limited space would permit, trying to bang against the rock above my head.
What was Morse code for SOS?
Mother of God. Who gives a shit?
I kept pounding with pathetically small strokes, desperate to make contact with the outside world.
The shouting intensified. Drew near. I heard staccato commands. Answers. Grinding. Dull thuds.
“Careful!” I bellowed. Or whispered. “I’m okay, just be careful.”
The grinding continued. Separated into the sounds of individual rocks being shifted.
After what seemed a lifetime, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. More grinding, then bright needles entered from all directions, a kaleidoscope sparkling dust suspended in the air around me.
Finally, a rock lifted and harsh, glorious sunlight poured in. I squinted up, blinded.
Blanton’s face hung above me, skin flushed the color of boiled ham.
“Sit tight. We’ll get you out in a jiff.”
I could only smile.
• • •
Three hours later we were on our way back to Delaram. Aqsaee and Rasekh lay in body bags in the back of the vehicle.
When the mortar hit, both marines had been positioned behind the Humvee. Same for Welsted. Though scratched by flying shards, all three escaped injury.
Ironic. Blanton’s need for nicotine saved his ass. He had also been standing clear of the impact zone. The diggers, being young and war-wise, heard the incoming round, understood, and ran.
In other words, I was the only one dumb enough to get hurt. Parked on my knees, I’d been too slow or too green to bolt. The impact of the blast had knocked me into the grave. The debris that fell on me wasn’t that deep. Though it seemed an eternity, I’d been buried roughly ten minutes. The sides of the trench had sheltered me.
“Probably an M252A1,” Welsted speculated as we rattled along. “You get so you can tell the difference. Each mortar sings its own song whistling through the air.”
“Enlightening, but irrelevant. The important point is, who the hell fired the damn thing?”
“Impossible to say right now. Probably not friendly fire. Our people would have sent more than one.” Though addressing Blanton’s question, Welsted still spoke to me. “M252s are British-made, but our mortar platoons use them. Army and Marines. If troops are forced to retreat quickly, weapons can be left behind.”
“And insurgents collect them.”
Welsted nodded. “Pick them up and do what any savvy enemy would do.”
“Were we the target?” I asked.
Welsted shrugged a who-knows. “Could be a scout spotted our vehicle and saw a chance to nail it, or it could be a misfire, an incorrect triangulation on a different objective. Could be—”
“Could be a world-class screw-up. I came out here to do a job, not get my nuts blown off.”
Welsted slid a withering glance at Blanton.
“This is a war zone. Any assignment carries risk.”
“Will you investigate where the round came from?” I asked.
“A recon team’s already been dispatched, but I don’t expect much. These launchers only weigh seventy pounds. A two-man crew can fire one and haul ass in no time. And the mortar’s got a range of three and a half miles. That’s a lot of sand to search. I’m surprised the shooters only launched one round. Probably only had one shell.”
“Ain’t the Tali grand.” Blanton shook his head in disgust.
At that moment the Humvee hit a pothole. The sudden lurch sent fire from my ankle to my knee. Welsted noticed me wince.
“You ought to get that treated.”
“I can take care of it.”
“Suit yourself.”
I would. I was embarrassed enough. Thanks to my body armor and helmet, my injuries were limited to cuts and abrasions. But the sprained ankle had forced me to direct the remainder of the disinterment while seated graveside.
Shaken by the blast, the initial diggers had refused to return. Their replacements were equally young, equally strong, but a lot less enthused. The required supervision had been significant.
Twenty minutes after setting out, we reached Delaram and our waiting Blackhawk. Hobbling toward it, I saw the body bags being placed in the cargo hold. I hurried to catch up to Welsted.
“I think the bodies should ride in the main bay,” I said.
“Why?”
“Stowing them in cargo could be interpreted as disrespect. Like transporting a corpse in a car trunk.”