Page 94 of Miss Typed

Iraq still officially sucked. Check.

I wiped the sweat off my brow and adjusted the AK-47 slung on my back as I walked towards the headquarters building. I’d flown in from LA yesterday, been given my standard issue of a bulletproof vest and automatic rifle, and then been shown to my room, a long aluminum building with multiple bunks. I’d spent my first night in country staring at the top bunk and trying to put a finger on why I felt restless.

Sure, I’d always missed the comforts of home, but I’d never missed someone. I’d never gone to bed with a woman on my mind and woken up the same way. Then again, it could be argued I’d never loved someone the way I loved Chloe.

There were men from all types of backgrounds here. Most with beards, some overweight, some young, some old. Half were former military or police, and the other half were learning as they went along, hoping not to die as a result of freezing at the wrong moment. Almost all were here for the paycheck.

I wasn’t judging. But the camaraderie I’d always enjoyed in the military was definitely missing from this group. After only twenty-four hours with them, this was clear to me. Equally tough to get used to was the fact I wasn’t in charge here. I was just another hired gun, and a newbie at that. No one would be following my orders. No one would be looking to me for guidance.

Stepping into the command center, I breathed in a hint of AC. On the left I could see the portable unit working overtime to keep up with what wasn’t even the hottest of the desert heat. It would only get worse as we headed into August.

I was greeted by a mountain of a man who introduced himself as Gunther. Whether it was his first or last name, I didn’t know or bother to ask. He took a seat behind a desk, his eyes scanning a paper I assumed was my dossier.

“Nice to have another Marine here. And another amputee.” He swung around and pulled up his right pant leg to reveal a titanium prosthesis.

The shock on my face must have been obvious.

“What, you didn’t think you were special, did you, Samuels?”

Evidently not. “How long have you been in country?”

“Off and on two years. I try to rotate people home every three months; otherwise, they start to lose it. This isn’t the military. This isn’t a place you’ll probably make friends. We’re all here to stay alive and collect the paycheck. We’ll go on our first run in an hour and show you the routes we take. Our job is to escort precious cargo—normally deliveries to locations outside of the green zone. Once we leave, it’s the wild, wild west out there. You’ve got everything from IEDs to snipers to carjackers. We drive ninety miles per hour in a caravan of four SUVs, and we don’t stop for anything. Well, we do have to stop for gas, and that involves its own challenges. For a country rich in oil, there are few service stations, which means we have to cut in line and piss everyone the hell off.”

Everything he said made sense. It also made me question my sanity about why I was here again? What I was trying to prove? Or more importantly, what value was this giving me? But I was a man who followed through with my commitments. I was on the hook for a minimum of twelve weeks.

He handed me my credentials. “Welcome to government contractor work in Iraq.”

* * *

Three weeks after being in country, I faced my first gas station run. The line was at least a hundred cars deep, and we cut to the front with the four SUVs—all black Suburbans. Two went straight to the front, while the other two created a road block. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much choice but to butt in. Once outside the green zone, we were vulnerable, especially when sitting still. To make matters worse, sunlight was quickly fading from the sky.

I got out of the vehicle along with the others, including Alex, a twenty-one-year-old from Alabama. He had no prior military experience, but he seemed levelheaded. We each had our positions to take. Alex and mine were beside the vehicle while others fanned out to set up a perimeter near the entrance to the station.

My jaw clenched at the shouting of the people in line. I had no doubt they’d been waiting for hours, and here we were taking our turn by force. My arm was on my AK-47, and I was trying to appear relaxed when I was anything but.

Glancing over, I could see Alex sweating. Not uncommon in this heat, but his nerves were obvious from the way his hands were shaking. This could make for a disaster. Out here there were no rules. No oversight to ensure people made the right decisions. Hell, there hadn’t even been adequate training to ensure this kid knew what he was doing.

“Relax,” I said, watching his finger inch towards his trigger. Shit. This could be bad. The kid was on the edge of freaking out. And I couldn’t afford to keep my eyes on him. I had to trust my voice would get through to him.

“Alex. I need you to relax.”

“They’re coming closer.”

Yes. They were. About ten angry men were approaching, yelling and probably using every curse in the book in their language. “I know they are. But you need to keep your finger off the trigger. You have to breathe.”

No response. “Talk to me, Alex. Tell me you understand how you need to be calm. How you need to stand there and not raise your gun yet.”

“How will I know if I have to shoot?” His voice was high pitched, showing his nerves.

“You’ll know if you have to shoot if you see me shoot. Not before.”

When you think someone will take your life, you have to act. I’d made that decision before, but it didn’t mean I wanted to do it again. Didn’t mean I wanted blood on Alex’s hands. Or worse, having to send word home to his family he’d been killed.

“Do you trust me, Alex?”

“Hope so, man. How much longer do we have to wait?”

The group had stopped their approach, but they were still volatile and yelling.