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Stopping there was all on me. After all, he was my contact. I was the one who trusted him.
The whole damned thing was my call…
It unfolded as it always did, in slow motion. Sometimes I was driving. Sometimes it was Tempone, or Butch, or even Rossa, although he wasn’t even rated to pilot the ASV.
Either way, the end result was always the same.
The explosion began at the right rear of the M1117. It blossomed yellow, then orange, then angry red… flipping us up and into the air, until the vehicle stood on its nose. We hung there suspended for a moment, like some sort of screwed up kids’ toy spinning on end. Then it fell over sideways, hard.
I can never move fast enough, whenever it happens. Never reach anyone before the flames sweep through. I try over and over, but just like the rest of the scene I also move in slow motion. I open my mouth to warn everyone, but as always, no sound ever comes out.
In just seconds the interior of the Guardian is a fireball of heat and flame. Unbearable. Uninhabitable. I can hear their screams even as the flames sweep through, high-pitched and horrible. The kind of screams men were never meant to make under any circumstances, and yet somehow the human throat is still designed to form them.
My eyes go glassy as the impossible temperatures keep me at bay. The Guardian is on its back now, resting on its shattered turret. Its machine guns are two blackened sticks, bent uselessly by the sheer weight of its own impact.
The force of the explosion spiderwebs the shatterproof glass. I can’t see inside anymore. But I can still hear…
Oh God…
I’m always inside while we’re driving, before it begins. Yet after it happens, I’m suddenly watching from afar.
I open my mouth.
I open my mouth and—
“Wake up!”
My body rocks left and right, possibly from a second explosion. But it’s too gentle. Not enough of a—
“Briggs, wake up!”
I blink awake. It’s dark. Too dark. But I’m somewhere else now. Somewhere warm, and safe, and unharmed. I feel the softness of a bed beneath me — a real one, not a bunk.
And beside me something else. Something even warmer, softer, silkier.
“Honey, you were dreaming…”
Golden hair brushes my face, light and fragrant. I can see it shimmering, even in the dimmest light.
“You were screaming. Yelling out. So I woke you and…” She looks at me, and I still don’t recognize her. I’m still not fully back yet. “A—Are you okay?”
Slowly it floats in, coming in bits and pieces. Memories of last night. Memories of her.
It always takes a while, especially at first. For reasons I’ll never understand, the dream temporarily wipes out my short-term memory.
“I’m okay.”
It’s my first instinct, my gut reply. Only I’m not okay. I’m never really okay, any more than Tempone is okay. Or Butch. Or Rossa, Graziano, Kostas…
“Sit up.”
I do as I’m told, almost like I’ve been given an order. In some ways I have. A moment later I’m rubbing sleep from my eyes, staring around the strange room as a pair of very long, very feminine arms wrap themselves delicately around me.
“It’s alright,” she whispers into the darkness. “Whatever it is, you’re alright now. You’re with me…”
I exhale slowly and breathe her in. The scent of her body, the feel of her skin on mine — it relaxes me almost immediately.
I cuddle into her hard, preparing for the worst part. Bracing myself for the rush of cold, and the inevitable shaking.
