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Did I?
My cheek throbs, and my body is tight.
A clutch of goat herders on the side of the road draws my attention. Three men in white robes, olive green jackets and shemaghs. Only the militant wear the dark green headscarf. The civilians, the regular guys wear the more traditional Keffiyeh, which is red or black and white checked.
My heart beats faster. I look to the side, and I see a man standing alone. He’s moving past the truck in front of me, closer to my vehicle.
Black eyes meet mine, sparking with hatred. My stomach clenches, he smirks, and I see in an instant what’s about to happen. We have to turn around.
Easier said than done.
I jerk the wheel of the massive, four-ton transport vehicle, but it’s too late.
“NO!” My shout fills the cab.
The blast deafens me.
The enormous vehicle I’m driving jolts into the air, front-end first, and my head slams violently against the back glass. I’m wearing a helmet, but the impact is like a sledgehammer to my skull.
The vehicle twists in the air before slamming to the ground on the driver’s side, jerking my head to the left. For several minutes, I lie there confused.
I stare blankly ahead.
A high-pitched shrill is in my ears.
Men shout all around me, running and pointing. Dust, smoke, and chaos surround us. I can’t think.
I have to think. I’m trained for this.
I force my arms to move, force my fists to release the steering wheel. My fingers fumble as I try to unfasten my seatbelt. My movements are clumsy, disoriented, until finally it comes undone, and I drop against the door.
“Oof!” comes out of my mouth, but the ringing in my ears drowns out everything.
A hand grabs my arm, and I hear a voice like it’s underwater. “Cole! Are you hurt? Can you move?”
I have to move. I nod, pushing against the door, doing my best to maneuver my legs under me so I can stand. I’m stunned and deaf and nausea roils in my stomach. The light blinds me. I have a concussion, I know it. From the haze of my memory, I recite the symptoms, which means I could also have brain swelling.
I could die.
I don’t have time for that.
The door is open, and I crawl out onto the bright beige sand.
“God!” I yell and wince at the sound of my voice.
Every movement is another slice of pain through my brain. Still, I have to help my men. The other trucks have circled around us and snipers are up top covering us. I go to the back of my downed vehicle.
It’s like a large animal lying on its side, the rest of the herd surrounding us for protection.
“It was an IED,” a man shouts.
“Impossible. We cleared these streets yesterday.”
I don’t have time to wait for the end of their argument. I have one thing on my mind, one person. Every time I signed off, I promised her I’d look out for him. I can’t break my promise now.
Staggering down the length of the vehicle, I round the tailgate and pull back in horror. A severed half of a torso is on the ground in front of me, two legs apparently cut off from a body by the weight of the truck falling on it.
Medics run back and forth shouting and shoving past me. I’m still trying to clear my ears, trying to clear my vision. I’m seeing double.
