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ONE
Connor
Connor gave a barely perceptible nod as he greeted Rob, as the other man snuck through the doorway of the crumbling stone building. Following orders to find and neutralize the terrorist insurgents in the area, Connor’s unit had fanned out and crept around the dusty shell, scoping out the landscape.
He pushed his combat helmet up a little and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He’d never get used to the Afghan heat. And it’d been a scorcher. The dry desert wind was so hot it was like breathing in fire, and over summer, it didn’t quit for months on end. The long days were always the same—sun beating down on them from dawn to dusk. The nights were just as bad, with temperatures hardly dropping. Connor often lay under the squeaky fan in their bunk room—the same one that barely circulated the oppressive hot air—and dreamed of the ocean breezes back home.
Drawing his assault rifle up high, Connor looked through the scope, methodically checking the roofline and each of the windows of the squat buildings surrounding them. Even though air support had confirmed there were signs of recent activity, nothing out of the ordinary was visible from the laneway.
While Rob double-checked the same line Connor had just scoped out, he whispered, “You rocked ‘Everlong’ last night.” The Foo Fighters classic was one of Connor’s favourites, but he’d only managed to nail it the night before, sitting in the mess hall of the Allied Forces compound. He grinned. They’d had fun—Rob playing a jerry-rigged set of drums and him on an acoustic guitar singing their hearts out.
“You’ve got mad skills on the buckets, but that singing? Damn, it was shithouse.” At Connor’s playful jab, Rob snickered, the unit falling silent once more as they continued their watch.
Connor shuffled forward a little and pivoted, Rob mirroring his movement so they checked each other’s lines before spinning back around so he could move again. Taking that single step put him in front of what used to be a window, the building now open to the elements. Through it, Connor saw another window and beyond that, the alleyway around the corner where they would regroup with the other half of their unit.
In the eerie near silence, he heard the click of a firing pin being cocked. It echoed through his brain as loud as a gunshot, setting every nerve ending on high alert. Who did it? And then he spied him. The person—he guessed a man—was covered with a sand-coloured blanket. The slightest movement of the malleable material caught his attention. Almost directly ahead, two stories above them. Silently, Connor signalled for the others, pointing to where he had seen the enemy. Hyperaware of his surroundings, he didn’t take his eyes off the target. Time slowed, as did his heartbeat while Connor readied his weapon, flicking off the safety. His hands rocksteady, he waited for the order to engage. It would only be given when they were certain no unarmed locals would be caught in a gunfight.
Next to him, Rob dropped to one knee and raised the gun scope to his eye. “Insurgent, rooftop, at one o’clock,” he whispered, his throat mic transmitting the broadcast to the other men in their unit.
“Hold your cover,” their commanding officer ordered.
A couple of barely audible shuffles on the hard-packed earth behind Connor was the only indication that the men in his unit adjusted their positions, covering their six. More locations were given, more of their foes identified. They weren’t surrounded, but they might as well have been. And his unit had been given a hold order. Powerless to do anything but wait until they got more intel, this was the part he hated.
The wait and see game they were playing had Connor on edge, ratcheting up the tension. Their commanding officer’s shouted order, “Fire at will,” shattered the relative calm before the storm. His timing couldn’t have been any better scripted, barely a second before the coordinated movement of blankets sliding off weapons happened before their eyes. The insurgents made the mistake of exposing their positions, leaving Connor and the other soldiers to pick them off. Strategically hidden, their Australian Army unit was as protected as they could be in a war zone. The mud and clay houses surrounding them took the majority of fire as the deep boom of their assault rifles rent the air. The recoil from each shot Connor let loose was enough to dislocate an inexperienced shooter’s arm. But Connor had been trained by the best. And the six years’ experience he’d had in hell holes just like this one kept his shooting arm rocksteady under fire.
All hell broke loose as their fire was returned, the unmistakeable tinny clatter of the enemy’s AK47s drowned out by the boom of their more powerful weapons. The acrid smell of cordite filled his nose until he could taste it, dust and smoke creating a haze around them. The danger and adrenaline were like a shot to his heart, kick-starting it into a pounding rhythm. His brothers and sisters in arms let rip with their full arsenal, and Connor panned his gun, searching for his next target. Instinctively, his sight was drawn back to the spot where he’d initially seen movement only moments earlier. The glint of metal winked in the sunlight, capturing his eye. It wasn’t the weapon he’d seen. It was something else—a ring perhaps, or a watch. But there was no mistaking the outline of the launcher and the rocket attached to it.
“RPG.” he yelled, depressing the trigger on his rifle to neutralize the target.
“Take cover,” his commanding officer yelled, rounding his weapon and firing with Connor in the direction of the rooftop. Their bullets hit their mark, a patch of scarlet blossoming out over the sand-coloured clothing worn by the enemy shooter. Bullets zinged past Connor, his latest shot exposing his position to the insurgents.
An almighty explosion tore through the alley before them, the shockwave launching Connor into the air. He hit the wall hard, driving the air from his lungs. His body reeled from the impact. The instant thump of his head and his vision—foggy around the edges—told him his combat helmet had taken a hit that would otherwise have scrambled his brains. The ringing in his ears was a piercing scream, increasing in frequency until it made him nauseous. Winded, he struggled to take a breath, panic involuntarily welling inside him. Sure, he’d been injured before, but never incapacitated. And he was a sitting duck until he could think straight and get his body to cooperate. Disoriented, Connor fought the fear and took stock of his surroundings. Now inside the building he’d been using as shelter, he was safe for the moment. But he was also trapped, having to traverse past the open windows to get back to his former position. Connor lifted his gun—held to him with the strap attached to his flack vest—checking it would still fire. The screaming pain of flesh tearing had him gasping for breath and looking over his shoulder. He was impaled on a piece of jagged glass, wedged in tight under the Kevlar protecting his body.
The gunfight continued around him, but it faded to white noise when the dust cleared enough that he could see Rob’s convulsing form. Limbs splayed at an awkward angle like a ragdoll had been dropped onto the floor, Rob’s muscles spasmed.No. No, no, no.Connor gritted his teeth and fought another wave of nausea when he pulled away, dislodging the glass from his shoulder.
Still dizzy, he then crawled over to his friend, forgetting about the danger lurking outside. Blood oozed from Rob’s neck, the crimson stain on his uniform growing unchecked with each beat of Rob’s heart. Horror filled Connor. He couldn’t lose his friend. He wouldn’t. Rob struggled, fighting to take a rasping breath as blood pooled around him. It was like a horror movie, but one that Connor couldn’t press Pause on, one he knew he’d never forget. Every memory of Rob laughing, of the warm glow of pure love Rob got when talking about his wife, of every prank and every serious moment they’d shared over the years hit Connor with the force of a Mack truck. He had to save him. “Stick with me, mate. I’m gonna get you outta here.” Connor frantically pressed a hand down on Rob’s bloodied throat, trying desperately to stem the bleeding while he searched for a safe exit. He needed to get Rob out of there, needed to get him to safety.Oh God, no. Please, please let him be okay.
“Con, left pocket. For Molly.” Rob’s voice came out with a distinctive gurgle, blood pooling in his wind pipe, quickly drowning him. Tears sprang to Connor’s eyes, his heart shattering into a million pieces. This man had been his brother and his confidant since basic training. He couldn’t lose him. Connor loved him like family. A piece of him died as the light in his friend’s eyes began to fade.
“Live. Go home to them,” Rob gasped, forcing the words out while his body shut down. He stilled slowly, but Connor knew the instant he’d lost him. With shaky hands, he closed Rob’s eyelids. Taking a steadying breath, Connor nodded, psyching himself up. He took the folded note from Rob’s top left pocket—the one directly over his heart—and stuffed it in his jacket. He kissed the other man’s forehead, resting his own against it.
“Rest easy, my friend. I’ll take you home.”
Sucking in another breath and compartmentalizing the pain of loss so fresh it hadn’t properly sunk in yet, Connor raised his gun again and crept to the nearest window. It wasn’t revenge pulsing through his veins, but justice. Rob’s killers weren’t going to get to face court though. He’d pick off each and every one of them, leaving them bloodied in the dirt to protect his other brothers and sisters. Through the magnification on the scope, he made out shadows inside the building closest to the other half of his separated unit. He fired, pausing only to check that his target dropped before moving onto the next.
The return bullets aimed at them slowed, then stopped and with it, the ache in his arm intensified. Connor found his throat mic, which had dislodged when he’d hit the wall, and reattached it, answering his commanding officer’s status check. Rob wasn’t the only loss they’d suffered. Two more of their team were down—one with minor injuries and another in need of emergency treatment.
Thethwap, thwap, thwapof helicopters in the distance grew louder until the noise drowned out everything else. He peered out of the window to see two gunships covering the hovering medivac chopper, paramedics zip-lining down ropes. A stretcher followed them down on the winch into their waiting arms. Their commanding officer and Blair, another member of his unit, carried Ross to the medics, lying him down on the stretcher. Another stretcher followed, and Connor knew this one was for Rob. He waved them over before kneeling by his friend. “Medics are here to take ya home, Rob.” Connor lifted his protective glasses and wiped the tears forming with the back of his dirty hand. “I love you, man.”
six months later
Connor stepped out of the plane door onto the mobile steps and looked around. Twilight was falling, the sky a wash of pinks and oranges as the sun set over the Gold Coast hinterland. He couldn’t see it from the airport, but Connor could picture the rolling waves of the Pacific to the east. He couldn’t wait to lay eyes on the ocean again.
Walking across the tarmac toward the terminal, the salty sea breeze teased him—he could smell it even over the avgas—the balmy breeze caressing his skin. The warmth was a welcome change from the out-of-season chilly weather in the Adelaide hills, and before that, the icy winter in the Afghanistan desert.
He’d been discharged from active service. He was done, a civilian now, a scary thought.
The automatic doors whooshed open and the air-conditioned comfort greeted him. The building was jam-packed, the noise from the crowd a low hum. He passed straight through, heading for the luggage carousel and his two bags, trying his best to dodge the crowds milling around waiting. Spotting his duffle, he snatched it up before collecting his guitar case. Connor then joined the line for a taxi. He was tired—it’d been a hard journey so far. Seeing Rob’s widow, Molly, was as heartbreaking as he’d dreaded it would be. But he couldn’t come home without seeing her. He’d long since sent her Rob’s note, but he owed it to her, to Rob, to tell her as much as he could about Rob’s death.
