Page 2 of Proof Of Life

A feeling of ease settles over me. No matter where in the world we’re stationed, if Brandt is there, I’m good. I’m home.

We’ve been stuck together since boot camp back in Ft. Moore, Georgia, over twelve years ago. He grabs for my garlic bread, and the memory comes flooding back as if it happened just yesterday.

Taking a seat at the only empty table in the relatively crowded DFAC, I scratched my head, my scalp already itchy from the two-day-old shave, as I passed a discerning eye over my tray. The food was a far cry from my Gran’s southern cooking, but I was starving. Hunger made everything taste a tad bit better. A tall guy with a shaved head just like mine sat down across from me. Dressed in standard issue fatigues also like mine, the only thing that set us apart, that set any of us apart, was the name badge sewn on his jacket's breast pocket, and his eyes. He had the darkest blue eyes, like sapphires. The same color as the stone in my class ring.

Aguilar. That was the name sewn on the badge.

He picked up his biscuit and inspected it closely, as if he were debating putting it back. Mine weighed as much as a hockey puck and was just as hard. I wouldn’t blame him if he passed on it. Then, his face scrunched in revulsion, and he plucked a hair from the biscuit. I watched in fascination as a kaleidoscope of expressions danced across his face as he tried valiantly to get a handle on his roiling stomach. Taking pity on him, I handed him my biscuit. I hadn’t planned on eating it, anyway.

Aguilar accepted the biscuit warily, eyeing me with his piercing blue gaze.

“Thanks?” I remained silent, and he began picking the biscuit apart, popping pieces in his mouth only after he inspected each one carefully. “My name’s Brandt.”

“Weston,” I replied.

And then, as if I’d known him all my life, he began to ramble about his family and his friends back home in Charlotte, North Carolina. I listened as I ate, not contributing very much to the conversation, until finally I blurted, “My friends call me West.”

Brandt’s next word hung in the air, unspoken. His eyes softened, and a smile touched his full peach lips. “Then I guess I gotta call you West.”

He kept right on talking as we ate, filling any silences that might have been awkward between two strangers meeting for the first time, and twelve years later, he’s still stealing my bread and talking my ear off.

All at once, we’re joined by the rest of our team. Corporal Micah Jennings, also known as Sharp Shot or just Sharp, is our rifleman. He’s an expert marksman and a damn fine cook. Corporal Tommy Estevez, aka Boom, is our grenadier. The guy is scary smart when it comes to explosives. Like MacGyver smart. He also knows his way around the engine of a Humvee. Specialist Annemarie Legaro is our linguist who speaks fluent Pashto. She hates it, but we call her Rosie, as in the Rosetta Stone. She’s a new addition to our team, but I welcome her skills. They crowd around the table like ants swarming a grain of sugar.

“Talk to me, Goose,” Brandt quips, his expression eager and bright.

I swallow my smile and roll my eyes. His Top Gun references are just one of his many annoying traits. Stealing a cookie from his tray so we’re even, I explain, “There’s a small village down highway A75 along our supply route from Quetta in Pakistan.” Breaking the cookie in half, I shove one piece in my mouth, chewing as I speak. “They recently finished construction on a new school and they want us to clear the building and surrounding area before they allow students in.”

Some of the interest dims from Brandt’s eyes and he focuses his attention on his cup of yogurt. No doubt he was hoping for something more exciting.

“We’re not just playing hall monitor here, Reaper.” As our automatic rifleman, Brandt can be a ruthless killer, akin to Rambo when he unleashes the furious vengeance of his weapon, hence his nickname, the Grim Reaper. “Intel said the village has transient residents that come and go often. There are reports that insurgents have already moved in and have taken over the school and are using it as a bomb factory. Where in the fuck are they traveling to? And why would they keep coming back?”

Tommy’s face pinches. “I don’t math well, but one and one doesn’t seem to be adding up to two here.”

Shoving the other half of the cookie in my mouth, I lick my fingers clean, and Brandt’s gaze falls to my lips. Did I have crumbs stuck to my mouth? Swiping them clean with the back of my hand, I still feel a bit self-conscious as I chew, and I wait until I swallow before speaking again.

“It’s possible they are Taliban spies or insurgents. We’ll leave just before sundown and make camp tonight along the highway. Tomorrow, we’ll check out the school, talk to the locals, and make sure we sweep the village clean before we leave.”

Rosie gives me a half-assed salute. “I’ll be ready to report for duty at seventeen hundred, Sergeant.” She was the first to leave the table.

“Count me in, Professor,” Tommy adds. They insist on calling me Professor because of my love for military history, a subject Brandt teases me endlessly about. In fact, he was the one who came up with the nickname. Tommy follows Rosie out of the Mess.

“See you in the parking lot,” Micah assures us.

“And then there were two,” Brandt quotes, finishing off the last spoonful of his yogurt before licking his lips clean.

I study him while his attention is diverted by his meal. The hard angles of his squared jaw, covered with dark stubble. The tiny mole next to his full lips that resemble a beauty mark. His thick fringe of dark lashes that hood his ocean-blue eyes. After all these years, I know his face better than my own. My heart squeezes, full of gratitude for him, for his unwavering loyalty and his unconditional friendship.

It will always be just the two of us. No matter what.

Ihaven’t been able to take a deep breath since I arrived here six months ago.

The air is layered with fine particles of powdery dust—moon dust—that make your teeth grit together. I can feel that shit coating my lungs by now, slowly suffocating me from the inside out. When I’m indoors, the recirculated air is rife with germs and the stench of unwashed sweaty bodies. In the showers, the thick blanket of steam that doesn’t vent well fogs the bathroom, amplifying the smell of mildew. Even as I walk through the base outdoors, the putrid aroma from the retaining pond where our waste is dumped is intensified by the relentless heat and smacks me in the face like a ten-pound brick, robbing me of what little breath I dare take into my lungs.

I would give almost anything for a fresh breath of air, to smell something sweet and clean and new.

Every night, I lay my head down and close my eyes and pray for a dream where I’m back home again, walking through the woods that surround Charlotte, or the mountains of the Blue Ridge. Hell, even the semi-stale city air of Fort Bragg would be a welcome salvation.

I miss the smell of food cooking on the stove, the musky spice of my designer cologne, and even the cheap Glade air freshener and scented candles that littered my apartment. I miss a lot of things that I used to take for granted. And considering the high price I’m willing to pay to appreciate them at this moment, I know from past experience that it won’t take me long to begin taking them for granted again as soon as I return home.

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