Page 7 of Proof Of Life

“What about me? I’ve got my wife right here.” I slap Brandt’s thigh. “He’s going to have to improve his foot rub game though, if he wants me to give him kids.”

His straight white teeth glisten as he smiles back, shaking his head.

He always takes my ribbing good-naturedly. It’s just one of many perks of a decade-long friendship. You can tease the other person, insult them, even say hurtful things at times, and all will be forgiven.

“As long as they all look like me and not you, I’ll rub anything you want me to,” he teases.

Predictably, the peanut gallery goes wild with comments and jokes. I let it slide because not only does it pass the time on the road, but hopefully we’re distracting Brandt from his anxiety. Until finally, we pull off the highway onto an unpaved road only wide enough for a single vehicle.

As we drive through the city of Spin Boldak, children run alongside the road, keeping pace with our vehicle, shouting at us, waving, and some even throw small rocks. It’s hard to tell if these people are friends or foes. Most are just indifferent. As long as we keep the terrorists from attacking their village and recruiting their children and raping their women, they’re happy to leave us alone. But the children are desperate, always asking for handouts, whether it be food, clothing, or supplies. They would take anything we were willing to part with.

If we were riding with more security in a convoy, with plenty of backup and firepower, I would stop and share what I could, but this isn’t a humanitarian effort, and we’re woefully under-manned and under-armed. Additionally, and more importantly, it would only heighten Brandt’s anxiety, which makes it a solid no for me.

We leave Spin Boldak in our rearview in a cloud of dust and continue through villages that become smaller and less populated until we reach Haji Qotar, our final destination.

After making two rounds through the small village, cruising at a snail’s pace as we check for signs of anything and anyone out of place, Brandt kills the engine in front of the newly constructed school.

“This place is like a ghost town,” Rosie remarks.

Frowning at her, I add, “Just another thing that doesn’t make sense about this town. Intel says their population isn’t more than a hundred people.”

Tommy’s brows pull together. “What the fuck do they need a school for?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Let’s check it out. Tommy, how many grenades have you got on you?”

“Two, Sergeant.”

“Micah, are you fully stocked on clips?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I don’t have to ask Brandt if he’s ready. I know he is. He’s anal about his preparedness. Annmarie specializes in linguistics, and her main job is to provide communication between us and the locals, but when her services aren’t needed, she’s expected to carry a gun and cover her ass, as well as ours. A soldier is first and foremost always a soldier, before any specialty or rank.

“Rosie, are you fired up?”

“I've got eight clips, Sarge.”

“Let’s roll out. Vee formation until we make our way inside the building. I don’t have the layout yet, so I’ll call it when we get in there.”

I survey my team on the dirt path that leads up to the building. They look sharp as fuck, eager and ready, and I wait for that feeling of rightness to click within me. That feeling that tells me we’re ready to move. A huge weight settles over me. The weight of responsibility. It’s a weight no one wants to carry. I’m responsible for their safety. One bad call, one wrong move, and I would shoulder the regret of those decisions for the rest of my life, however long that is.

From the outside, the building doesn’t look like much. It’s as plain as every other building in this village. Most are constructed from dried mud and sand, adobe style, all blending together in a sea of beiges and browns. But from the inside? It’s even worse. There is no way you can convince me this is a school. Even in a village this poor, the villagers take pride in teaching their children. The walls are made of bare plywood, no paint or spackle coating them. Some rooms are only divided by hanging sheets. The floor is made of packed gravel.

As team leader, I’m trained to assess a location or situation in the blink of an eye. It only takes seconds for me to discern whether we’re under threat or not. As we move through the front door in a single file line, we pause at the base of the stairs while I survey our surroundings. I note there are no overhead lights, no safety measures. Hell, there aren’t even doors on the classrooms. The building is stripped bare down to the basics. Our Intel said the construction was complete. It looks like another bomb factory or training facility for insurgents. They were popping up faster than we could shut them down.

The good news? The place doesn’t seem inhabited currently, which considerably lessens the risk for my team. We’ll scope it out, seize any supplies we find, and then either burn the building down or detonate it. I vote for detonation. It's always more exciting than a fire.

“Sharp, Boom, Rosie, upstairs,” I motion with my head, as both my hands are on my gun, “Reaper, with me.” My voice carries through the microphone attached to my helmet that keeps us all connected.

We stay on the first floor, circling around the staircase. I come upon what should be a janitor's closet, except that it’s missing a door and is empty.

“This is a total front operation,” Brandt mutters in his comms.

“Nothing but crickets up here, Sarge. Just an empty shell," Tommy comes back over my headset. “I see stripped wiring and lots of plastic packaging discarded on the floor. Other than that, nada. We’ll take the secondary stairs down and sweep as we make our way back to you.”

“Roger that,” I call back.

The walls are so thin, I can hear the echo of their boots overhead and wonder what the flooring is made of. Probably another sheet of plywood. Tense moments pass in silence. The beating of my heart is the loudest noise in the room. We duck into another classroom, only to find it empty, just like all the others.

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