IMAGINATION

The world exploded.

“Incoming RPG’s!” someone shouted.

Smoke engulfed the sleeping quarters. It took a few seconds for Christopher to wake up and fully realize what was happening. Confusion erupted as men scrambled for safety. Coughing, Christopher yanked on his army boots and stumbled outside wearing only his government issued boxer shorts and t-shirt. Bullets whistled through the air.

He dove into a foxhole where several of his bunkmates had taken cover. He looked out to assess the situation. In the distance, muzzle flashes looked like cameras popping at the Academy Awards as they strafed their position. Green and red tracers lit the night sky.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

 “Bastard’s snuck in through the perimeter!” a sergeant stated. The sergeant pulled a pair of night vision goggles to his eyes and scanned the ridgeline. “Chatter indicates insurgents are getting reinforcements from a neighboring province! We’re trying to scramble choppers!”

“Where are the crews?”

“They’re being located! It’s chaos on the north side!”

Soldiers yelled and screamed and emptied their M-16’s unleashing drones of automatic gunfire. Return sniper bullets pinged and chipped away at the concrete bunkers. He could hear the thumping echo of large shells exploding in the upper valley. A rocket propelled grenade screamed overhead and hit the supply dump with a virulent purple flash. Explosion shook the earth blasting debris. Shrapnel nicked the American flag tattooed on Christopher’s right forearm.

Another RPG impact rumbled the ground. Christopher pulled his t-shirt over his mouth and nose to shield his lungs against the choking fallout. Phosphorous shells landed in the center of the encampment releasing bouncing white orbs of smoke. Thundering echoes of F-16 Fighting Falcons roared a few miles away.

 “Get me a damage assessment!” a panicked voice screamed from a nearby radio. “We’re getting nailed over here! We need more guns in this fight!”

Christopher’s training automatically kicked in. Without thought to his own safety, he scrambled up and raced across the air strip toward one of the waiting Black Hawk attack helicopters. Spinning rotors stirred clouds of sand that nearly blinded him as he hopped through the open door. Noise of the heavy engine was deafening.

The pilot turned his head.

“Who the Hell are you?” he barked.

“Sergeant first class Christopher Parker, sir! I’m a gunner specialist! What can I do?”

“Where’s your uniform, sergeant?”

“My tent’s been mortared, sir!”

The pilot turned around and flipped switches on the consol.

“Man your position!” he said. “No sense sitting here like ducks.”

Christopher dropped down into the gunner seat and pulled the safety harness across his chest. A few moments later, they got grid reports and received clearance for liftoff. Powerful thrust rattled the Apache and the imposing war machine rose into the air. Christopher’s adrenaline skyrocketed. This was what he was taught to do. What he’d spent months readying for. All the classroom work and preparation was now being put into practice.

Tracers arched across the sky. Machine gun fire popped rapidly from the dunes and Christopher tensed over his controls. Insurgent forces were shooting from beneath blankets that masked their heat signatures. He couldn’t get a lock.

“Over there!” the pilot stated, and steered the craft toward dozens of muzzle flashes.

Plinking sound of bullet impacts reverberated through the Black Hawk’s interior but Christopher wasn’t overly concerned. The Black Hawk’s reinforced, double thick steel hull was well protected against small arms fire.