Earth Unraveled

Chapter 2

Tom Brooks braked and shifted his Celica to neutral.  Traffic was backed up onto the bridge and his car was stopped close to the middle of the span.  He unclenched his hand from the wheel, forcing himself to relax back in his seat.  Only a few weeks ago he’d had the power to move this traffic out with a few barked orders.  Paradise lost.  Now he was just another civilian.

The steel deck of the bridge vibrated and swayed under him as cars rolled by in the other direction.  It gave him an ungrounded feeling.  He looked out the window.  The bridge deck was built of steel mesh, unpaved, and he could see down through it to the river rapids below.  Kayakers paddled, negotiating a course between gates.  One of the kayakers slid into white water and the boat flipped.  The craft was swept downstream with the paddler underneath.  Tom imagined what it was like for him in the dark, upside down, relying on his own skill and a fistful of luck.   Maybe God was in the equation too.  Sometimes God let things slide on you, though.  What he threw into the mix was strange.  His own situation proved that.

Tom relived the attack that put him here the way he had relived it a hundred times.  He remembered the sound of bullets pinging off the steel body of his overturned Humvee.  He remembered the screaming from the back of the vehicle as it became a ball of flame.  Gabir, the interpreter, thrashed as he burned.

Tavreau shouted in near hysteria from the driver’s seat, “I-E-D, fucking son of a whore,” as he fumbled at his safety restraint.  Bullets slammed into the frag resistant windshield, one, two, three.  The third punched through and a red patch appeared on Tavreau’s chest causing him to stop screaming and start burping up blood.

The heat from the burning fuel at the back of the Humvee baked Tom’s skin right through his uniform.  He released his own safety restraint and fell to the ceiling, his uniform smoking.  He knew the front seat would be in flames in moments.  Tom unsnapped Tavreau’s harness, letting him tumble down, still puking blood but alive.  The frame of the Humvee was twisted from the explosion and the door was jammed.  Tom heard firing and shouting coming from several points.  He hoped to God it was his men firing back at the enemy.  Tom kicked at the shattered windshield, crunching it outward, clearing a hole.  He crawled through pulling Tavreau with him just as the passenger seat burst into flame.  He expected a bullet to catch him at any moment and several did whine off  the pavement near him.

The sound of gunfire continued as Tom unslung his M-16 and tried to get his bearings.  There were three other vehicles behind his in the convoy, none damaged by the IED.  He grabbed Taveraeu and dragged him up the line, his rifle in his free hand, swinging it left to right, searching for the sniper.  He spotted a bearded figure with a rifle on the roof of a building and fired wildly as he moved.  There was little chance of hitting him, one-armed as he was but the assailant ducked just the same.  Tom drew even with the next Hummer in line.

“Get him in the truck,” he screamed, letting go of the man, in favor of his rifle.  The Haji was back up, drawing a bead on them.  Tom fired a burst.  Again he missed – too much adrenaline, but this time the Haji did not duck.  He fired off a round striking Tom in the chest.  The blow hit him like a shot-put, knocking him off balance, slamming his head against the side of the Hummer as he went down.  He rolled on the ground in a daze, his mind screaming at him to get up, that the sniper was sighting in on him right now, setting up for the final shot, but the world had folded in on itself.  There was no up or down.  Tom pushed off something, maybe the ground, his head spinning, his lungs locked, unable to draw breath.  A metronome ticked in his head as he pictured each step of the sniper’s progress; chamber the bullet, ram the bolt home, lock it down, raise the rifle, aim at the American, squeeze . . . and there was the sound of a gunshot but it was his men firing first.  Instead of a bullet, he felt strong hands grasp him and pull him into the vehicle.  The engine roared and they surged backward.

“Where you hit, Commander?” a voice shouted.  “Where you hit?” Hands pawed him over, searching for a wound.

Tom pushed them away.  “M’ okay.”

“How many fingers?” the voice asked.  A hand waved in his face.  “What do you see?  What do you see?”

“Your mother’s ass.”

There was laughter.  “I think he’s okay.”

Tom rubbed his face.  “Did you get Tavreau?”

“In the next truck – sucking wound.  If he makes it, we’ll only have one casualty – Gabir.”

Gabir.  Tom remembered the Iraqi interpreter screaming as he burned in the back of the humvee.

“Shit,” Tom said, “The guy wasn’t even supposed to be here.  He stood in for Rahim.”

“That’s four times Rahim missed it.  He’s the luckiest man alive.”

“He is,” Tom said, wondering.  Four times.  Tom’s mind was pulled back to the present by the sounds of traffic.

* * *

The kayaker still floated upside down in the river.  Tom had lost track of time.  He shifted the Celica’s transmission to park and leaned out the window for a better look.  No one seemed to be noticing the trouble.  The other boaters paddled around in the river and the drivers on the bridge waited for the light.  Tom could almost feel the agony of the man trapped below the water, struggling, his last breath ready to burst from his lungs.  A cloud passed in front of the sun and the world grew a shade darker.  Tom stepped out of his car

“Hey,” Tom yelled down at the boaters.  They were thirty feet below.  “Hey, there’s a guy down there.”  The rushing water and the idling cars smothered his words.  He turned, searched inside his car, found an ice scraper from the past winter and chucked it down over the railing.

It hurtled toward the kayaks and by some miracle, bounced off the hull of a boat.  The occupant looked up.  “Hey,” Tom shouted, pointing at the overturned kayak, “he needs help.”

At that moment the troubled kayaker popped upright, puffing and drenched.  The boater he had shouted at aimed his middle finger at Tom.  A car horn honked.  The light was green and the cars in front of his moved out.  He jumped back into the Celica and fumbled with the shift as more horns honked.

“Keep your pants on,” Tom said under his breath.  His car jerked forward and he threw a last glance downward.  The boater was paddling his kayak into a dark archway at the bank of the river.  Tom wondered what was in there.  He could almost smell the dankness of the tunnel as he stepped hard on the accelerator to catch up with the tail end of cars moving away through the traffic light.