Page 64 of Breaking Free

It seemed like any other hot summer day in southern Afghanistan. A light breeze blew, which would have been welcome if it didn’t bring fine particles of dust and sand along with it. No matter how much he showered, he couldn’t remove the grit.

Their mission that day was to escort a convoy of humanitarian aid workers and a medical team to a village in the Kandahar Province, in desperate need of food and medicine after recently being liberated from enemy hands.

They were five clicks out when chaos erupted. A barrage of bullets dinged off their armored vehicles. Tristan and his team were safe, but the same wasn’t true about the volunteers in thatambulance or canvas-top truck. And the insurgents didn’t give a damn about the giant red cross emblazoned on both.

Their captain’s orders came almost instantly. “Flank and return fire.”

The driver didn’t hesitate before moving up into position, as Tristan and the other five men piled out. For what seemed like an eternity but wasn’t more than a few minutes, they took on enemy fire, bullets whizzing by their heads, kicking up dirt and debris. And they gave as good as they got, to protect the civilians in their care.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder when the call came, “Cap’s been hit!”

“What’s his status?” Tristan demanded.

“A bullet to the head. He’s gone, Chief.”

Cursing erupted from the men surrounding him. With the continued bombardment, they didn’t have time to grieve the man and the leader most of them had served under for years. That would come later. It was now up to Tristan, the highest-ranking NCO and second-in-command, to get the rest of them through this alive.

“Foster. Get on the horn with the CO in the village,” he directed his communications sergeant. “Have him send what help he can. And contact command. Tell them we need air support.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

As the battle raged on, his ears rang from the rapidpop-pop-popsof automatic rifles and theclick-click-boomof grenade launchers. Despite their best efforts, the enemy was gaining ground because he and his men were both outnumbered and outgunned, their mobility severely hampered by the civilians they had to protect. They also had limited ammo, each round fired shrinking their chances of making it out of this alive.

“Where’s our air support?” he shouted through his headset.

“Command said they’re twenty minutes out.”

Tristan cursed under his breath. Twenty minutes was an eternity when under attack. “And the platoon in the village? Where the fuck are they?”

“They’re taking fire too,” Foster said grimly.

The sudden mantle of responsibility weighed on him. Every decision he made could mean the difference between life and death for his unit and eighteen innocent civilians, primarily volunteers. When Tristan glanced around, he could see their fear and the grim determination etched on the faces of his teammates, despite fighting against overwhelming odds.

“What’s the plan, Chief?” Nolan shouted over the din. “We can’t hold them off much longer!”

Using his field glasses, Tristan surveyed the rise where the enemy positioned themselves for the attack. The stretch of land between them was dotted with red markers.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Undetonated ordinance and land mines were a risk throughout the war-ravaged country, some dating back to the soviet invasion. Traversing a marked field took time they didn’t have and required not being shot at.

He made a split-second decision. “We’ll split up and attack from their flanks. They’ll have no choice but to move forward into the minefield or retreat.”

Without Cap, there were eleven of them. Four held the line of defense, providing cover. His best sniper was on the move, getting into position. Nolan circled left with two men, and he went right with two others. Once they signaled readiness, Tristan issued the attack order.

He didn’t know how long the battle raged. His ears rang from the constant report of gunfire, grenades exploding, the crack of Mitchell’s sniper rifle reverberating in the distance, and thealways gruesome scream when someone got hit. Luckily, not any of his men.

“They’re retreating,” he heard through his earpiece. “What’s left of the bastards.”

“Hold your fire,” he ordered his small team.

They stopped, straining to listen. Then they looked up, hearing the hum and prop whirr of A-29s in the distance.

“Better late than fucking never,” one of his men muttered, the sentiment hanging heavy in the dusty, smoke-filled air.

“They’ve confirmed they’re bugging out,” Foster radioed in.

“Prepare to move out,” Tristan ordered while his two front-line teams doubled back. As they jogged double time, he gave more orders. “Contact the CO in the village for a status. We need shelter and more manpower if they come back with reinforcements.”

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