Page 13 of Resuscitation
Blake stood. “Enough talk, let’s show them. Make ‘em pay for all the Ellisons and Bukoskis. Ready to get to work, soldier?”
Miller nodded, his gaze still distant, but he stood up, and they walked out together.
* * *
The RG-31 vehicles rolled out,billowing dust in their wake. The rising sun painted the barren landscape in hues of gold and red as they made their way toward the highway and the village. The radio crackled with chatter from other units, but so far, all was quiet.
Blake tensed as their convoy turned onto Highway 1. The infamous “Highway to Hell” stretched from Kabul to Kandahar, cutting a swath of asphalt across the harsh Afghan landscape. It was also a dangerous stretch of Taliban activity.
The tension ratcheted up a notch among his squad. The banter soon ceased, and the vehicle became silent, apart from the hum of the engine.
Miller fidgeted with his rifle, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other before catching Blake’s. He nodded, attempting to reassure the kid.
The convoy rumbled along, each bump and pothole sending a jolt through the vehicle. Blake scanned the roadside ahead, looking for signs of digging, suspicious debris, or any other unexplained anomaly in the dirt that might hint at buried explosives.
Corporal Rodriguez’s voice crackled over the radio in his helmet. “All clear on the right flank, Sarge.”
“Copy that,” Blake responded, his gaze never leaving the road.
They passed the burned-out hulk of a car with twisted metal and a scorched shell, a stark reminder of the dangers on this stretch of highway. Sweat beaded on Blake’s forehead, as they approached a narrow pass between two hills.
He keyed his mic. “All units, tighten formation. Possible choke point ahead.”
The convoy slowed, vehicles drawing closer together. Tension radiated from his squad. Miller’s knuckles were white on his weapon, while Specialist Lee’s eyes darted constantly between her sector and the rocky outcroppings on the hills above. Then the landscape flattened, and a scattering of buildings on either side of the highway lay ahead.
A plume of dust in the distance caught Blake’s attention. He squinted, trying to make out the source. “Vehicle approaching. Stay sharp.”
The dust cloud grew larger, becoming a battered pickup truck speeding toward them.
Blake’s eyes narrowed as the truck stopped, partially blocking the convoy’s path ahead. The lone driver remained seated, his intentions unclear as they approached. If they stopped to inspect the driver and his truck, the entire convoy would be sitting ducks for any snipers. Blake’s mind raced through potential scenarios. Was this a civilian in distress? A Taliban scout? Or something worse? The few months he had spent in this unforgiving terrain had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now, every fiber of his being screamed danger.
He re-scanned the surrounding area through the window’s slit, looking for any signs of an ambush or hidden threats, before moving to the rear doors.
“Halt while I see what this guy’s?—”
A deafening roar shattered the air, followed by a blinding flash. The world lurched violently, spinning with the sickening crunch of metal and glass. Blake was thrown into the air, his body a rag doll in the chaos. His head struck something hard as he hit the asphalt. Darkness threatened to overtake him, but somehow, he clung to consciousness. An acrid smell of burning rubber and fuel filled his nostrils as he struggled to regain his bearings, his mind reeling from the sudden assault on his senses.
Through the haze of dust and smoke, Blake could make out that their once sturdy RG-31 truck was now reduced to a mangled ruin.
A muffled, pitiful moan cut through the incessant, loud ringing in Blake’s ears. He lay sprawled on the baking hot asphalt, every breath a laborious effort.
Pain lanced through his leg where shrapnel had lodged deep into the flesh. He tried to move but found his body unresponsive, pinned by wreckage. Panic surged, adrenaline momentarily numbing Blake. He forced himself to focus—to assess.
He registered fragmented images—Rodriquez slumped lifelessly in his seat that had blown out of his vehicle, both his legs gone. Miller’s face twisted in agony as he clutched at a gruesome wound just a few yards from him.
“Miller…No, Miller…” Blake’s voice came out a rasping whisper, barely audible even to himself.
* * *
Searing light.
A distant murmuring of indistinguishable voices.
Groans of pain.
Blake’s eyes opened, squinting as he did so. A fluttering wall of fabric and the rhythmic beeping of monitors slowly came into focus. His lower body ached. He blinked, trying to piece together what had happened. He looked down to see his right leg bandaged, then noticed his arms and hands crisscrossed by shrapnel wounds.
A nurse approached his bedside. “Sergeant Harrow, you’re at the Kandahar Airfield hospital, transferred from FOB Lagman. How are you feeling?”
