Acheron

Chapter 1

A noted scholar by the name of Forrest Gump once stated that life is like a box of chocolates, and you never know which one you’re gonna get. Well, Iraq is a lot like that, only the chocolates are made of shit. No matter which chocolate you get - it’s still shit. You might be able to convince yourself that maybe this time it will be different. Like hey, maybe this time it really will be chocolate, and not shit. And then the smell hits you, and you realize that you were just deluding yourself. Just like every other day in this godforsaken hell-hole.

But even in Iraq there can be days that are so bad that they make you think, "Hey, compared to a day like this one, the standard shitty-assed day in the desert really isn’t so bad!" In this case, I’m thinking of a particular day, and let me tell you, man - it was most certainly the worst day of my life. I mean, people say that all the time, but I can definitely assure you of the lack of hyperbole in my statement. I can state unequivocally and without reservation, that the date in question, January 5th, 2011, was the worst day of my life. Nothing else even compares.

It was early morning, and the darkness and shadows were still retreating from the uncompromising glare of the god-awful sun. It’s funny how you remember all these little details, even though the really horrible shit had yet to happen. I mean, I’ve done shitloads of these stupid little missions where we drive around little towns, hoping to draw the fire of whatever insurgent whackos happen to be lurking around. But there are only two of these missions that I can recall with crystal clarity. The first time I saw someone killed, and the last one that I commanded. This is the story of the latter.

So anyway, it started out as your typical, eight-up Army mission. We had to go into this little shit-town that we called Monkeytown. We all called it Monkeytown, because there was this one street-vendor who had a pet monkey. We’d see him every time we went through town, and he’d always wave. Of course, the thing about people waving at you, is that it either means that they are friendly to Americans, or they hate your fucking guts and are trying to hide that fact behind a big shit-eating grin and a neighborly wave. Personally, I prefer the people who try to ignore you and go about their daily business. It’s the smiley, waving guys that are usually hiding something.

Our little mini convoy that day consisted of a total of three, count ‘em... three Humvees. At least they were up-armored. I mean, when I started doing these patrols, we had some eight-the-fuck-up armor, or a complete lack thereof. My previous command vehicle was decked out in all kinds of hillbilly upgrades. We had pieces of sheet metal welded onto almost every exterior plate. It looked like a damned post-apocalyptic hot rod. I loved that truck.

But now, we’d finally gotten the new, more professionally upgraded Humvees, which were a hell of a lot safer. I was riding shotgun in the number two vehicle, with Sergeant Hargrave driving. We’d just entered the town, and I was already scanning around for the Monkey Man, when I noticed that no one was manning our 50 cal.

Hargrave, I asked, who’s supposed to be on turret duty this morning?

Fitzie, sir, he responded, then said, Hey Fitzie, get your ass on that gun.

Respectfully, Sarge, said Private First Class George ‘Fitzie’ Fitzsimmons, who was sitting in the back seat, but fuck no. I switched with Leary on the last trip. It’s his turn.

I suppressed a chuckle. I mean, man... the disrespect these guys would dish out to Hargrave? Jeez. I tried to put a stop to it early on, but eventually decided that Hargrave was just gonna have to earn the mens’ respect. He’d transferred from a Reserve unit, and been put in charge of combat-tested veterans. It’s no wonder that they gave him shit. The guy had yet to even fire his weapon in a combat situation. I assumed he’d eventually get the chance to show them that he deserved some deference.

I turned around and looked at Fitzie and Private Leary in the backseat. I raised one eyebrow at Leary. He smiled, then climbed into the turret on top of the Humvee. I nodded to Hargrave, and sat back down in my seat.

Silent ass bitch, said Fitzie. Get up on that gun.

I coughed to show my dissatisfaction with Fitzie’s statement and went back to looking for Monkey Man. It may sound superstitious, but I always felt that, if we saw Monkey Man, then chances were that the day would go well. I figured that if he wasn’t around, then maybe he had heard something, or expected some kind of attack to commence. So I kept looking.

Ahead of us was Sergeant Kline’s Humvee, as always. Kline was my rock. I could always assume that shit would get done as long as Kline was around.

Time to make the fuckin’ donuts! said Leary in the turret.

Leary. Man, he sure liked to goof around up there, leisurely aiming the weapon in various directions, sweeping this way and that. It used to get on my nerves, but now that I’d been with these guys for so long, I kinda felt like a father shaking his head with amused disappointment at his sons’ antics. Maybe that makes me a shitty commander. Who knows?

I looked down the street at various Iraqi citizens as they went about their business, opening up shops and doing the normal, everyday things people tend to do in the morning. Finally, I saw him. I picked up the radio transmitter.

This is Black 10, I said into the radio, We have monkey sign. Over.

Roger Black 10, the voice of Kline crackled over the radio.

Monkey man, wearing a dirty, once white thawb, which is the official name for those Arab caftan-things that they all seem to wear, waved at us with his standard, lifeless grin. Next to Monkey Man though, was somebody who really stood out. He was dressed rather flamboyantly for an Iraqi in Western clothes - a purple suit with red and white accents, and a fedora.

Now that’s something you don’t see every day, said Hargrave.

Holy shit, man, said Fitzie.

Leary leaned down and yelled at us, Dude. Check out that guy ahead on the left. He’s like an Iraqi pimp!

Oh yeah, said Fitzie, Hajji is big pimpin’ this morning, all right. Motherfuckers be trippin’.

Shut the hell up, guys, said Hargrave, putting an end to their fun. Can’t we be serious for even a single fuckin’ patrol?

"But Sarge, said Leary, even that Hajji isn’t being serious today. Just look at that outfit."

What the fuck, Leary? said the visibly irritated Hargrave, You’re supposed to be manning the .50 cal., not commenting on Hajji fashion. Up. Now.

Leary sighed, shook his head, and then went back to manning the machine gun.

And that, my friends, is when the world exploded.

An IED, or ‘Improvised Explosive Device’ detonated to the right of Kline’s Humvee. The vehicle was pushed sideways by the blast, and shrapnel ripped into the open windows. Smoke and dust billowed around us in a big cloud, bringing the convoy to a screeching halt.

I was in shock from the blast, and it took me a couple of moments to really understand what was going on. I had never understood before why people in these kinds of situations sometimes hesitated, but let me tell you now that the shockwave from an explosion like that can really confuse the hell out of you for a few seconds.

My ears were ringing from the explosion, but I could faintly hear Leary shooting in random directions with the 50 cal. I remember being concerned that he might be shooting civvies by accident, mistaking their flight as signs of guilt. I mean, with as confused as I was, I was fairly certain that Leary was also a little out of sorts.

The air was filled with dust and smoke from the explosion, and the acrid smell of gunpowder permeated everything. Iraqi civilians ran to and fro, not really in any specific direction. An injured soldier, I couldn’t tell who, cried out from inside the lead Humvee.

I looked in the street ahead and saw both Monkey Man and the extravagantly dressed civilian lying dead from shrapnel wounds. The monkey himself was skittering away though. I guess he was just lucky like that. The area around us was littered with dead and injured Iraqi civilians.

Suddenly, I heard something that knocked me out of my shock: the sound of an engine racing in the distance, getting louder. I leaned over to Hargrave, who was turned away from me, and noticed for the first time that he was unconscious. I reached over to feel for a pulse and his head lolled over towards me. His face was covered in broken glass and blood.

It’s strange that this is the first moment where I realized that the windshield had blown in as a result of the blast. This was a serious bomb, not the standard glorified pipe bombs that the insurgents had been using since the beginning. No, as our armor had gotten better, their IEDs had evolved to become more powerful and lethal. Wonderful, eh?

So now I realized that the windshield had been blown apart, and it then occurs to me that I might have sustained injuries in the blast. I felt up my face and found a substantial piece of glass lodged in my forehead. I yanked it out and tossed it out of the window.

Fitzie, I asked, You okay back there?

I spun around in my seat, and saw him pointing his rifle out the side windows, looking for targets.

Just fine, sir, he said.

Oh fuck! said Leary from the turret.

The sound of the engine racing toward us increased in volume as a red pickup truck fishtailed around a corner onto the street, tires squealing. It was heading straight for the convoy.

Sir! said Leary, spinning the turret around to the rear, Do I take him out?

Just shoot, moron! I said, exasperated at the fact that he would even ask such a question. At about that time, an insurgent on the second floor balcony of a building across the street, raised an RPG, or ‘Rocket Propelled Grenade,’ and fired it at the rear Humvee. It exploded, the blast sending bits and pieces of the truck and its occupants all over our Humvee. There was a loud, hollow bang as Leary was tossed out of the turret and onto the hood of our truck. He rolled off and lay motionless.

The incoming truck stopped at the wreckage of the rear Humvee, and a man started firing an M-60 machine gun from a mount in the bed of the truck. The popcorn sound of the gun, combined with the clanging as bullets pierced the Humvee’s armor, was all that I could hear.

And then shit got even worse.

A civilian vehicle parked on a side street across from the lead Humvee exploded, the blast more than 20 times that of the IED. The windows on all the nearby buildings exploded outwards. My Humvee tipped over on its side, and I was almost thrown through the window and into the road. Smoke, flames, twisted metal, and dust were my entire world. And then everything went dark for me as I started to pass out.

Chapter 2

I awoke, lying on the road next to the Humvee, and couldn’t remember right away what had happened, or how I’d gotten into the middle of the road. The Humvee was now on fire, and I saw no sign of any of the other occupants. I could see blood sprayed on the inside of the front windshield.

I looked down at something odd on the ground. Upon reflection, I realized that it was a severed arm. I noticed that it was wearing Kline’s special diving watch. He’d shown that watch off to me once, and told me that it had cost a few hundred dollars. Apparently, Kline had really been into diving.

Fuck me, I said, and pulled myself up to one knee.

Three men in black thawbs ran into the street from a nearby building. One was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle, but the other two were apparently unarmed.

One of the unarmed men got in my face and started yelling at me. Unfortunately for the current situation, I’m only fluent in Farsi, the language of the people of Iran. This guy was speaking in Arabic, so I had not the first fucking clue as to what he was saying. The man with the AK pointed it at me, so I raised my hands in surrender as best as I could.

Okay, I said, Okay. No weapon, okay? Hands up?

The last thing I remember was the sight of the buttstock of that AK coming towards my face. I figure now, in hindsight, that if I hadn’t been still somewhat in shock because of the explosion, that I might have been able to dodge the rifle, or knock it away or something. Unfortunately, what actually happened was that I sat there kinda dumbfounded as it came towards my face.

Chapter 3

I regained consciousness in a darkened room. I could tell it was still daylight outside because of thin shafts of light coming in from cracks around windows. Across the room, the three Iraqis were arguing about something... probably about whether to kill me now or later, or what particular brand of execution they might enjoy most, or whatever it is that sick fucks like those guys argue about.

I began to assess my situation: I’m sitting in a chair, my hands and feet are bound, and my mouth is gagged with a dirty rag and some duct-tape. They’ve stripped me of my weapons and body armor, and my shirt is unbuttoned. Oh, and for some reason, the fuckers took my boots too.

I started to slowly sit up, trying to see if I might be able to get out of the chair if I needed a quick escape. Suddenly, the room was bathed in light as another kinda short man came in through the front door, which was to my left. He walked past me, nonchalantly pushing me back down in my seat and yanking out the gag.

After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the light, and I could see that he was wearing a black thawb and aviator sunglasses, and had a nice big, black mustache like he was Borat or something. He shut the door, plunging the room back into murky darkness.

You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you? the man said, in a thick, somewhat comical Arabic accent.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his shirt-pocket and offered one to me, but I shook my head. I just never got into the whole smoking thing. Always seemed a waste of good money and health. The man shrugged, adjusted his sunglasses, and lit a cigarette.

Hey buddy, I said, feeling defiant, what the fuck is it about you guys that you all seem to want one of those Burt Reynolds mustaches like Saddam had? I’m sorry man, I just can’t take anyone seriously with such ludicrous facial hair.

Nonplussed, the man took a drag off of his cigarette.

I am Zaid. What’s your name, Soldier?

Leathers, I replied. Nathan N. Captain, U.S. Army. Hooahh.

Hoo-ahh indeed, Zaid said, smiling. What? No identification number? In all of your American war movies, you men always say your name, rank, and serial number, right?

Well, now they’re just our social security numbers, and I don’t want you stealing my identity.

Zaid said something in Arabic to the three men congregating at the other end of the room. They laughed in response.

Oh that is too funny, my friend, said Zaid. I don’t know why anyone would want your identity. To be frank, I don’t think many people would want to be in your position right now.

Whatever, I said. Just tell me what kind of chicken-shit outfit you people belong to. Insurgents? Al Qaeda? What?

If only you were so lucky, my friend, he said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

And stop calling me your friend. I ain’t your damn friend. Yeah, in retrospect, I was really pushing the envelope here. I just figured it would be easier to be a defiant smartass than a helpless pessimist.

Ah, yes, right, said Zaid, his smile departing, you Americans are not too fond of pleasantries. So I guess I should cut to the chase, as you say, correct?

I nodded, just wishing he’d get on with it.

Well, you could say that you represent a substantial amount of money, soldier. Ransom money.

Zaid’s dopey smile returned.

The U.S. government will never pay ransom demands.

Zaid chuckled. "Oh, really? We’ve already done this three times now. Every time, your government pays the money, and keeps it quiet. But for now, I need you to be quiet."

Zaid nodded to one of the other men, who then approached, lifting a syringe.

Fuck me. Okay, I guess you could say that I panicked a bit at this point. I struggled against my bonds, but one of the other men snuck up behind me and held me down while the syringe guy stuck it into my arm.

Once again, darkness closed in, and I felt myself being pulled down into sleep.

Chapter 4

This time I awoke in a small cell. They’d removed my restraints, but I still had the stupid gag in my mouth. I pulled at the duct-tape, and it felt like I was ripping off the top layer of skin from my face along with it. I tore the stained, bloody rag from my mouth and tossed it at the wall.

My mouth was filthy, and I had to suppress the urge to start spitting out the taste of sand and dried blood. In this situation well... at least I had the good sense not to be wasting water.

I looked around my new abode. It was a square room, about ten by ten, with no windows. High above me, a thin metal grate served as an informal skylight, filtering down just enough sun for me to see what was in my room. One corner had a really dirty looking metal bucket that I assumed must be my new toilet. There was a rusty metal door on one wall, and in front of it was a small pail of water and a loaf of dirty bread.

The ground beneath me appeared to be some kind of hard-packed clay. I picked at it and found that I could flake small bits of it out of the ground, but it certainly wouldn’t be easy to try to dig out of there. Besides, for all I knew, I was at the bottom of a well.

I felt the walls and found that they were going to be unlikely to provide sufficient toeholds to try to climb up towards that grate. And then, even if I somehow managed to pull it off, I’d have to figure out some way of getting through the grate. Not a very promising escape route.

I examined the bread in the dim light cast from the opening above me. At least the bastards had given me something edible. It had some dirt from being tossed on the ground, but it wasn’t moldy or anything.