EndWar

He was back home with the 1st Special Forces Group (Airborne), and recently assigned to a new Operational Detachment Alpha team, ODA-888. The company commander wanted to keep him out of the field until he “healed,” but he’d insisted that he was okay. There were those officers further up the chain of command who believed that his pain could be converted into a powerful weapon, especially during times like these, when the JSF’s forces were spread so thinly around the globe.

“Hey, Nate, you want to get some chow?”

Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken stood in the doorway, lifting his chin at Vatz.

Rakken was about to turn thirty, already had a little gray in his sideburns, but his baby blue eyes and unwrinkled face made him look like a kid. He was assigned to the Stryker Brigade Combat Team and was a rifle squad leader in charge of eight other guys. They’d storm down the Stryker’s rear ramp, divide into two teams, and raise serious hell on the enemy.

Ordinarily, a Special Forces operator like Vatz wouldn’t socialize much with an infantryman because of differing schedules, billets, and because, well, some regular Army guys referred to Spec Ops as the “prima donnas” of the military, wild men and wasters of precious resources.

But Vatz’s friendship with Rakken cut through all that. They’d met during basic training, since most Special Forces guys started off in the regular Army. They’d talked about fishing and knife collecting and learned that they’d both been born and raised in Georgia, in small towns no more than a hundred miles from each other. Small world. They’d kept in touch over the years and eventually had both been assigned to Fort Lewis.

And while Vatz had come home to a few friendly faces, mostly acquaintances, Rakken was the only guy he’d call a friend, the only guy he’d talked to in the past few days.

“Marc, I don’t feel so good. Maybe later.”

“Bro, you don’t look so good. Couldn’t sleep again?”

Vatz shook his head.

“Come outside, get some air. At least get some coffee.”

After rubbing the corners of his eyes, Vatz nodded, dragged himself from the bed, and pulled on his trousers.

They took the long path toward the mess hall, the snowcapped mountains on the horizon. Vatz squinted in the sun. “Any word on your next deployment?”

“None yet. The Euro ops have a lot to do with where we might get sent next. Who knows?”

Vatz nodded.

Up ahead stood the long, rectangular mess hall with a brick facade, a new facility constructed in just the past year. Vatz took another three steps — when the windows of the mess hall blew out with an ear-shattering boom.

He and Rakken hit the deck as the glass tumbled to the pavement and smoke began billowing from the jagged holes.

Rakken was already on his feet, sprinting toward the mess hall, with Vatz screaming for him to wait up, there could be more bombs.

They charged forward, over carpets of glass and pieces of blinds and other debris.

The pair of glass entrance doors had been blown off, and they couldn’t see through the clouds of brown-and-gray smoke.

“Marc, it’s not safe yet!”

“I don’t care! Jesus, they hit us here?” Rakken gasped.

The question was who. The Russians? Any one of the hundreds of terrorist groups out there? Or was it just some grunt who’d gone insane and strapped himself with explosives before sitting down to breakfast?

After waiting another moment for the smoke to clear a little, Vatz followed Rakken into the mess; an oppressive wall of heat still emanated from the area. He held his breath, spotted a lance corporal on the ground, clutching his bleeding arm. He helped the guy to his feet, got him through the front, and led him to the grass. Then Vatz, coughing hard, his eyes burning, headed back into the mess.

The smoke and dust cleared a bit more, and it appeared that the blast had come from the center of the large dining area; there was a gaping crater in the concrete, tables upturned and shattered by the concussion.

And there were pieces of soldiers everywhere.

Vatz gagged. The rest of it became a blur of images accompanied by the sickly sweet odor of burned flesh. Someone shrieked, and the cry wouldn’t stop echoing.

In the hours that followed, he and Rakken learned the truth: the Green Brigade terrorist group was responsible for the bombing.

Formed in 2012, they were a militant environmentalist /antiglobalist group with cells throughout the world but primarily in Europe and South America. From 2012 until 2018, they were credited with more than a thousand acts of violence, including acts of intimidation against factory and refinery workers and the kidnapping and murder of business executives, military personnel, and computer scientists.

One of their operatives had infiltrated the base and walked into the mess hall. He’d removed his uniform to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. He’d made some announcement, but no one Vatz had spoken to remembered what he’d said before detonating his bomb.