Fireplay, Steve P. Vincent [best fiction books of all time txt] 📗

Jack Emery smiled wryly and looked up from his laptop. He’d never faced such an odd juxtaposition before: Aussie rock blaring inside an American armored vehicle driving through the Afghan desert. It left him barely able to think or work as the squealing guitars threatened to pierce the sound barrier. In his experience, it was just how the marines liked it.

“Sound like home?” Lieutenant Daniel Ortiz laughed as he shouted over the music. “I told you bringing that thing along was a waste of time!”

Jack set the laptop aside and had to raise his own voice to be heard. “I thought I’d try to get some work done!”

“Sorry about that, buddy! You want to hang with marines you have to party with marines!” Ortiz grinned and then turned his head to look out the window.

Jack winced at the thought of all the work he had to do. He’d been embedded with the 8th Marines for three months, sending three reports a week to EMCorp and its affiliates. It wasn’t a huge workload, but after so long it was getting hard to find interesting things to write about, given the war was now a simmering insurgency. In the last week he’d filed two stories about US troops building schools.

He looked out the front windshield and could see nothing but the desert and the dust kicked up from the Humvee at the head of the column. He shuffled back into the seat and struggled to get comfortable as the music switched to the next track. As a roaring drum solo kicked off the wailing electric guitars, there was a massive explosion and the lead Humvee burst into a fireball.

“Fuck!” Jack gripped his laptop.

“IED!” Ortiz had to shout over the music.

As the Humvee ahead of them started to slow, ablaze and bleeding smoke, Jack reached for the overhead rail and the driver braked hard. The vehicle skidded and slid sideways, the road not giving the tires any purchase. The sound of the locked wheels skidding across the dirt and gravel was one of the worst Jack had ever heard. He wasn’t a religious man, but he closed his eyes and prayed.

The vehicle stopped as Jack opened his eyes and reached for his video camera. He glanced right. The music had stopped and Ortiz had started to bark commands to his unit over the radio. Jack looked left, over his shoulder, where flames licked at the blackened husk of the unmoving Humvee. Nobody could have survived that explosion.

“Talk to me! Any movement?” Ortiz’s voice was tense as he spoke into the radio.

Jack’s mind started to speed up again as the other vehicles in the convoy reported no contacts. It was quite common for the insurgents to hit a convoy with one roadside bomb, but there had also been instances where a single blast had been the prologue to a greater assault. Jack followed as the marines climbed out of their vehicles and formed a perimeter.

Jack felt instinctively for the ‘PRESS’ lettering that covered his Kevlar vest as he followed Ortiz to the flamed-out Humvee. He kept filming as he drew closer. Even though he probably wouldn’t use the video, he’d be able to get some stills to go with his report. It was hard to believe that four marines had probably been talking shit inside the vehicle just a minute ago.

“Fucking hell.” Ortiz spat in disgust. “How can you fight these guys?”

Jack kept silent. He doubted Ortiz was addressing him. He’d just lost friends.

Jack heard a shout. “Hey! LT! We’ve got a solo contact about a mile out.”

Ortiz snapped instantly from mourner to commander and started to jog toward the marines, who were taking cover behind the bulk of a Humvee. Jack followed, arriving a few seconds after Ortiz. He took a few deep breaths, trying to stay calm. He’d been in combat plenty, but had never been on the end of an IED attack. There was a particular type of fear reserved for an enemy that you couldn’t see.

“Report.” Ortiz’s voice had an edge that Jack hadn’t heard before. He’d just lost a quarter of his convoy in the blink of an eye.

The marine who’d reported the contact lowered his binoculars, handed them to Ortiz and pointed out into the desert.

Jack squinted. Though he thought he could see an individual drawing closer, he knew the desert played tricks on the eye. His heart pounded. He wanted desperately for it to be a lone individual and not a Taliban or Al Qaeda attack. He didn’t fancy being in the middle of a firefight this far from friendly backup. He kept filming as the unidentified man drew closer.

“One guy, hands in the air and with no visible weaponry.” Ortiz exhaled loudly through his nose. “What’s his game, I wonder? The bomber?”

“Or a suicide bomber?” Jack spoke before he’d realized it.

Ortiz shook his head. “Nah, we shoot long before they get close enough.”

Jack nodded. As several of the marines kept their rifles trained on the approaching man, Jack stood back a few yards and watched. Ortiz stood still until the Afghani closed to within fifty yards. At that point he used the interpreter to order the man to stop, take off his outer garments, keep his hands in the air, and drop to his knees. The man did it all without hesitation or protest.

“Something isn’t right here, LT.” One of the marines protested.

“Shut the fuck up and move in, Hills,” Ortiz snarled. “If I want you to check your grandmother’s Ouija board to make sure things are safe, I’ll be sure to ask.”

Jack followed Ortiz and five other marines as they approached the man, leaving the others behind to guard the vehicles. Despite having so many weapons trained on him, the man said nothing and stayed still. His body was covered in sores, scars, and bruises. Once the man had stripped the only thing he wore was underwear and a pair of tan-colored boots.

“What’s your name?” Ortiz waited for the translator to finish. “Did you plant the bomb that blew up my vehicle?”

“My name is Hewad.” The man’s voice was calm, even spiritual, as he spoke in his native tongue and the translator gave it meaning. “Yes. I did.”

“Hewad what?” Ortiz took a step closer. “I need your surname.”

“Hewad Ghilzai.”

Before Ortiz could reply, the marine who’d been pawing through Ghilzai’s pile of clothing spoke. “There’s a marine sidearm here, LT, and those are marine boots.”

Ortiz’s gaze flicked back to Ghilzai. “Where did you get the boots and weapon?”

“Camp Navitas.” Ghilzai smiled. “God delivered them to me. Now I must go.”

Jack kept filming as Ghilzai tried to stand with a smile on his face. Gunfire roared all around as the marines took no chances. Ghilzai’s body slumped to the hot sand, his blood completing a horrible scene. Jack filmed closely until Ortiz came close and put a hand on his shoulder. Jack took the cue and flicked off the camera. He had what he needed and these men had been through enough.

“What now?” Jack’s gaze flicked back and forth between the body, Ortiz, and the other marines.

“We go pay a visit.” The fury in Ortiz’s eyes was matched by the edginess of his voice.

Suddenly, Jack felt he might have something to write about.

“As you can see, Mr Emery, the facility we’re running is top notch.” Major Brad Brinson waved a hand out over the yard where, on the other side of the chain link fence, inmates were playing soccer or chatting in small groups. “I trust your story will say as much?”

Jack ignored the threat in Brinson’s words. Any journalist worth their salt was subject to threats, bribes, intimidations, and warnings on a weekly basis. He couldn’t help but think that Brinson was feeding him horse shit. He shrugged. “The Press Corps will have right of refusal, as always.”

Brinson frowned but said nothing. He turned away and resumed the walk along the path, where marines armed with rifles kept watch over matters. On the surface, Jack had to admit that the facility looked fine: well run, adequately staffed, and with inmates cared for in basic but suitable conditions. But deep in his gut he felt like it didn’t stack up.

After Ortiz had radioed the attack in, they’d waited for a few hours for a relief convoy to arrive to take care of the cleanup. The delay had given Ortiz and the other marines some time to grieve and to think through the shooting of Hewad Ghilzai. That time hadn’t provided clarity, however. Jack was still confused about those chaotic five minutes. He couldn’t understand it, but knew there was a story.

While Jack had never heard of Camp Navitas, Ortiz had told him it was a small marine outpost in Helmand Province that doubled as a small prison. While they waited for the cleanup crew, Ortiz had made a request on Jack’s behalf and approval had been granted. They’d arrived and been greeted by Brinson. After a quick tour, the major clearly expected them to leave.

“Just one more question, if you’ll indulge me?” Jack pushed his luck. He’d only get once