Texas Hill Country. The 4th of July.  

Kyle woke up that morning and bounded out of bed. It was the 4th of July and being that he was in rural Texas and not the constricting and confining landscape of urban California, that meant fireworks. Real fireworks. The kind you didn't just watch but lit off yourself. The roadside stands had been open for months now. Kyle started cooking breakfast, which was standard operating procedure. He did all the cooking now, which was fine by him. Aside from his morning chai, his uncle's palate was unsophisticated.

When Uncle Evans came down for breakfast, he looked refreshed and ready to go as well. Kyle dished out the food, and Evans brewed his tea. Over the morning meal, they discussed the plan for the day.

"We need to go to the bank so I can get some cash. After that, we'll hit some fireworks stands and grab some stuff for tonight. I'll also need to go to the hardware store, the paint supply store, and probably the pool supply store.

"Why the pool supply store?" Kyle asked.

"I need to buy some pool supplies," Evans answered.

"But you don't own a pool," Kyle replied.

"I never said I did."

Kyle decided not to press the issue and changed the subject. "I suppose it is going to barbeque at this thing tonight?"

"That's right."

"Does that mean frozen hamburger patties and packaged hotdogs?" Kyle asked.

"Of course. This is the United States of America, ain't it?"

"How many years did you serve?"

"Thirty," Evans answered. Kyle nodded once.

"My thirty-year veteran uncle isn't eating frozen hamburger patties on the 4th of July. Can we hit up the grocery store?"

"That's nice of you to say that. I'm sure we can fit in a trip to the grocery store too. How did you get into cooking?"

"Mom and dad work long hours. Back home either I make dinner or we eat takeout. Besides, I figure as long as I know how to cook, I can always find a job. Everybody has to eat."

"That's a pretty mature attitude. When was the last time you called home?"

"It's been a while."

"Give them a call today," Evans said. He took a sip of his steaming tea.

After breakfast, they headed out to the workshop. Evans rummaged through some cabinets and pulled out a spool of green parachute cord. He tossed the spool to Kyle and said, "Put that in the truck. We'll need it for tonight and I don't want to forget it."

Kyle looked the spool over. The cord on the spool was actually many short pieces of parachute cord, all tied together with double-fisherman knots. After putting the cord in the truck, Evans had him help load a few of the barbed wire bales in the truck too.

"What do we need barbed wire for?" Kyle asked.

"We don't need barbed wire. We just need the weight. Something heavy that can resist my pulling. That reminds me, there is a half sheet of plywood back in the workshop against the wall. We'll need that tonight too, so let's load it now. Otherwise, in my old age, I might forget."

They loaded the truck. The first stop was the bank.

"Wait here in the truck," Evans said.

"Why?" Kyle asked.

"You trust me?" Evans asked back. Kyle nodded. "Good," Evans said. I want you to wait here because banks have cameras."

"Yeah so?"

"So, this country ain't what it used to be. I know old guys like me are always saying that to young guys like you. But this time it is true. I go into the bank where the cameras are. You wait here in the truck where the cameras aren't."

Inside the bank, Evans made his withdrawal. When the teller asked if there was anything else he needed, Evans replied, "Yes. I know this is unusual, but I need access to a computer. I need to send an encrypted message to another financial institution."

Evans' accounts were in good standing, and they were not insignificant. He'd never been divorced. He had no children. He'd never gotten a DUI and its associated legal costs. Most importantly, he'd saved and invested wisely his entire career, most of which had been spent overseas in tax-free combat zones. A private banker offered Evans a computer. Thirty minutes later, Evans was out of the bank, cash in hand.

"Let's get some fireworks," he said. They went to buy fireworks.

In that particular corner of Texas, there were plenty of fireworks stands. Evans drove past dozens of smaller stands before stopping at one of the bigger stands out on the highway, a prefabricated steel building, flanked by open pasture and close to nothing. Pickup trucks and run-down commuter cars filled its dirt parking lot. Red and yellow signs declared, "FIREWORKS" for all to see.

Evans was a discerning fireworks shopper. He moved up and down the aisles, examining items by the score. He handled fountains and rockets, mortars and roman candles. He'd pick items up and alternate between holding them close or far, letting his eyes adjust to the fine print on their labels. Eventually, he settled on several dozen items. The lot filled a shopping cart. At the checkout, Evans asked if they had any fuse. The kid behind the counter said they did and asked how many feet he needed.

"I need a whole spool," Evans said.

When they got back in the truck, Evans said, "We've got about a third of what I need. There is another decent place out by Colinas Frias we'll try next."

They drove to Colinas Frias, then two more stands after that. At each location Evans repeated the process, examining packaged fireworks as carefully as if he were defusing bombs. When he finally had what he wanted they headed back toward home, but not without making more stops. A hardware store. A paint supply store, and finally a pool supply store. At each location, Evans paid cash. And at each of those locations, Evans had Kyle wait in the truck. After the paint supply store, the truck bed was filled with fireworks, various containers of chemicals, and an assortment of pipes and other hardware.

"You know what you need at the supermarket?" Evans asked. Kyle nodded. "Okay, let's go," Evans said.

An hour later they were back at home with several bags of groceries. Kyle asked his uncle how much time they had.

"We've got a few hours. Fireworks won't start until well after sunset."

"Good. I need time to prep the hamburger," Kyle said.

"The hamburger is already made. It is in the packages," Evans said. Kyle shook his head with disapproval. Evans shrugged and said, "I need to prep some stuff myself."

"What do you need to prep? The fireworks are already made," Kyle said with a smart-alec smirk. Now Evans shook his head, but he did it with a smile.

Kyle took the food into the house. Evans took the pool and paint supplies into his workshop. Inside, he took out a few of the small plastic buckets used for mixing paint. Next, he brought out some glass jars and stir sticks. The last thing he brought out was an old mortar and pestle. He laid all those tools out on his workbench alongside the various chemicals he bought during the day. He looked everything over once, then he started mixing chemicals.

An hour later, Evans went back out to his truck and grabbed the roll of fuse. Inside the shop, he cut the first two feet off both ends and tossed those lengths away. Then he cut off six one-foot lengths of fuse. One by one, he lit each foot-long length and timed how long it took each one to burn to nothing. He recorded each time on a scrap piece of cardboard. Then he cut six more lengths and repeated the process. That done, he did some averaging, went back out to his truck, and grabbed the sacks full of fireworks. After that, he retrieved all the hardware supplies. Once he had everything inside the workshop, he closed and locked the door and got to work.

While his uncle worked outside, Kyle worked in the kitchen. He diced up onions and peppers and then mixed them into the raw hamburger along with some raw eggs to bind everything together. On the other end of the counter, he had the ingredients for several different sauces waiting to be mixed. But before he started work, he'd called his parents and left a message. Midway through forming a patty his phone chirped. He put down the food, cleaned his hands, and grabbed the phone. It wasn't his mom or dad. It was a message from Jake, one of his classmates back in California.

Still in Texas?

Evans texted him back.

Yeah. What's up?

Just seeing if you were back in town. What are you doing tonight?

My uncle bought a truckload of fireworks. We're gonna lite them off tonight.

I think he's making some fireworks of his own. He bought a ton of random stuff today.

Cool man. Sounds like Texas I guess

What are you doing tonight?

We're heading out to Lovell Mixon Square in Berkeley. Big Party/Protest there tonight BIG! HUGE!

Kyle set his phone down and thought about things for a minute. Jake wasn't exactly a close friend. The more Kyle thought about it, the more he realized he didn't have any close friends back home. But he and Jake had grown up near each other and hung out plenty of times. Friend or not, Kyle didn't like the idea of Jake heading to another protest, not after the nightly riot viewings with his uncle. Not after a good part of the city across from his parent's apartment was burned to the ground. He thought about warning his friend or telling him not to go. He looked at the phone a long time before texting back.

Have fun but be safe. If it gets too crazy get out of there

Jake replied with a thumbs up. Kyle went back to work on his hamburger patties. Outside, fireworks had already started. Chirps and whistles sounded as Kyle prepped the food.

They pulled into John's driveway early in the evening. Kyle was talking about the fat content of their hamburger meat, and asking questions about John's barbeque grill that Evans couldn't answer. Evans was distracted. His attention focused on the other vehicles in the driveway. He saw Dale's truck as well as George's motorcycle. Other families from the neighborhood were there too, and kids of various ages chased each other across John's lawn. But it was George and Dale that concerned Evans. Together with John, they were likely going to corner him and bring up this idea of a neighborhood militia again. Evans dreaded the thought.

Kyle and Evans unloaded a couple of coolers from the truck. They found John already on the grill, smiling. Some younger kids were playing with sparklers and pop-its. John's wife was nowhere to be seen.

"What you got there?" John asked.

"Kid made some special hamburger patties, seems the frozen stuff isn't good enough for his refined California palate."

John smiled and offered Evans a beer. Evans declined politely. "Well, the kid's welcome to throw them on the grill whenever he's ready. Say, Evans. Dale and George are here. We'd like to sit down and talk with you when you get a chance."

"Yeah, okay," Evans answered.

"You bring any of your special fireworks this year?" John asked with a sly grin. Evans grinned back, just as slyly, if not more so.

"I might have put something together."

Kyle managed to find his way at the party without much assistance from Evans. He not only cooked up his own burgers, but essentially took over grill duties from John. He mixed and matched with the food everybody brought and concocted delicacies that everybody found wonderful. After the grill, he found a place amongst the other neighborhood kids, most of whom were a litter younger. Kyle was in that awkward phase of not being an adult yet, but also not being a child any longer. He seemed to navigate it well. The sun dropped low and Evans watched Kyle pal around with some of the other kids, all smiling and having a good time. Evans felt an immense sense of pride at that, even more so when the other adults walked up to him and complimented his nephew's skill at the grill.

Unfortunately, the moment Evans dreaded came. While the other people from the neighborhood did their thing, John led evens to the garage where Dale and George were waiting. John's truck sat parked in the same spot as before. His wife's barely used vehicle was parked beside it. They'd arranged toolboxes and camp stools around a cooler of beer. Everybody but Evans grabbed a beer. Evans sat down. The conversation began.

Outside the garage, Kyle linked up with two neighborhood kids who were setting up some fireworks of their own. For Kyle, fireworks were something that the cities put on, or didn't put on. People didn't light off their own fireworks, not unless they wanted to risk meddling neighbors, a visit from the fire marshal, and a crippling fine.

"What's that?" Kyle asked.

"Mortar," One of the kids replied.

"Mortar? How does it work?"

"Easy," the kid answered. "Drop one of these balls inside. Light the fuse, and off it goes."

"Can I try one?" Kyle asked.

"We've all got guns, but I can get more. And ammo. I also think we need to get suppressors. Now listen, I know this guy who runs a machine shop…" Dale was talking, but Evans could barely listen. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of a neighborhood watch or whatever they were calling this. It wasn't that he didn't think it was necessary. It was that he didn't think anybody in this room truly understood what they were up against.

"The guns we all have are fine Dale," Evans said. "We don't need suppressors and we don't need full auto. We certainly don't need the trouble that comes with them. Night vision, maybe. What we need is a secure way to communicate."

"There is this secure messaging app I have on my phone," Dale started. "I spend a lot of time on this gun forum, and they said that…" Evans cut him off.

"None of these apps for your phones are secure. None of those phones are secure. That's why I had you leave them outside in your trucks. They get you and they get your phone. They get your phone, they get everybody close to you, and they will turn that back on you to pressure you further. They put the pressure on you to make you sell out your friends."

"I'm not selling out anybody," Dale said defiantly. Evans ignored that.

"Once they get your friends, they go back to you again. They blackmail you with the fact that they asked you to sell out your friends, which you did. And they tell you you're going to do more for them, which you will. Because now you're so deep down their hole you don't even see light when you look up. And because they've taken everything you had, including your family."

"Not me," Dale said.

"What are you saying, exactly?" John asked Evans.

"They have these devices. I can't remember what they call them but they're like an old pager, only you can send and receive alpha-numeric messages. They're prepaid. Not smart. No GPS installed. No microphones or speakers installed so no listening. Just text. And minimal memory."

"They even have such a thing?" John asked.

"They do in Mexico," Evans answered.

"Cartel guys," Dale spat. "Fuckin' Cartel guys."

"Sounds like the perfect device for a drug dealer," John said. "Who'd even make a device like that?" John asked.

"Same people who make all the fentanyl. The same people who make all those drop in switches that make pistols full-auto," Evans said.

"It isn't just the Cartel that uses phones like that down there," George said. "Cops, politicians, media reporters, lawyers, military officers… essentially anybody with a security concern."

"What do we do when the pre-paid data run out?" Dale asked.

"You destroy the phone completely and get rid of it. Which is the same thing you'd do after communicating. These things are disposable and need to be treated that way. Now…"

Before Evans could finish his thought, the mortar outside went off and threw its star shell into the night sky. The mortar was just a short plastic tube, not a long metal one. And the shells it launched were for entertaining kids, not for killing men. But when it went off it made a sound close enough to a real mortar, a distinct, hollow-echoing-ringing sound.

When that ringing sound hit his ears, Evans stopped talking and winced. His head dropped down and his shoulders went up. He looked like he was trying to duck down into himself, like a turtle going into its shell. He turned in the direction of the sound, towards the open garage door, and glared.

"Where the hell are you going to get these phones? I ain't driving down to Juarez to buy a phone, I'll tell you that right now. I'd rather take my chances with the PVD and the police than with some Mexicans."

Evans looked away from the source of the noise and back to his neighbors. "Don't worry about that. I can get them locally. I know a couple of guys."

"I don't know man," Dale said. "That seems like a lot of work. I can download an encryption app pretty easily. And they say it can't be broken. These guys on the forums, they said that…"

Of all the men in the garage, George spoke the least and observed the most, especially when it came to Evans. More fireworks went off outside. They shrieked and whistled. They howled and popped. None of these bothered Evans at all. But with the mortars it was different. When the first mortar went off with its distinct hollow-ringing sound, Evans winced and spun to find the source of the noise, muscled instantly tensed. The second time the kids' mortar went off, Evans winced again. Only this time he looked angry. He looked like he was about to leap out of the garage and give the kids a talking too. Evans gritted his teeth. His hands balled into fists. The third time he looked like he'd give the kids a lot worse than a talking too. The fourth time he started sweating and by the fifth time, his face was flushed red. And each time, even when he was looking out the garage, even when he knew the mortar was about to fire, its hollow ring sound made Evans wince.

George liked Evans. But he didn't like this Evans, the one that was red and sweating, tense and angry. The one who looked like he was about to explode. George was so concerned, he couldn't even follow the latest thing that Evens and Dale were discussing.

"What are you even saying," Dale began. "First you said we need to get these drug phones. Now you're saying we need to run away? What's the point of doing this then? What's the point of defending our homes in the first place if you say we need to run? I don't get it."

"Because you can't defend your home," Evans said. "If the PVD come up the road and pick your house down to burn down, you can try and stop them, but you are going to lose your house anyway because the legal system is coming after you with everything it can. It doesn't matter what the PVD does. Legally, they can do whatever they want."

"They can't do whatever they want," Dale said angrily. "They can't just burn peoples' houses down."

"They've been burning stuff all summer, and nobody's done anything to stop them. They aren't being arrested. They aren't being stopped. Worse than that, everybody in power is encouraging them. Politicians. The media. The universities. The entertainment industry. Pro-Sports. Corporate leaders. They're all encouraging this nonsense. They love these riots and are celebrating them all day long. They want the PVD to burn us all to the ground. They don't care if the PVD murders us. But if one of us so much as shows a gun, they're going to jail. And if you shoot one of these PVD vanguards, you're going up for murder. Doesn't matter if he was breaking into your house, inside your house, setting your house on fire, wielding a gun, shooting a gun, or raping your wife and kids. The government isn't going to touch them. But they will come after you. They'll come after you with all they've got."

"That would be self-defense," Dale said. "This ain't California. This is Texas. There are just as many important people on our side as…"

"There is nobody on our side," Evans shouted as he leaped to his feet. Dale was so startled he almost fell off the toolbox he was sitting on. John immediately looked away. Only George, standing, kept his composure. His expression was a fixed mask of non-emotion. Evans, face red, shouted again.

"There is nobody, get it? Nobody. Nobody in any position of power is going to do a damn thing for you if you get caught up in this shit. Haven't you been watching what's been happening all summer? The people that claim to be on our side? They are all cowards! Or worse, they're in on it too. I don't care what they say on the radio. I don't care what they say on the news. Media people. The politicians. All those retired generals that can't keep their four-star mouths shut. None of them are going to stick their necks out for people like us. Self-defense is a thing of the past. If the PVD comes in here and we shoot one, we will be left out to dry. All those tough-talking firebrands? They'll fold. They'll fold like they always do and they'll be crawling all over each other, trying to be the first to condemn us. To condemn us and call for moderation and principles. And saying shit like, 'that's not who we are,' and 'we need to lead with compassion' and all that same old shit they've been doing all summer. The same shit they always do when those radicals attack us. Ordinary people like us just trying to live our lives? Nobody is on our side. Nobody is coming to help us.

"So, if you end up going at it with the PVD, you run. You run, or you surrender when the cops come for you and accept your fate. Or…" Evans' voice trailed off. He sat back down on the wooden crate and hung his head. He wanted a drink. He really wanted one. But he wouldn't have a drink, not even now. Alcohol took him to sad and lonely places he'd rather not revisit.

"Or what?" John asked.

"What?" Evans replied.

"You said 'run or…' Or what? That's what I'm asking you, Evans. What is the 'or what?'"

"Or," Evans began. He thought about how to answer that. Then he answered that. "If you're dead, it stops with you. They won't go after your wife or kids or family if you're dead."

"Horse shit," Dale drawled. "I'm not doing this to die. I'm doing this to live. Going out in a blaze of glory is bull shit. I've got friends and family. I've got a nice house and nice stuff. I've got stuff to live for. I'm protecting it."

"You would be protecting it," Evans said. "You'd be protecting it with your life in the truest sense of the word."

Dale shook his head. George turned away. John looked at his feet for a while. Then he looked up at Evans and ask, "You think you could do that? You think you could knowingly put yourself in that kind of situation, where there was no way out?"

Evans thought about his tours overseas. He thought about all the times he showed up after the fact, at scenes where a suicide bomber had martyred himself. Roadsides, where one committed individual in a truck full of Semtex traded their life for just the chance to kill an American. Marketplaces where a bomber with a suicide vest walked into the crowd and self-detonated. He thought of walls pockmarked from shrapnel. He thought of twisted bits of metal that used to be a vehicle before the HME went off. He thought of scorched cloth and buckles, the remnants of a suicide vest, mixed in amongst the dried blood, and burnt flesh. He thought about human teeth embedded in a wood post, like shrapnel, which they were. He thought about the man on the island with the machine gun, the one who wouldn't run even though he could, even though there was no reason to stay. Evans shrugged.

"I don't know. I think maybe when you reach that point in your life… when you reach that level of commitment, and you know it is your time… I think then you don't feel any fear. I think then you are ready, and you do what you need to do. There's a reason why they call it, 'making your peace."

"Uncle Evans." It was Kyle at the open garage door, smiling. "We set off all the small stuff. People are asking if you are ready to set off your stuff now."

"Okay," Evans said.

The sun had set. The sky was a cloudless black upon which the stars dazzled. Most of the lesser fireworks had already been set off, and the guests at John's party wanted to see what their retired Explosive Ordnance Disposal Tech neighbor had cooked up this year.

Evans called Kyle over, and together they pulled the four-foot by four-foot sheet of plywood out of the back of his truck. Various cardboard and plastic tubes studded the surface of the wood in neat arrangements, like organ pipes. They carefully set the plywood sheet down on John's cement driveway. Kyle looked the creation over, and from what he could tell, his uncle had deconstructed the fireworks they purchased earlier and used their components and the other items they purchased to build his own.

"Get that spool of parachute cord out of the truck," Evans asked.

Kyle came back with the spool. Evans tied the free end to something in the center of the plywood that looked like a mouse trap but wasn't.

"Get back," Evans ordered.

Kyle walked back to where the party guests were waiting anxiously. Evans slowly backed away from his creation, playing out loops of green parachute cord, but never taking his eyes off the fireworks. When he was back amongst Kyle and the others, he looked around once to make sure everybody was clear. Then he pulled hard on the green cord.

First, there came the sound of breaking glass. A split second later came the hiss of a chemical reaction. And then…

A tube on one corner of the sheet erupted into a fountain of red sparks. The sparks plumed out and up, spitting and hissing as they rose. One foot, two feet, three feet. The assembled guests gasped, "oooh!". When the fountain of red sparks reached six feet, the tube next to it flashed and erupted, white sparks this time. The crowd gasped, "ah!" The white fountain plumed more quickly than the red. Moments later a blue fountain of sparks erupted. Then red again. And around the perimeter it went. Fountains of red, white, and blue sparks all erupted in sequence.

When the fourth blue fountain came alive, something near the center of the plywood popped so loud the audience jumped. One older lady first gasped with fright and then squealed with delight when dozens of small rockets shot up into the air. They rose, whistling and trailing brilliantly colored sparks; purple, green, red, yellow. The small rockets flew and then exploded, blossoming into new colors. Eyes remained fixed skyward. People cooed in amazement.

Something else exploded, something bigger and nearer the center. Its launch flashed yellow and red, like a muzzle blast in the dark. Kyle could just make out the blur of it as it climbed then exploded into a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors, and as it exploded, something new launched. This rose, popped, and out came a parachute suspending a flare that burned a metallic green. A second after that exploded, something else launched, perfectly timed. It climbed skyward, burst, and another rainbow's collection of color blossomed out. People gasped out again, only this explosion of color detonated again, and then a third time. Each explosion brought new collections of colors. The neighbors squealed with delight, and gasped in awe, they smiled and laughed and nodded approval, every eye transfixed on the Texas sky.

It went on, each explosion bigger, brighter, and more colorful than the last. Kyl looked around and saw the neighbors glowing with joy. He looked at his uncle. Evans seemed pleased with his work. Periodically he'd check his watch, obviously counting down the seconds until the next detonation. Kyle could see his uncle's mouth the countdown and every time he got to zero, something new exploded, celebrating with noise and color all the best things that the experiment called America represented.

Even the greatest fireworks display cannot last forever. Just when Kyle thought the spectators might get restless, the finale came. Kyle caught Evans' eye. Evans tapped his watch and nodded.

One last set of fountains erupted into a rolling, boiling, shower of white sparks. The sparks spat and hissed and glowed with chemical brilliance. From out of these sparks came a cannon blast, a loud but simple boom that shot something skyward. After the first cannon blast came another, then another. If one were to count, which nobody did, they would have counted 21 total cannon blasts. When these 21 payloads reached their apex, they burst apart in a dazzling display of sparks and colored smoke.

Out of each of these colorful bursts emerged blurred shapes that drifted downward. As the smoke cleared, the shape became clearer and revealed itself, a parachute suspending a flare that burned with colorful brilliance. There were twenty parachute flares in total; seven red, seven white, and seven blue. Evans had arranged them perfectly so that they drifted to the earth in a perfectly repeating pattern. Evans had also timed the launches and detonations perfectly so that each of the parachute flares drifted to the earth in almost perfect horizontal alignment.

Everybody began clapping, yelling, and hooting with delight. Uncle Evans' modest display in a small corner of America was just as wonderous, just as exciting as any city's professional display. As the neighbors cheered and clapped, Kyle looked over at his uncle with admiration. Despite all the dark clouds on America's horizons, Evans created something fantastic that made all his neighbors forget all their troubles and perhaps think about the United States not as it was, but how it aspired to be.

Evans still looked up at the sky and smiled with satisfaction. He'd done a good thing by making his neighbors happy, and he felt a calm joy at that. But then, somewhere nearby, kids set off another mortar shell. When its distinct ring hit Evans' ears, Kyle watched his uncle instinctively wince and try and duck into himself. His teeth gritted. The corner of one lip pulled back into a canine sneer. More fireworks went off. The neighbors kept cheering. But Kyle didn't see his uncle smile again for the rest of the night.

That night, Evans sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed at his temples, hoping to massage away the metallic ringing in his mind. He wanted a drink, but he refused that temptation. He could have a drink a month from now, on a date less joyous than the 4th of July. In the meantime, he had to just deal with the painful ringing in his ears and the unpleasant memories. Succumbing to exhaustion that was more emotional than physical, Evans crashed back into his bed and looked up at the ceilings. And more ghosts of his past came back to haunt him.

A Bridge in the Middle East. A long time ago.

"The enemy did their homework on this one," the captain said.

None of the Marines disagreed with that assessment. To accentuate the captain's appraisal, a barrage of 12.7mm machine gun rounds crashed into the bridge's superstructure, clanging, and banging, and throwing up sparks. Even though they were safe on the bridge's embankment, the Marines instinctively recoiled at the sound of the incoming fire.

The convoy had been crossing over the bridge when the ambush went off. The improvised explosive devices hit the last three vehicles right as they came onto the bridge. The hulk of one was still on the bridge. It had been blown in half, and its shattered mechanical guts were spilled out across the bridge's broken deck. A severed human leg rested near the wreckage. No other body parts, just a leg. Evans could tell by the boot that the leg belonged to Hoffman. There were no signs of the rest of Hoffman. There should have been another truck on the bridge. There were no signs of that either.

Another barrage of heavy machine gun fire crashed into the bridge's superstructure. Bullets clanged. Marines recoiled again. The enemy tracers burned green. It was suppressive fire, Evans knew. The enemy didn't want them crossing back over the bridge to the last vehicle.

The last vehicle in the convoy had been driving onto the bridge's approach when the bombs went off. Its front end was gone. The thick armored glass of its windshield was an ugly spider web of cracks splashed with blood. One Marine managed to drag himself out of the wreck. Evans, and everybody else on the opposite bank, could hear screams coming from inside that wreck… that wreck all the way on the other side of the bridge. That wreck, separated from the rest of the Marines by the DShK fire.

Another volley of machine gun fire clanged into the bridge's superstructure. The heavy 12.7 rounds sparked as they punched holes through the old metal I beams, erected decades ago by the Russians, back when the Russians were called the Soviets.

Buildings crowded up against the banks of the river and the bridge. The captain poked his head out onto the bridge far enough to get a good look at the source of the machine gun fire. Upriver sat a small island, thick with tall grass and reeds. It was a sea of green amidst the mud brown of the river and the tan desert shades that made up the rest of the country. The island looked more like something out of Vietnam than the Middle East. The machine guns chattered again.

"Two DShKs. Their gunners know what they're doing," the captain said. He shook his head. "I told the battalion commander we should have cleared that island weeks ago." The captain spoke aloud but he spoke only to himself. The captain usually had a mean look about him, like an angry man who was about to get into a bar fight for no reason than the sake of fighting. Most people steered clear of the captain. Evans had served with the captain here before, back when the captain was still a lieutenant and Evans was a lance corporal in the combat engineers and not an EOD technician. Evans doubted the captain remembered him. The crazy thing was that the captain had not even been part of the convoy. He'd just shown up after the explosions went off, him and the pilot. The pilot was never far from the captain. They were thick as thieves.

"What's going on with the air?" the captain asked the pilot. While the captain almost always looked mean, the pilot always had a smile on his face. He was a fighter pilot and had the movie-star good looks to match. He also liked to sing. He'd walk around the base camp, singing Elvis Presley songs or old cowboy ballads. Evans figured the pilot must be crazy. Why else would a pilot give up flying a fighter jet to run around on the ground with the grunts, risking death to bring liberal Western democracy to people who didn't seem to want it? Why else would he be paling around with the captain, who Evans knew to be crazy enough. The pilot spoke.

"Vengeance is bingo and Winchester. There's a section at AA getting ready to go, but they can't launch until Vengeance lands." The pilot carried at least two radios on his gear and a look of disappointment on his face. He added to the captain, "Battalion said don't do anything until air gets on station."

"Battalion always says don't do anything until air gets on station. How long will that be?" The captain asked.

"Ten minutes," the pilot said.

Evans looked across the bridge. Its surface was warped and twisted. Parts of the decking were gone. It looked like it might collapse at any minute. On the far side, one of the Marines unfurled a black tourniquet and frantically tried to get it around his leg.

"Those Marines don't have ten minutes." Another machine gun barrage clattered into the bridge. The captain added, "We need to get some suppression on those machine guns. The only place to do that is from the bridge."

"We could try to get a truck back over there," the pilot suggested. The captain frowned even deeper at that suggestion.

"Naw. Those 12.7s would rip it apart, that's if the bridge didn't collapse first."

The captain turned away from the bridge and the island and the wounded on the far bank and looked over the troops on this side. They were all waiting to be told what to do.

"Sergeant Owens, you got a mortar in one of these trucks?" The captain asked one of the Marines. Owens nodded.

"Go get it and all the ammo you got for it. Put the assault base plate on. Leave the bipod."

Sergeant Owens hesitated, and the captain knew why. Each convoy was required to keep a 60mm mortar with it per standing orders. That had been made perfectly clear to every Marine in country. The battalion commander made it perfectly clear to everybody under his command that any Marine who fired that mortar would find themselves facing a court martial. To the uninitiated, it might seem ridiculous that a military unit might be required to carry around something they were not allowed to use. But for those who served in the US military, such contradictions were commonplace.

"I know what you are thinking. Just get me the mortar. I'll take care of it," the captain said. Owens ran off. The pilot approached the captain. Evans watched. The pilot spoke quietly into the captain's ear, but Evans could still hear.

"Don't," the pilot said. "The air will be here in ten. They won't even have to drop a bomb. The bad guys will run as soon as they hear them. Don't go on that bridge."

"The Marines on the other side don't have ten minutes," the captain repeated.

"You are your own worst enemy."

"Yeah. Just do what you can on the radio. Skip battalion. Go straight to Wing. And don't follow me out there. We lose those radios and we're fucked." The captain turned from his pilot friend and shouted out, "Doc Youngblood, once those machine guns are suppressed, you get your ass over there with the aid and litter teams."

The Marine named Owens came forward. He had one 60mm mortar with the assault baseplate attached, and two big green metal cans full of shells. The captain seized the mortar, stopped, and noticed Evans for the first time. He smiled, the way a man smiles when he meets an old friend by chance after years apart.

"Evans! It's been a while. How have you been? Thanks for driving that truck for me last time we were out here." The captain offered his free hand to Evans. Evans took it. He was too surprised to do otherwise. He was surprised the captain remembered him from their previous deployment. Another machine gun barrage impacted the bridge. Sparks flew. Evans winched. The captain didn't seem to notice.

"Good," Evans mumbled. The captain looked up and down. While the regular Marines wore the desert pattern camouflage uniform, EOD Marines wore tan Nomex coveralls. Evans was wearing the coveralls.

"So, you're a staff sergeant now, and in EOD. Good," the captain said. He sounded genuinely proud of Evans.

"Yes. Yes sir," Evans mumbled. He felt like an idiot after speaking.

"That's great. I'm glad to see you moving up." the captain said. Then he let go of Evans' hand, picked up one of the ammo cans for the mortars, and said, "Well, I got to go."

Without another word, the captain sprinted onto the bridge. He held the mortar in one hand and the ammo can in the other. The second he came into view, both DShK machine guns opened up. The bridge came alive with flashes, sparks, and clouds of dust. Green tracers blazed. Bullets smacked into the beams and girders that held the dying mechanical structure together. Clang! Bang! Sprang! A bullet impacted the bridge deck just behind the captain and tore up a chunk of asphalt as long as a man's arm. A tracer hit a girder, ricocheted off into another girder, then bounced off and rose up into the air, spinning around end over end and burning green.

"Fuck," Evans cursed.

The captain got halfway across the bridge and skidded to a stop in a manner that would have been laughably cartoonish in any other circumstance. He knelt, ripped open the ammo can, and pulled out a mortar shell. His hands worked frantically, removing the dunnage and the excess increments and the safety devices, throwing them this way and that. He dropped the mortar shell down the mortar tube. The light mortar was in its assault configuration, and much easier to handle with the smaller baseplate and without the bipod. The mortar ready, the captain eyeballed the alignment with the target, checked and rechecked the bubble on the range indicator, then depressed the trigger.

"Whump!" The mortar boomed, and the boom was followed by a distinct metallic ringing sound Evans would remember for the rest of his life. The enemy machine gun rounds kept impacting, but the impacts went high and wide. Evans and the others at the end of the bridge saw the mortar round arc up towards the island. It peaked, came back down, and exploded at the southernmost tip of the island. Water and mud and grey smoke splashed up.

"Fuck," Evans repeated. He and all the others stood dumbfounded. More DShK rounds impacted into the bridge. The captain, exposed to it all, grabbed another mortar shell and prepped it.

"Fuck," Evans repeated a third time. Then he spun around. The man in the turret of the nearest truck was Lasky.

"Lasky," Evans shouted. "Get that machine gun out of the cradle and meet me out there." Evans didn't wait for a response. He turned around, grabbed the second can of mortar shells, and sprinted onto the bridge.

His arms pumped. His heart thundered in his chest. Evans wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. Most of all, he wanted to not go on the bridge, but Evans sprinted onto it anyway. He could hear the DShKs' impacts striking all around him. The bullets clanged and sparked against the bridge's superstructure. They cracked over his head. The captain seemed a mile away. Evans kept running, as hard and as fast as he could.

A section of the bridge's deck was missing. A hole yawned open and beneath it, Evans could see the muddy water of the river rush by. Evans leaped over the gap. He landed. Something snapped over his head. It was something much bigger and more powerful than the bullets he'd always heard at the rifle range. Evans kept going. He saw something out of the corner of his eye; a line of burlap bags along one side of the bridge, opposite the captain. The captain's mortar thumped again. Evans heard that distinct metallic echo. He hated that sound, but he was focused on the burlap bags. They were more important now than the captain's mortar or the DShKs or anything.

Evans pitched the ammo can of mortar rounds off his chest and towards the captain. The big metal can hit the bridge deck, then spun and skidded over toward the captain and his mortar. Evans went in the other direction. He went for the burlap bags. He got there and ripped the first one open with his bare hands.

Inside he saw exactly what he expected.

Sprouting out of the 122mm artillery shells were electrical wires and red tubes of Semtex shock cord. The wires ran into a Nokia cell phone. The red shock cord ran into the 122mm shells in the other burlap bags. Somewhere in that mess were the necessary blasting caps. The face of the Nokia phone glowed electronically. Evans decided right there he was going to die, on this shitty bridge in this shitty country.

Evans also decided he didn't care.

He seized the first 122mm shell, brought it up to his chest, and pitched it over the side of the bridge. The wires and shock tube snapped. As the 12.7 bullets impacted all around him, Evans leaned over the side of the bridge to watch the IED fall. He said to himself, "If you watch that thing fall all the way into the river, and it explodes, it is going to take your head off." Evans watched it fall all the way into the river anyway. It splashed into the water without exploding. Evans seized up the other two burlap bags one at a time and pitched those off the bridge too. Then he ran to the captain. When he got there, he collapsed in a heap behind the nearest girder.

The captain was aligning his mortar for another shot. "What were you doing over there?" He asked casually, his eyes shifting from the rim of the mortar tube to the bubble on the elevation indicator.

"More IEDs. Artillery shells, all daisy chained together and rigged up to a mobile phone."

The captain froze. Without taking his eyes off his mortar he asked, "What did you do?"

"I took care of it," Evans said.

"Good," the captain said. He focused back on his mortar, got his alignment and elevation where he wanted them, and squeezed the trigger. Another whump followed by another one of those damned metallic rings. The shell arced out.

"What can I do?" Evans asked.

"Prep another round for me," the captain said.

The mortar round he just launched landed near one of the two machine gun positions and threw up dirt and gray smoke. That machine gun paused its firing. Evans' hands worked frantically at his mortar round. He tore open the cardboard packing tube and ripped out the safety devices and the excess powder increments.

Lasky crashed down next to them. Lasky looked like he was 15 years old. He was all tangled up in the medium machine gun and the belts of ammunition. Evans ripped the machine gun from the younger man, got it up on its bipod, slapped in a belt of ammo, charged it, and opened fire.

A burst of fire marked by red tracers arced out and splashed into the river just short of the island.

"The distance to those guns is 1200 meters on the dot," the captain said calmly. He fired his mortar again. Another thump. Another metallic echo.

Evans adjusted the sites on his weapon and fired again.

"At this range, if you are firing off the bipod then you're just making noise," The captain advised. He wasn't mad. He spoke more like a patient coach.

"Lasky, go back and get the tripod."

Lasky leaped up and sprinted back to the vehicles. DShK impacts danced around his feet. Evans wondered if the young man was going to get cut in half, decided there was nothing he could do about it, and fired his machine gun anyway. Another burst of 12.7 machine gun fire came in and impacted all around him. Spall came off the girders and peppered Evans' face. Evans cursed, shouldered his machine gun and bipod or not, and let loose another burst. Beside him, the captain's mortar thumped again.

Lasky was back with the tripod. He dove next to Evans and landed with a crash.

"Oh shit," Lasky said.

"Yeah, 'oh shit," Evans screamed back. He ripped off another burst with the machine gun, then lifted it onto the tripod. The captain's mortar thumbed. A 12.7 bullet punched a ragged hole through a girder a foot from Evans' head. A Marine named Reed ran out onto the bridge and fired at the island with his rifle. His rifle was long but not long enough for the distance. Evans got the machine gun onto the tripod and nestled in behind it. The mortar thumped and rang. Evans let off another burst. The gun spat out spent brass and links. Red tracers arced out toward the island and landed near one of the DShKs.

"Shift left and elevate a little," the captain advised, his voice still casual. Evans could make out the tiny, "pop-pop-pops" of Reed's rifle. He ripped off another burst. More bursts impacted into the bridge, high up in the superstructure.

"We're getting suppression," the captain said. "The gunner on the right on the right is slowing down. And he's missing the bridge more than he's hitting it."

Incoming fire clanged into the bridge and Evans thought the gunner on the right was doing fine. He ripped off another burst of his own. Lasky was beside him, feeding the ammo belt into the gun and trying to make himself as small as possible. The captain had his mortar lined up. He was concentrating on the elevation bubble and squeezing on the trigger. He was just about to fire when a hand clamped over the top of the mortar tube.

"Check fire! Check fire!" a Marine yelled. It was the pilot.

The captain cursed and simultaneously lowered the mortar and slapped the pilot's hand away.

"You dumb fuck! You almost lost your hand," the captain shouted. The pilot was oblivious to the scolding. He was looking up at the sky and speaking into the radio, in that nonsense pilot talk that Evans didn't understand.

And then the bridge collapsed.

At least that was what Evans thought. His world was full of noise, a louder more powerful noise than all the machine guns and that damned ringing mortar all put together. It was a noise you felt more than heard. Something high up in the superstructure snapped, and the bridge dropped, and listed to one side, like a ship beginning to capsize. The bridge only dropped an inch, maybe two. To Evans, those inches seemed like a mile. He felt his stomach drop out of his body. Above, the sky ripped open, and the heavens cracked in half. Evans looked up and saw a haze gray fighter sweep overhead. Fire spat out of its twin jet engines. The pilot was a pro. He hit the burners just at the right moment. A supersonic crack rolled over the bridge and the island. Right as he was over the enemy position, he dumped all his chaff and flares, and the sky came alive with the brilliance of metallic fire. With his burners flaring, the fighter climbed, banked, flew away, and disappeared to the west.

"I thought you said he was outta gas?" the captain shouted at the pilot.

"He was outta gas," the pilot replied. He turned back to his radio, said more pilot stuff, then turned back to the captain. "He just called for the crash crew at the airfield to get ready." The pilot paused again for his radio spoke into it, turned back to the captain, and said, "I got two more fighters on divert from TQ. Full load but they can only make one pass."

The hope had been that the jet would scare the enemy off. It didn't work. Not exactly. The DShK on the left resumed firing on the bridge right after the jet passed. After a long pause, so did the DShK on the right. But the lull was enough. Out of the corner of his eye, Evans saw the corpsman lead a team across the bridge. They carried big medical backpacks and dusty black stretchers. Other Marines were on the bridge now too, firing long-barreled rifles and light machine guns. They were aiming high and trying to lob their rounds in. Red tracers zipped through the air.

"Concentrate your fire on the DShK on the right," the captain ordered. "He's scared. His fire is getting wobbly."

More 12.7 crashed into the bridge. Evans had no idea what the captain meant when he said the enemy's fire was getting "wobbly." The enemy fire still looked pretty damned dangerous. Even so, he shifted his gun, aimed in on the enemy flashes, and fired.

"How much ammo do they have?" It was the pilot talking. The captain answered.

"They probably got all the ammo in the world. They chose the terrain. They chose the time to attack us. They planted the IEDs. They're dug in on an island. They probably prepared this for weeks." Then he asked, "Why are you on the bridge? I can't lose those radios."

"You won't."

"Get off the bridge."

"I need to be on the bridge to control the air."

"Well don't have them fly over us again.

"They have to fly up the river and over us. If they fly over the city and they miss their drop, their bombs could fall on the civilians."

"If they fly up the river and miss their drops their bombs could fall on us," the captain fired back.

"You know I can't bring them in over the city. You know what kind of war we're in," the pilot said. That was that. Evans rolled his eyes and fired off another burst.

His machine gun went dry. Evans flipped up the feed tray cover. Lasky ripped open an ammo can and passed over a belt. Evans set the belt on the feed tray, his hands fumbling along. Through his peripheral vision, he could see teams of litter bearers running back across the bridge with screaming casualties. He could see the pilot talking into his radio. Somebody at the wrecked truck called for a Halligan tool. At the opposite end of the bridge, a Marine fired his rifle. Brass flew out and gleamed in the sunlight. The corpsman ran up to the captain and crashed beside him.

"One's still stuck in that wreck. We got all the others."

"Can you get him out?"

"Yeah. We got to smash apart that truck though."

"Do it."

At their end of the bridge, Evans saw a truck come speeding toward the embankment in reverse, its tailgate down. The stretcher bearers loaded the casualties into the truck. In less than a minute. The tailgate went back up. One Marine smacked the back of the truck with a gloved fist and the truck sped off. Evans got his machine gun in action. The captain fired the mortar again.

This time the mortar's ring seemed louder, angrier. Evans winced at the noise. He could see the mortar projectile arcing up into the sky. It climbed, peaked, descended, came down on the island, and exploded.

It was just like in the movies.

The mortar shell impacted right on top of the rightmost enemy machine gun. It made a "Krumpf" sound and exploded into a cloud of gray smoke. Only this time something else exploded. It flashed yellow and red. A second later, the explosion's boom rolled over Evans and everybody else on the bridge. The rightmost DShK machine gun swung up and fired up into the sky. It didn't just fire a burst. It fired one long continuous stream. The green tracers buzzed. Evans could see it in his mind; the gunner was dead, collapsing to the ground with his fingers locked on the triggers, firing up into the sky in one final act of defiance.

"We got one, now get the other one," the captain ordered.

The Marines, the rifles, the light and medium machine guns, everything converged on the last enemy DShK position. Red tracers filled the air.

"We got him! We got him!" somebody yelled in triumph. It was Doc Youngblood. He had the last casualty over his shoulder. That Marine's camouflage uniform was soaked through with blood. His head rolled on his neck. "We got him," the corpsman yelled again. He ran back across the bridge. When he came to Hoffman's severed leg, without breaking stride Youngblood, dipped, grabbed the limb with his free hand, and kept running. Evans paused from his firing to watch the corpsman run to the other side. When the next burst of 12.7 impacted right next to Lasky, Evans mounted his machine gun and fired another burst at the island.

"Doc's got them all across," the pilot said. "They're all back across. We don't need to stay on this bridge."

The captain paused, a half-prepared mortar round in his hand. The pilot was right. They'd gotten their wounded back across the bridge. They didn't have to stay on the bridge dueling it out with the last gunner. The captain looked at the pilot. Then he looked at Evans. The captain didn't speak, but he seemed to be soliciting advice. Evans spoke his mind.

"This one is too good. If we don't kill him, we're going to regret it. He's too good for us to let him live."

The captain turned to the pilot. He nodded once in agreement with Evans.

"Okay," the captain said. "We finish it."

As if the last enemy gunner heard them, the line of DShK fire straightened out and bore down, laser-like on the bridge. It seemed to come in with more intensity, and the Marines fired back with more intensity. Red and green tracers zipped up and down the river, whipping past each other. The machine gun came alive under Evans. Lasky, belt in hand, called over his shoulder for more ammo. The mortar boomed and then rang again, that damned metallic ring. Behind Evans, the pilot knelt and faced down the river. He looked towards the sky and chattered away into his radio, the weird-ass pilot talk that was one-half officer gibberish and one-half magical incantations.

The bridge was alive with the sparks of metal on metal. Upriver, Evans could see the island's vegetation being torn apart. Another mortar round exploded, this one almost right on top of the enemy gunner. How was that machine gunner still alive? How were any of them alive?

Behind him, Evans could hear the pilot speaking faster now. Spent brass flew left and right. Evans heard the jet coming in.

"He's dropping! Get your heads down!" the pilot yelled.

Evans heard something cut through the air, then the middle of the small island exploded. A gray and black cloud rolled up into the sky. Beyond it, a fighter banked and soared away into the sky.

Nothing happened, not for a few seconds. The pause stretched impossibly long. One of the Marines stood up on the edge of the bridge, pointed at the island, and shouted, "Fuck You!"

Then the DShK opened up again. The Marine dove for cover. The captain cursed. The pilot chattered into his radio and looked up to the sky.

"He dropped long. He was worried about dropping short and hitting us," the pilot said. "I've got dash-two inbound."

Evans thought he heard the plane coming in. He turned from his gun and looked up into the sky. The pilot spoke into his radio.

"Yeah four-five, from lead's hits, bring it in fifty."

The enemy gunner on the island must have heard the plane too. His stream of fire lifted off the bridge and rose into the sky. He was searching for the second fighter that he knew was coming in after the first. Evans watched the green tracers fly by, up overhead. He could hear the jet getting louder.

Another Marine stood up on the bridge and shouted at the island. Instead of cursing, this one said, "Stop shooting and run you dumb-fuck!"

Evans looked up over his shoulder at the pilot.

"Four-five, you aren't getting a second pass at this, so just drop everything you've got."

Another Marine stood and shouted at the lone gunner, "Run! Run you dumb fucker!"

The green tracers blazed skyward. No breaks. No interruptions between short and controlled bursts. Just a steady stream of continuous fire searching for the plane everybody knew was coming.

More Marines were shouting at the island now, shouting at the gunner to run away. One waved his arms frantically in, 'go-away' gestures, as if trying to shoo an animal. The captain was sitting back, alone, shaking his head, and at that moment, Evans knew what the captain knew; the gunner on the island wasn't going to run. He wasn't the running type. He was committed. He was going to die on that island. The pilot spoke into his handset.

"Cleared hot."

The radio buzzed back a response that Evans couldn't make out. The heavy machine gun rounds cracked overhead. Green laser-light of tracers. Evans felt the air thicken. He heard the jet pull up and away. And then…

This one wasn't like in the movies. There weren't any secondary explosions. There weren't any screams. There was no raging against the dying of the light. No melodrama. The bombs fell and exploded, and this time when the smoke cleared, the second gun remained silent. The enemy was dead. Maybe he could have run, but he didn't. He died at his post on the island. And that was that, and that was all. Everybody on the bridge just looked at the island. Nobody spoke except for the pilot. He stood and raised a radio handset to his lips.

"Target destroyed, four-five. Thanks for the work today. Menudo out."

The battle at the bridge had ended. Now the recovery work began.

There were never enough people and never enough equipment to adequately defend the bridge or clear the island before the ambush. Now, after the ambush, no expense was spared to clean up the mess. People and resources flooded in to begin the recovery operations. An entire infantry company arrived to secure both embankments. Armored boats came from upriver and posted as pickets on either side of the bridge. Civilian experts from the Army Corps of Engineers arrived to assess the damage to the bridge. Then they debated if it was better to repair the bridge or destroy it completely and build a new one. Troops erected massive stadium lights so operations could continue through the night. Generators hummed. Squat recovery vehicles parked at the end of the bridge. Steel cables snaked out from their powerful winches and pulled the wrecked vehicles across the bridge, one inch at a time for fear of collapsing the bridge. Word was that the Army was flying in divers the next morning to search the river bottom for bodies.

The day had been long, and now twilight fell. The shadows grew long, and the sky changed from blue to orange. Evans and Lasky sat together. They watched the activity on the bridge. Lasky had the machine gun resting across his thighs.

"That was one helluva day," Lasky said.

"A helluva day," Evans agreed. And then, they heard singing behind them.

Out in the West Texas town of El Paso

I fell in love with a Mexican girl

They both turned. The pilot walked up behind them, a broad smile on his face. Even dressed as he was, in his filthy camouflage uniform with his radios, he possessed a strong element of showmanship. There was just something about the way he moved. The pilot kept crooning.

Nighttime would find me in Rosa's cantina

Music would play, and Felina would whirl

When the pilot got to Evans and Lasky, he stopped singing and said, "Gentlemen, I need your help with something. Would you follow me?"

Evans and Lasky followed the singing pilot down the street. The pilot didn't sing anymore, but he hummed the rest of his ballad without any hint of self-consciousness. You would never guess from the pilot's demeanor that they were in a war, in a town full of people that would happily see them dead. They went down the street a block, maybe two. They turned. They twisted. Then the pilot walked right into the local equivalent of a convenience store. Evans and Lasky looked at each other and then followed the pilot inside.

"I'm thirsty," the pilot said. "I'd buy some beers, but that's against general order number one. That, and there isn't any beer for sale in this whole country. Grab a bunch of those soda pops in the cooler."

The store was full of brown-skinned locals who eyed the three of them warily. The pilot didn't seem to notice the locals. He fished into one of the many pockets on his uniform for a wallet. In the back of the store were stand-up coolers with glass doors. One was filled with bottles of soda: blue and white with red lettering.

"How many should we get?" Evans asked.

"Grab as many as you can," the pilot said. He thumbed through his wallet, took out a few US bills, and handed them to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper smiled.

Evans reached open the cooler. A blast of frigid air hit him in the face. It was refreshing. He grabbed a plastic bottle of soda and the coldness of it bit into his fingers. It was then he realized how thirsty he was. Back at the counter, the pilot asked, "You got any cigarettes?" He mimicked smoking a cigarette. The shopkeeper smiled and nodded. He had no idea what the pilot was asking. A young boy, maybe ten years old, said something to the shopkeeper in their native tongue, then said something else to the pilot in English.

"Pines? You got Pines back there?" the pilot said. Evans filled Lasky's arms with soda bottles, like he was loading him with firewood.

"You get those soda pops?" The pilot asked. He stuffed cigarette packs into his pockets.

"Sir, we're getting 'em," Evans said. "What are we going to do with all these sodas, anyway?"

"We're gonna drink 'em," the pilot said. He took a $20 out of his wallet and handed it to the kid. Then he shrugged, took out a crisp $100 bill, and set it on the counter. The shopkeeper's eyes lit up with delight. They all walked out of the store.

"Sir, you know you overpaid for all this stuff," Evans said to the pilot. They all walked back towards the bridge.

"Maybe," the pilot said. "But what do I care? It is only money. I'm a well-paid fighter pilot. Money is nothing to me."

"If money is nothing to you, sir, maybe you could give some to me," Lasky said.

"Ha," the pilot said. "Just enjoy the smokes and the soda pop."

"Where are we going?" Evans asked.

The pilot smiled. "We're going to drink these soda pops and smoke these cigarettes. Where else would we be going?" And then the pilot started singing again.

Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina

Wicked and evil while casting a spell…

Lasky and Evans followed the pilot. "I wish he wouldn't call them soda pops," Lasky whispered. Evans nodded in agreement.

The pilot led them down to the river. The others from the bridge were already there, the captain, Owens, Doc Youngblood. They were all sitting on a hidden bank, legs dangling above the water. Above was the shattered bridge. The portable stadium lights blazed. Across the water, the riverine patrol boats circled. Up the river, smoke still lingered above the island. The new infantry company that arrived had taken over security. There was nothing for them to do but sit and watch the river.

"Hey, EOD showed up. Welcome. Grab a seat," one of the Marines said.

"Took you long enough. You get my cigarettes," the captain grumbled. His remarks were for the pilot who sat down next to him.

"Yeah. We got your cigarettes," the pilot said.

"Gauloises?" the captain asked.

"Pines," the pilot replied.

"Good. I like Pines better," the captain said.

"Funny thing for a guy to say when he doesn't even smoke," the pilot said.

"You don't smoke either," the captain said.

"No, I don't," the pilot said. He ripped open one of the blue and white packets, shook out a cigarette for himself, then passed the pack over to the captain. Another pack was passed in the opposite direction. None of them smoked, not normally, but everybody took a cigarette.

Evans collapsed down on the riverbank. His legs dangled over the water. He took the soda bottles from Lasky and passed them left and right. He opened his own bottle and drank. The soda was cold and sweet. He guzzled down almost half the bottle. The breeze off the river found its way under his armor. The cool air hit his sweat-soaked back and he shivered. The captain's eyes stared across the river and beyond. He spoke to the pilot.

"Smoking will ruin your singing voice."

The pilot opened a soda, drank gustily, then puffed on his lit cigarette. "Nonsense. Besides, my professional singing days are over. I'm a Naval Aviator now."

One of the Marines snickered. The captain just stared out across the water. He said, "No. It is true. He used to sing professionally. He used to be in a boy band. That's why his call sign is Menudo."

Evans choked on his soda. He set the bottle down and said, "What?"

Another Marine asked, "Menudo? Like the soup?"

"A different kind of Menudo, and it is true," the pilot said. "When I was a teenager, back in the day I was in a boyband. It was fun while it lasted, but I got kicked out."

"You get too old?" Evans asked.

"I got too tall. I had a growth spurt one summer. I was eight inches taller than the others. When we did photo shoots it looked ridiculous." The pilot puffed on his cigarette, then shrugged and said, "What do you do when you're too tall and too old to sing in a boy band and you got nowhere else to go? You join the Marines, that's what you do." The pilot puffed out a perfect ring of smoke.

"I was in college, but drank all my tuition money away," another Marine added. "When I sobered up, I was standing on some yellow footprints in Paris Island, getting screamed at."

The river rolled by. The sky turned dark blue. Up on the bridge, the generators rumbled and the stadium lights burned through the darkness.

"Who was in that missing truck?" One of the Marines asked. A pause followed. Then the captain answered.

"Fraser, Ivy, Goodwin, and Cifuentes." He flicked his cigarette into the water and added, "I knew we should have cleared that island."

"You kept asking. The BC kept saying no," the pilot said.

"I should have done it anyway," the captain said. "I'm tired of always being in react mode I'm tired of always having our reactions constrained by people who aren't interested in winning this war. Just once I'd like to go on the offensive and make the bad guys react to me."

"Ain't nobody gonna let you win," the pilot replied. "You know what kind of war you're in."

"Yeah, I know what kind of war I'm in."

Nobody said much after that. The river rolled. The night sky darkened and the stars grew brighter. They all just sat on the bank, enjoying their cigarettes and the soda and the peaceful solitude. Evans finished his soda. He held the empty bottle up to the light and considered the blue, white, and red label. He recapped it, tossed it into the river, and watched it float away. The plastic sides gleamed unit the river and the darkness took it away.

Lasky spoke. "That gunner was good. The last one. Holding out to the end like he did." Nobody replied to that, so Lasky went on.

"He must have been shitting himself in the end though. Being stuck on that island with no way out and those jets screaming in."

"He didn't have to stay there and die on his gun," the air controller said. "He could have just stopped shooting and slipped away."

"No. No, he couldn't have," the captain said. "He knew what he was doing. He made his decision to die on that island before he got out of bed this morning."

"Still," Lasky said. "He had to be shitting himself in fear at the end. When the air came in. Knowing that was how it was going to end for him. He had to be scared then, knowing there was no escape, knowing that he was going to die."

"I don't know," the captain said. He spoke slowly and clearly, and everybody listened intently, especially Evans. "I think maybe when you reach that point in your life… when you reach that level of commitment, and you know it is your time… I think then you don't feel any fear. You're ready. You know what you need to do. At that point, I think a calmness sets in and you just do what needs to be done."

The captain drew in on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and finished.

"There's a reason why they call it, 'making your peace.'"

The dream that was really a memory ended with a knock on the door. Evans opened his eyes. The sun was up. It shone brightly through the bedroom window. It was late in the morning.

"Yeah, what is it?" Evans asked. Kyle opened the door.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" Evans asked. His head ached with the damned metallic ring from the fireworks the night before.

"It is after eleven and you're still in bed."

"Yeah, well," Evans grumbled. He sat up. His old muscles ached with the movement. "I'm getting up now."

"You hungry? You want me to make breakfast or lunch?" Kyle asked.

"Breakfast," Evans said. "You cook a good breakfast. I won't pass that up."

"Okay," Kyle said. "But get up. I'm sure you have work to do."

"I'm retired," Evans said.

"Yeah, I'm sure you got work anyways." Kyle left and went down to the kitchen.

Evans sat on the edge of his bed. He didn't want to remember the battle at the bridge, because remembering stirred up emotions he'd rather not feel. The bridge had been both a good day, and a terrible day, as the most important days in a man's life are. If the story had ended there on the banks of the river, with all of them smoking cigarettes and drinking sodas, that would have been fine. But that wasn't how it ended because it wasn't that type of war. So, as Kyle made breakfast, Evans remembered the last part of the story.

Evans was back at the base, in the back of the metal shipping container where the EOD team stored all their gear in. He was organizing their tools, making sure they would have everything they needed the next time they went out to deal with a bomb. Manuals and tools and pieces of bomb suits were scattered all over shelves and workbenches made out of plywood and lumber. The skill level of the carpentry was about on par with that of some 12-year-old boys building a tree house. Nothing was quite level, and nothing was quite square. Evans had a dozen screwdrivers laid out before him. The screwdriver on the end kept trying to roll away. Off to one side was the helmet of his bomb suit. The clear faceplate stared back at Evans as he worked. There was a knock on the container door. It was Lasky.

"You get those radios back from the communications shed yet? They should be done with them." Evans asked.

"Not yet," Lasky said, and he lingered at the door. The silence spoke volumes.

"What is it?" Evans asked.

"Remember that captain on the bridge? The one with the mortar?"

Evans nodded but didn't look up from his screwdrivers. "That was just two days ago. The memory is still pretty fresh," Evans said. Lasky nodded.

"The battalion commander just relieved him. Said he shouldn't have fired that mortar so close to an urban area. The battalion commander said the captain put too many locals at risk."

Evans didn't say anything. He didn't do anything that might betray a single emotion. Lasky continued.

"They sent the captain up to regiment. They sent in a helicopter just for him. Pulled him out this morning."

Evans nodded and then said, "Forget about the captain. Get over to the communications shop and get our radios back."

After the corporal was gone, Evans picked up the helmet of his bomb suit. He raised it up and then smashed it onto the oak floor of the container as hard as he could, again and again. The faceplate cracked. Evans kept smashing the helmet until his emotions burned out. Then he set the bashed-in helmet back on the end of the off-kilter workbench.

"Stupid fucking war," Evans cursed. Then he went back to organizing his tools. There was nothing else he could do.

Interlude: Logistics. Oakland California.

The two containers were offloaded at the Port of Oakland, California. They were each 40 feet long and looked like the thousands of other containers that came from China to the United States every day. Each container was identified by an alpha-numeric code stenciled on its sides. These codes were flagged, so when the containers were offloaded from their Chinese cargo vessel, the longshoremen put them in a secure area.

The team that received the containers consisted of four men. Two were from Customs and Border Protection. The other two were from a private company: Davos Consulting of North America. The CBP agents were young. The two men from Davos were old. They'd already retired from the military and were now in their second career.

The CBP agents checked the seals on the two containers. Once they confirmed the seals were intact, their job was done. They left the containers to the two Davos men.

The Davos men waited with the containers. They sat in a brand new, blacked-out SUV that looked like something a federal agent might drive. After a few hours, two semi-trucks arrived along with three more SUVs. Each of the SUVs contained more Davos employees. The containers were loaded onto the semis and then the whole group left the Port of Oakland. Two SUVs accompanied each truck. They didn't leave via the normal exits, but through gates in the chain-link fences normally reserved for emergency vehicles. These gates didn't have the cameras or kiosks that the normal commercial points of entry and exit had.

They drove to a warehouse outside Sacrament. The warehouse was newly built and big. Each semi was able to drive inside the warehouse, detach from the chassis-mounted container, and drive off. But not before the drivers were paid, in cash. The drivers were all independents who had been contracted locally by other Davos agents. There were no digital records linking the truck drivers to Davos.

After the drivers were gone and all the warehouse doors closed, the Davos employees opened the containers. One contained crates marked with Mandarin characters and just one word in English: Norinco.

"We'll need to destroy those crates when we're done," one of the Davos men said.

With long-handled crowbars, they opened the crates. Each crate contained what were being called Type 56C-B rifles. The executives at Norinco added the "B" designator to identify these weapons as being designed for the Baizuo. It was an inside joke that they found hilarious. Each weapon was a slightly modified Chinese Type 56C rifle, which is a long way of saying they were modified AK-47s. Each was fully automatic, and each had a shortened barrel. Either of these features would demand additional scrutiny for the average American citizen to own, if they even lived in a state that allowed them to own such weapons at all. But this was a special operation. There wasn't going to be any scrutiny. These weapons weren't going to average American citizens. This operation was serving a higher ideological purpose and thus could not be constrained by any laws.

The second container was filled with ammunition for the weapons. Fortunately, the ammunition containers didn't bear any markings. The retired general who negotiated this arms deal with the Chinese made certain of that. Repackaging all the ammunition would have been a task.

The weapons and the ammunition were all unloaded and divided into separate stacks. Each stack was labeled with the name of a US city: Portland. Newark. Seattle. Houston. The stacks varied in size. The two largest were going to Los Angles and Chicago. The smallest two were going to the capitals of Nebraska and Tennessee. The teams that would receive those shipments were small but very well-trained. They'd been trained by other veterans who also worked for Davos.

The Davos men worked efficiently. They all had backgrounds in either the military, law enforcement, or the intelligence community. They'd all been recruited by the executives of Davos North America, who were all either retired flag officers or former members of the Senior Executive Service. Once everything was in its appropriate stack, several of the Davos men left to get the panel vans that would transport the arms caches to their final destination. Once the weapons were gone, the warehouse was sterilized. The Davos men destroyed any evidence of the arms and ammunition. Even the shipping containers and their truck chassis would disappear. They would get stenciled with new alphanumeric codes, then sent down to Mexico. It was perhaps an overly cautious step, but the Davos employees were thorough. They had all done work like this before in other countries. Now they were doing it in the United States. The pay was better. And according to the senior executives of Davos Consulting of North America, the mission more urgent. "You are defending true democracy," the retired admirals and generals said. Some of the Davos men believed that. Most were just in it for the money.

Naturally, one of the arms shipments was destined for Texas. It would be delivered not too far from Uncle Evans' house.