The Last Mission
Seven Days, Iraq, the Summer of ’09, Headed Home
Although this story contains things from the world in which we live, including real people, places, and events, it should be read as a work of historical fiction. All characters are fictional and not based on any actual living person. The events that take place in this story are entirely the product of my imagination.
Part One.
August 1, 2009.
The “VIP Departure Lounge,” as it proclaimed itself in bright yellow letters on a red background, had nothing VIP about it. It was a small room about twenty feet by fifteen, with a bare, concrete floor covered with the insidious, omnipresent dust, and bordered on all four sides by plywood walls. The ceiling was also plywood, and the two by four beams supporting it were exposed.
A few sand spiders crawled along the ceiling here and there, upside down. The garish red and yellow sign proclaimed that only O5s and above were permitted to use it. I ignored it. I was the only one in the room. And after having been in country for almost a year, I figured I could make a very good explanation if a more senior officer came in and called me out on it. And at that point, during the late, blistering summer, the biggest part of me couldn’t care less if one did.
I was getting on a plane in an hour that would take me on the first leg of my trip out of Iraq. I still couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it was actually going to happen. I was supposed to be there for at least another month. And then, almost overnight, a mission came up that would take me home early, albeit not directly.
This, in my mind, was very welcome development, not the least of which was that it would get me home to my family sooner. But it came with a few other desirable prospects. It was late August now, and the interlopers who, every summer season, invaded our little off-the beaten-path beach town near where I was stationed along the southern Outer Banks would be gone or close to leaving. It would be quiet and peaceful.
We’d have the beaches to ourselves again, and my favorite surf breaks would be almost empty. And the college football season — something I still used to follow back then before all the horrific things that would happen to my father over the next decade that directly resulted from his time playing the game in college and the NFL and events that would permanently alter the way I would come to view both his and my own experience playing — was just on the horizon, and getting closer.
I was acutely, almost achingly, looking forward to all of this. I missed my wife and boys, who were 13 and 10 at that time. I wanted to get back to them as soon as possible.
But I had a mission to accomplish first. As I would come to learn, it was a good mission I was requested by name to do. And it was one I would carry it out alone.
It would eventually be a somewhat circuitous route, but on that black night in the middle of the Iraqi desert, all I could think of was I was finally going home.
It was 1145 hours, and I stood outside on the tarmac wearing desert cammies with all my gear; two seabags stuffed to the breaking point, a full pack, with Kevlar vest and helmet on the ground next to me. The vest and Kevlar were so heavy they would sit there up until the moment I donned them before entering the aircraft. I also had my M4 carbine, the best weapon I’d ever used, and a Beretta M9 pistol holstered along my right leg.
The plane was supposed to arrive and pull up at 0005.
My radio crackled. “Bird’s on final approach, Sir.”
“Copy. Take care Gunny. I appreciate all your help while I’ve been out here.”
“Safe travels Sir. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
It was Gunnery Sergeant Willis calling from the tower. He controlled the air traffic in and out of the base. He had taken care of the air assets in theater that had ferried me around during my deployment.
The night was quiet. The air carried the omnipresent stench of something burning off in the distance. Hundreds of diesel-powered generators ran the electricity on base, but they burned stuff everywhere and the smoke drifted across everything. There was no telling what it was, and you could not escape it.
The full moon above was a brownish yellow, the dust-filled air darkening its countenance, making it look distant and afraid to come too close. There was barely a breeze across the 90-degree midnight.
Then, off in the distance, I could hear the unmistakable drone of the C130 engines, as the plane approached out of the west, invisible without its running lights, seemingly heading directly for where I stood at the end of the runway.
Sixty seconds later, the tires screeched as it hit the ground, and I heard the high-pitched whine of the propellors as the pilot threw them into reverse to bring the beast to a slow roll.
The running lights came on now, and I could see it was closer than it had sounded. The pilot pulled to within 50 yards, made a 90-degree turn right, then came to a halt. The propellors were still at full speed.
The ramp came down seconds later, and when it was on the ground, a few civilian contractors and soldiers in full gear walked briskly off and in my direction. I waited for them to clear and for the crew chief at the bottom of the ramp to signal me forward.
After the debarking passengers cleared, the crew chief waved me onward with a chem light. I picked up my seabags and trudged toward him. When I got to the beaten zone behind the engines, the blast furnace of the engine exhaust hit me like a wall of flame. I finally reached the crew chief. “Take any seat you want Sir! You’re the only passenger on this leg.”
I walked up the ramp like I’d done so many times before that summer, careful not to trip on one the gaps in or protrusions from the surface of the ramp. I walked all the way up to the ladder that extended up to the flight deck, stowed my gear, and took a seat along the left side of the aircraft.
Just as soon as I sat down, the ramp started back up and the crew chief walked in my direction.
“You need anything Sir? We got water and Gatorade.”
“Yeah, I’ll take a Gatorade.”
He opened an ice chest that was dummy-corded to the bulkhead, pulled out a Gatorade, and tossed it to me.
“Thanks. How long is the flight?”
“Should be about two hours Sir.”
“Okay thanks.”
He nodded and went to strap in across from me.
We were already rolling. I belted in and got ready for takeoff. The aircraft made another 90-degree hard-right, and we came up to full speed. We were airborne within thirty seconds.
I strained to turn around and look out the porthole window behind and to my left. Through it, all I could see as we took off were a few scattered lights at the edge of the airfield. It had been my home in the middle of the Iraqi desert for the past six months.
As we banked left into a rising turn to the west, there was no feeling of nostalgia or wistfulness for the time I’d spent there nor anything down on the ground. I didn’t really feel anything about it. The only emotion I felt — if one could even call it that — was relief that I was leaving.
And I had no intention of ever going back.
To be continued.
Glen Hines is the author of five books, including the recently published Of Time and Rivers, and the highly-regarded Bring in the Gladiators, Observations From a Former College Football Player Who Was Never Able to Become a Fan, all available at Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. He is the writer and producer of the book and podcast Welcome to the Machine, available on most podcast platforms. His writing has also been featured in Sports Illustrated, Task & Purpose, and the Human Development Project.
