The scorching desert sun had finally retreated behind the sand dunes to the west. As darkness set over the desolate expanse, gusts of wind carried particles of sand for miles in an ever shifting cycle. In the distance, buildings huddled together in a large cluster like ripe grapes.

Elongated shadows cast by clay buildings faded into the blanket of darkness that covered the small village. A hundred meters from the village square sat a dilapidated residence. A large pile of crumbled clay and rocks pressed against the outside of a shabby wall. Deep pairs of tracks ran along the side of the building toward the village- evidence of a recent patrol. While the armored vehicles may have left, the Americans had not. 

Inside of the neglected home, the fireteam held their position silently, leaning up against the cracked interior of the house. Unnoticed by the dormant residents of the small township, the team waited for almost two hours, sentinels of freedom determined to fulfill the task assigned to them. As the last of the lights in the village became extinguished, the fireteam began its operation.

“Quickly now. You two take the left. Phillips and I will move to the right” whispered the fireteam leader, Blake Schmidt, as he gestured the commands with his black glove-covered hands.. Without a word, the team crept silently over the chunks of worn clay and rubble, taking immense caution to avoid detection. 

“Remember the plan. This place is about to get busy,” remarked the fireteam leader to the soldier standing next to him.

“Affirmative,” the man softly grunted through his thick ginger mustache. 

With a final nod to the rest of the fireteam, the team moved into the nearest of the buildings.

Just in and out. No problem. I’ve done this a hundred times Blake thought to himself as he crept through the abandoned floor of a townhouse. 

Find the weapons. Finish the mission. Go home. Blake’s thoughts had gradually zoomed out from his current objective. All at once, memories of home rushed into his mind. Long, leisurely strolls through the wide boulevards of the large development of homes. Yardwork and ice cold glasses of lemonade with his new bride, Allison.

Allison thought Blake as he approached a broad doorway leading into another section of the house. 

I’m doing this for her. And the kids he thought as the leveled his rifle toward the gaping darkness of the back room. As Blake slowed his approach to a halt, two sharp bangs from across the street slashed through the eerie silence of the village. A moment later, two more shots rang out, then a long, uncontrolled burst from an ancient assault rifle. The dull thud and clatter amidst the burst signaled the telltale sign of a downed assailant. While Blake remain perfectly still to mask his presence, his thoughts trailed back to his final month in special forces training, and the advice his instructor had given him.

“Now, when you gentlemen finally come into contact with the enemy, whoever that may be, your response must always be the same. You can’t afford to think. Two shots in succession. A double tap. If this isn’t as natural to you boys as breathing or blushing at a pretty girl then you’re dead. Oh, and your team is dead, too. You’ve failed. Any questions?”

The simple and straightforward logic of the instructor had always appealed to Blake. 

My training is the only thing that will keep me alive out here. It’s hard to believe that this is my last mission before I can go home. One more perilous night, and I’m free.

Alerted by the noise outside, a startled man sprinted out of the back room clutching a tattered weapon. Before his foot touched the ground outside the door frame, two 5.56 rounds tore into his chest. The man crumpled to the ground, a pool of blood spreading quickly across his dirty, cream-colored garment. 

Upon killing the alarmed terrorist, Blake advanced toward the back room, undoubtedly housing the cache of weapons they were sent to confiscate.

Fall asleep, catch the heat” Blake thought to himself with amusement. A classic joke created by the platoon of elite soldiers stationed in the area.

Blake entered the dark room, peering through his night goggles. As he turned his head, the hazy green image from the goggles made out a small figure leaning against a wall. 

The boy was young, only thirteen or so. His bare feet and ankles were coated in the dust of the village roads, and a layer of dried mud caked the bottoms of his toes. His legs were long and thin, and a pair of knobby, scraped knees pressed through the massive holes in his baggy pants. The boy was not wearing a shirt. A sunken chest revealed a robustly defined rib cage with a thick sternum centered over his chest, trying its best to press through dry and cracked skin. Matted black hair tumbled almost down to his shoulders. Stemming from the skin of his stretched neck and shoulders, a thin pair of arms led down to the boy’s torso and cradled an AK-47. 

The once smooth wooden finish of the tool of terror was scratched and pocked with small nicks and holes. The rusted stock pressed into the arms of the small boy. Underneath the weapon, the iconic curved magazine was nowhere to be found. The metal slot leading to the chamber was open, its lever drawn back. The large weapon grasped by the boy was not loaded.

The two bullets spiraled through the air before striking the child. With a scream and a gasp, the young boy spiraled across the floor of the small, dark room. 

Blake gazed around the room for a moment before signalling his squad.

“Clear.”

After a few minutes of spontaneous and short lived fighting, silence fell over the village. Even after the fireteam exited the village through the broad, muddy and worn road, a hush was maintained. Terrified of another attack, the dwellers of the township huddle in their homes until dawn.

The morning sun soared into the air, dry-roasting rocks and sand for the trillionth time. The lone Blackhawk helicopter streaked across the desert as it made its approach to Al-Tanf. The chopper the landing zone of the American occupied base, casting enormous bellows of dust and sand into the air. Once the rotors slowed, the fireteam dismounted from the combat beast, physically unscathed and unbothered by the weight of their equipment. 

“How’s it feel, boss? You’re finally gonna go home,” bellowed Daniel Phillips, a fellow brother and arms and friend of Blake. The enormous man twirled his ginger mustache with a massive arm, muscles bulging out of a black t-shirt.

“You know I’m excited, hoss. Just a few more papers to sign and a long ride back,” Blake sighed. He had made up his mind a long time ago that the Middle East was not the place for him.

“Thanks for keeping me covered back there. I know I can always count on you.”

“Hey now, it's what we do. We’re the best of the best.” 

As Blake continued to walk across the vast area housing dozens of vehicles and aircraft, his thoughts continued his comment to his friend.

We may be the best, but  we’re not invincible. With the amount of intel we received for some ops we might as well have been grunts. We didn’t even locate the cache of weapons.

Interrupting his train of thought with a sudden burst of laughter, Phillips slapped Blake on the back and shouted with a slurred drawl.

“Well, how’s about I buy you a drink, eh? We gotta celebrate!” Phillips exclaimed, fake stuttering and stumbling across the final stretch of hardened sand.

“Oh, for me? You shouldn’t have,” gushed Blake, playing along with his immature squadmate. 

The two men confidently sauntered towards headquarters for debriefing.

The welcoming committee was small. When Blake stepped off the massive passenger jet into the expansive lobby, he expected to see a number of friends and relatives waiting to see him after his deployment of over a year. Instead, he spotted his wife and daughter standing off to the side of a large path leading toward the parking garage. With a large smile on his face, Blake sprinted to his family with outstretched arms. When he reached his wife, she clasped her small hands around his thick, muscular neck and began to sob into his shoulder. Blake offered words of comfort while simultaneously pulling his young daughter in for a reunion hug.

“Hey now, it’s okay darling. I’m home for good this time,” Blake whispered gently.

When Blake pulled away from their embrace, he could see more than just relief and gladness in his wife’s eyes. He saw pain. 

“Is everything okay, darling? Where’s Timothy” Blake asked with growing concern in his voice.

“There… there was an incident at home. There’s nothing we could have done,” answered Allison in a soft and shaky voice, her puffy eyes once again welling with tears.

Gently pulling Allison and his daughter Emily away from the crowd of people milling around the airport, Blake further questioned the two in a secluded seating section. 

“What happened to Timothy? Is he hurt?” 

Blake noticed that his daughter Emily was staring at the ground. Something truly awful must have happened if his own daughter refused to look into his face. Despite hoping and believing for the best, Blake prepared himself for the worst. He could not, however, prepare himself for what came next. 

“He’s gone. Dead, baby. He was killed by an intruder three days ago while Em and I were visiting my parents,” Allison whispered. “I wish I could have let you known sooner,” she said, her voice trailing off into silence.

Overwhelmed by emotion, Blake slumped down into a cheap plastic seat in the sparsely populated boarding area. The slightly crusty, soda-stained fabric stretched over the top of a seating pad creaked softly as he leaned forward. The black rubber of Blake’s tennis shoes scraped softly against the carpet of the airport. Blake put his face in his hands.

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, and nearly absolute silence was maintained for the entire car trip home. Even Emily, who typically chattered incessantly, stared silently out the windows for hours on end. 

After Emily was safely put to bed, Blake and Allison sat on the edge of their son’s bed and talked for hours. They recounted stories of Tim’s childhood and comforted each other in silence. After what seemed like ages, Blake pressed his wife for details.

“How exactly was Tim killed?” Blake said softly, with a hint of fear in his voice.

“The police say he was likely trying to stop the intruder by himself. He never called the police. When we came home the next day… he had been shot twice.”

Blake froze as he processed the words his wife had just said. His son had been killed in the same way he had killed dozens of assailants. A double tap. Blake came to the realization that he could protect the nation overseas, but there was no promise of safety at home. In order to keep his family safe, he learned how to kill and separate other families.