Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER TWO

Somewhere in a Middle Eastern desert, under a moonless night, my eight-man Special Operations team is engaged in a furious firefight inside a remote compound; bullets and rocket-propelled grenades fly everywhere. We all have beards and shemagh scarves, making it hard to tell us apart from our opponents in the darkness. The only marked difference is the controlled and efficient manner in which we face the overwhelming number of enemies. The fact that we're locked in such a nightmare means something has gone terribly wrong with our mission.

Our combat controller, James Sanders, a sinewy African-American with sharp features and intense eyes, is calling for an air strike to bail our sorry asses out of this hellhole, when one of our teammates is hit.

"Man down!" someone yells. But I'm already on it. I call for covering fire and run to help my fallen comrade.

"Hold the line!" our team leader says.

I reach my fallen friend, Matt Haze, an all-American boy who looks like he could bench press a horse. I immediately check his vitals; he's dead. No time to feel sorry. Mourning will have to wait until the mission is over and we go back into the world-if we actually manage to do so.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I train my gun to the shadows and see a kid no older than twelve crawling on the ground toward a corpse's weapon. Don't do it! I think, shooting around the boy to scare him away; but the kid is determined to prove his manhood. Don't! I put the boy in my crosshairs as he picks the gun up and aims it at me, leaving his childhood behind. Goddamnit! I'm about to pull the trigger, but the kid is no longer there. The silhouette of a man stands in his place; he is about to shoot at me. I open fire.

Gasping, I open my eyes. I'm face down with half of my body out of bed, and a puddle of drool by my face. I'm still wearing my street clothes and the clock says it's almost noon. A half-empty bottle of tequila rolls on the floor as I stumble to my feet. My head feels like a construction site in the middle of summer.

The dream is just one of many recurrent ones. No one who experiences combat goes through it unscathed. But this nightmare's sudden twist in the end-with the man appearing-is a whole other ballgame. There is a lingering feeling that he is somehow familiar to me.

After the cop left yesterday, Doctor Goldman had approached me suggesting I should get assistance from the VA in dealing with my PTSD; but all I was interested in was getting out of that place as soon as possible. I know the doctor means well, and maybe I should heed his advice, but I'm not the kind of guy who sits around in a circle sharing his feelings with a bunch of strangers.

I pop three ibuprofens before peeing for what seems like an eternity. Then I search my pockets for my lighter and fire up the only cigarette that isn't crushed. After wandering the streets like a zombie for a week, I was relieved to find all my personal belongings intact, including my vintage WWI trench lighter.

My cold feet clumsily seek the comfort of a rug lying on the floor, while I regulate the shower's temperature. The shower makes me feel better almost instantly. I'm glad that the recent tattoo on my right shoulder-the Air Force Special Operations Command symbol with two green footprints flanking it-has healed enough to get wet. A few minutes later, I step out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist and pick up the still-smoking cigarette from the edge of the sink. Even when I'm alone, I'm conscious about being naked. It doesn't matter that I'm in great shape, and it has nothing to do with the dozen or so scars that cover my body.

I look at my face in the bathroom mirror. My dark eyes scan every line, every mark: the old scar above my left eyebrow, and every new white hair contrasting with my black head. There aren't many, but they are slowly multiplying with every passing year. I could pass for someone ten years younger, but my eyes reflect a man twenty years my senior. My beard reminds me of my time in the service, so I shave, leaving a nicely groomed goatee.