The Hunter Killer
I flew from Minneapolis to Los Angeles on Saturday. The passenger on my right was coming from his parents' house in Georgia and on his way to Vandenberg, CA.
He works up there. About half the time. When he isn't in the desert. We started talking because he apologized. Apologized for the hat and sunglasses that smacked me in the head.He said he was ok, that he's ok when he's awake.It was a nightmare. He was sitting in a passenger seat, and he saw something coming from his right, something big coming toward the car. So he turned to the left, fast, bracing, hoping the door would protect him from the explosion.
And then he woke up. And saw his hat and glasses rolling off my shoulder.
He's 22 years old, and the uniform he wore back to the States a few weeks ago had four bullet holes in it. One through the loose bit of cloth that hangs in his left armpit. Two side by side on the chest. And one on the back. The first bullet had somehow missed his body, and the last three had hit armor plates. They'd hurt. But nothing big. Just soreness.
We talked about his mom, baseball, concentration, deep breaths, sandstorms, the difference between targets and people, writing a book, hangovers, and learning to give yourself an IV.And he told me why he thinks he got shot... Five of the seven people on his Hunter-Killer Team are either 18 or 19 years old. And they're usually extraordinarily reliable.Twice, however, phone calls came in from 18 and 19 year old girlfriends. Breakup phone calls. Teary, shaky, I can't handle this anymore calls. And, twice, on the days immediately following those phone calls, sad minds got drifty, reaction time was slow, and people almost died. My new friend told me he felt like a bad ass when he left for Iraq.He doesn't anymore.
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