Free The Severance by Elliott Sawyer Page B

the 240!” Parsons shouted.
    Joe released the stuck carbine and grabbed the M240’s charging handle, jerking it back to make the machine gun ready to fire. The car was now only 200 feet away and closing fast.
    “He’s going to ram us! Shoot!” Parsons shouted, his voice booming in Joe’s intercom headset.
    Joe haphazardly fired a five-round burst from the machine gun, without shouldering it. He’d intended the bullets to miss, to serve as a warning to the oncoming car. What actually happened was different. Three of his rounds impacted on the hood and the two remaining rounds punched through the car’s windshield on the driver’s side. The car began to swerve on the road and ground to a halt along the rock wall, about 40 feet from the MRAP’s front bumper. Joe released his grip on the machine gun and sat back, trembling.
    “Joe, what the fuck!” Parsons screamed.
    “Dude, he was coming right at us! You said shoot!” Joe replied.
    “What the fuck happened to a warning shot! You weren’t supposed to shoot him!”
    “I didn’t shoot him!”
    Parsons turned the truck’s headlights on and activated the floodlights. Both soldiers removed their night-vision goggles and looked at the stopped car.
    “That guy is dead, man,” Parsons said.
    “You don’t know that!” Big Joe replied.
    “Fucking idiot! You put two in the driver. He’s not moving. We’re so fucked!” Parsons said, pounding the steering wheel.
    “He was coming at us! I didn’t have a choi—”
    “What in the hell is going on?” Jake bellowed to Big Joe from the road. Sergeant McBride led four dismounted soldiers forward of the trucks, weapons at the ready.
    “Sir, the car charged us!” Big Joe called down to Jake.
    “Where was your warning shot?” Jake growled.
    “I had a p-problem with the M-4.”
    “Switch out with Parsons! Right now!” Jake shouted.
    “Yes, Sir,” Joe replied, climbing out of the turret. A moment later, Parsons appeared in the turret, adjusting his headset, and gave Jake a thumbs-up. Jake returned the gesture with a scowl.
    “Sir!” McBride called out, gesturing for Jake to come forward.
    “What do we have?” Jake asked, as he walked toward the car.
    “Doesn’t look like a hostile, Sir. Certainly not a suicide bomber,” McBride replied.
    “Man, this is going to be such a pain in the ass,” Jake said.
    Jake was more annoyed with the prospect of the two weeks of agitation than he was troubled by the death of an innocent human being. Accidently killing civilians in a combat zone usually only resulted in a painstakingly long and annoying inquiry that led to a slap on the wrist at the most. The worst that could happen was a demotion for Big Joe as the shooter and another letter of reprimand for Jake as the leader who was ultimately responsible.
    Ramirez began to examine the driver of the vehicle.
    “What’s the word, Doc?” Jake asked, leaning on the hood of the still idling car.
    “The word is ‘dead,’ Sir. Took one in the chest and one in the forehead,” Ramirez replied, stepping away from the car. He removed his latex gloves and tossed them to the ground.
    “That wasn’t the word I was looking for,” Jake said.
    Glancing over his shoulder, Jake saw that the unfortunate Afghan driver was missing most of the back of his head and was slumped over the steering wheel. Before becoming a soldier, Jake would have vomited at this sight, but over time the disinterest he now felt had grown stubbornly out of war’s hard soil.
    He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. This wasn’t the evening he had planned. He had hoped to spend the night with Jessica, making love, working up a sweat in an entirely different fashion.
    “Sir, I need you to take a look at this,” McBride said, snapping Jake back into the present moment. The platoon sergeant was looking in the trunk of the car, surrounded by the other soldiers.
    “Whatcha got?” Jake asked, pushing himself off the