Free Sand and Fire (9780698137844) by Tom Young Page A

longest just over eleven thousand feet. Long enough for any plane in the U.S. inventory—assuming the runway and taxiways could bear the weightof a heavy like a C-5 or a B-52. He needed to dig a little more and find the pavement classification numbers. Then he could write a proper Giant Report on Mitiga. Boring as hell, not nearly as much fun as flying. But the work needed to get done right.
    As Parson worked, he glanced at Chartier. The Frenchman scrolled through e-mail. One message in particular seemed to catch his attention. Chartier’s eyes widened, and he smiled faintly. Parson jotted some notes on a writing pad, then said, “What you got, a picture from one of your girlfriends in Paris?”
    â€œNo, sir. It is from my squadron commander back home.”
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œI am sorry, sir. But they are recalling me for a possible alert. They want me back in the Mirage. No more flying a desk.”
    Parson leaned back in his chair, tore off a sheet of notebook paper. Wadded up the paper. Tossed the paper wad at Chartier, who grinned as it whizzed by his nose and bounced off his computer screen.
    â€œYou lucky, champagne-swilling, croissant-eating son of a bitch.”

CHAPTER 6
    O n a Thursday morning, Blount steered his Ram onto Interstate 95 North for his journey to Camp Lejeune. The trip would take hours, but driving through the rural coastal plain of the Carolinas would give him a chance to think, to get some perspective. He hadn’t realized retiring from the Corps would feel so wrenching. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
    Cool wind blasted through the truck’s open window. Blount’s fellow South Carolinian Darius Rucker sang over the radio, something about a “come back song.” Blount sighed; in his own life, he could take that line two ways. He felt pulled in two directions.
    This year’s tobacco crop had come in late; Halloween was only a couple weeks away, and some fields still stood studded with denuded green stalks. Pretty soon the farmers would run their Bush Hogs over the stalks, then disc the fields under and maybe plant winter wheat. Near one of the fields, Blount saw a row of bulk tobacco barns shaped like windowless, silver mobile homes. Their owner must have been curing the last of his crop; the fragrance of drying tobacco leaves wafted through the air. The aroma of curing smelled nothing like cigarette smoke; Blount had once described it to a British Royal Marine by telling him to imagine the richest tea leaves he’d ever smelled, mixed with brown sugar and bourbon.
    Just past Santee, Blount reached the bridge over Lake Marion. At the water’s edge, a nine-foot alligator lolled in the shallows. The middle of its tail looked as big around as Blount’s biceps. Blount recalled seeing a big old gator one time while fishing with his grandfather.
    â€œYou better respect his strength,” Grandpa had said, “but he won’t hurt you if you don’t mess with him.”
    Maybe Blount would get a chance to fish these waters more often. Once he got outprocessed, he’d have all the time in the world for the simple pleasures. Especially if he had to wait a while to get a law enforcement job. He sure hoped the hiring freezes wouldn’t last too long.
    Halfway across the bridge, he spotted a johnboat plowing across the still surface of Marion, propelled by a trolling motor. Two boys with fishing rods sat in the boat.
    For Blount, that was what the counselors called a trigger.
    His palms grew slick on the steering wheel. Memories and images came back of their own accord. A bright morning in South Carolina turned into the blackest night in Afghanistan. Blount saw three boys about the same age as the kids in the boat. They came out of the cave, walking toward him and the other Marines. Blount yelled at them with what little of their language he knew, taught to him by that smart Army woman Sophia Gold.
    â€œZaai peh zaai