Free Into Darkness by Richard Fox Page B

and calm from the ubiquitous war.
    Ritter’s bulletproof vest sat near the door, propped up by the internal armor plates. It was a newer model with an emergency release pull. One quick yank, and the vest would disassemble; a handy feature if a Soldier ever fell into a canal. The dual rack of M4 magazines had finger pulls rigged with gutted five-fifty cord. A firefight outside Al-Kut had taught him that shaving a few seconds off his reload time was a better form of life insurance than anything a television commercial offered. An eponymous Camelbak water blister was integrated into the armor, filled to bursting.
    Ritter dreaded and adored his armor. The four ballistic plates were proof against insurgent bullets and blast injuries. The neck guards and groin protector defended against the errant bit of shrapnel aiming for an artery or something more sensitive. At the same time, he hated the weight compressing his spine, hated how the vest turned his torso into a bread oven, hated the loss of mobility, and hated feeling like a fat kid who couldn’t lower his arms because of the side plates. He hated the smell of dried sweat, which never left.
    He opened a small backpack in the same gray, digital camouflage pattern of his uniform and armor. An extra set of socks, gloves, and an undershirt were in a plastic bag to protect against moisture and dirt. There was no underwear—combat was a strictly commando affair. Packets of ramen noodles, trail mix, and the few main meal packets of MREs he found palpable were in an outer pocket for easy access. He added a spare digital camera and a green notebook to the top of the pile. Satisfied that everything was there, he zipped the bag shut.
    The air conditioner kicked over as he checked his watch; there was plenty of time before the mission. He reached under his bed, fished around the invincible sheen of dirt, and found his left boot. He placed it on his lap and yanked the laces out with his forefinger. This was the final task. When was the last time he’d done this? In the bare desert outside Najaf at that nothing-of-a-base…What was it called?
    Three knocks on his door broke the reverie.
    “Come in,” he said.
    Lieutenant Davis opened the door and slipped inside, pushed by a gust of hot wind that polluted the CHU with ocher dust. She shut the door and looked down at the new mat of dust on the floor. “Crap, sorry about that,” she said. Her gray uniform had a light coat of the same wind-borne dust, as if the desert wanted to absorb her through additive layers. She took off her boonie cap and wiped her forehead with the underside of the brim.
    “Never fails. Get out of the shower and walk straight into a sand blast,” she added with a chuckle. She looked over Ritter’s panoply as the humor left her face.
    “Almost ready?” she asked.
    “Just about,” he said. He pulled the bootlace from the last eyelet and fished his dog tags from beneath his shirt. He removed a single aluminum tag from the pair on the chain.
    “I’m a little jealous of you and Jennifer. I’ve been here for six months, and I haven’t left the wire once. At this rate I’ll never see an Iraqi in the wild,” Davis said.
    Ritter set the dog tag on his knee and looked at Davis. “Why is that important?”
    Davis flapped her hands against the side of her thighs in frustration. “Because this is a war, and I’m a damn Fobbit! A pogue, a rear-echelon mother—”
    “You’re none of those things, Cindy. Your job is here and vital to the mission, not outside the wire. No one thinks you’re hiding out.” The derogatory term, Fobbit, combining the word “hobbit” and the acronym “FOB,” Forward Operating Base, was a new creation of the Iraqi war. Soldiers living in the austere areas derided the Soldiers living with showers, easy Internet access, and three hot meals a day as Fobbits.
    “Easy for you to say. You’ve got a combat patch and a CAB,” she said as she pointed at the Combat Action Badge pinned to