Standing guard, our weapons at the ready, we wait. Finally, when we get our orders to move on target and confirm kills, it feels like a lifetime has passed. There’s no way anything survived. We move quickly and efficiently, keeping our formation as we approach. I don’t cover my nose to try to erase the smell of the dead tonight. Tonight, I relish the feelings of my stomach flipping. We did it. The vibrations of excitement hit the air and enter my bloodstream. A moment later the ugly truth rears.
What would America do if they knew we were a useless cog in a war machine? Would they panic? Do they assume it’s out of our hands at this point anyway? The media won’t tell them we got lucky—that our win tonight was dumb fucking, fumbling luck, and they’ll praise our name, call us heroes for taking another step, the final step, to end the war. They won’t see our frustration, total lack of accountability, the haphazard planning, nor will they know our fear. Pure, fresh from the tap, terror at knowing the only thing standing between annihilation and humanity is a useless cog. Because it was a success. Maybe that’s how it is for all people who do anything labeled a success. Maybe they’re all just praying no one knows it was equal parts luck as it was devout preparation. The buildings on the farm are all cleared. It doesn’t take long because of the precise accuracy of the missiles dropped.
Choppers land southwest of our location, their blades cutting the air, making the smoke swirl. There’s a body fifty feet from me, Rexy sees it the same time I do. Knees bent; he jogs quickly.
“It’s him,” he says, and repeats it a few more times in shock, while stooping next to the body, pulling out his flashlight, night vision removed.
Out of breath, I stop when I reach Rexy, and flip up my nods. I want to see the man with my own eyes. How many years have we seen mugshots of this man? Thousands of pictures of him in different disguises? He has been the face of this war since the beginning. Way back when we, as a nation, stood unguarded and unprepared for the massacre that was the start of the war. Us against the terrorists. Humans against these inhuman beings that seemed to only want death and destruction. They harbor no empathy, no regard for life in any form. Old or young, this man and the people he commanded smote millions of people, innocent lives. Blood trails out of his mouth, just on one side, as his lifeless eyes cast a gaze to the heavens. A place he surely won’t be heading. Years of studying his moves and stalking those around him always ended in disappointment. Until now. Until the moment he was no more.
“We got him,” I say, narrowing my own eyes at this picturesque moment. Brothers have retired trying to get this guy. Armies around the world made memes and jokes of his face. Tonight, the victory is ours. “Oh my God. We got him,” I repeat. Of course, we did when I take into account the arsenal that was used, but seeing the man dead in person is surreal. We never knew if this moment would come. “The man is responsible for those first terror attacks all over the U.S. and here he is. Gone for good. It’s hard to believe.” I swallow hard, emotion clogging my throat.
“Like a fucking celebrity or something, right? We’re looking at history right now,” Rexy says before radioing to our officer. It only takes a few minutes for everyone else to join us, a huge circle around a solitary lifeless human body. He doesn’t look like the most awful person in the world right now. I have to remind myself of how much loss of life he’s responsible for.
“His entire cabinet was killed in the barn,” Grange says. “We got them all.” He relishes saying the last sentence. Like it’s a prayer.
“Every single one,” someone else chimes in. “They won’t bounce back from this. They can’t. All their communications are offline. All of their minions will scatter. They’re ready for this to be over with. These men were the only ones keeping the war alive. It’s really over.”
Politics will fix the rest. Or at least that’s what I assume.
Someone finally says what we’re all thinking. “It’s over. It’s finally fucking over.”
Cheers erupt in a violent celebration. Photos are taken of the body as proof and for the media, and I drift back toward the helicopters. Their blades slapping the sky in a familiar pattern that lulls me. My heart rate returns to resting on the long walk back to our ride. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I finger the tiny trinket I keep in my pocket on every mission I’ve ever been on. It’s a little metal Camelia. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger before letting it fall back to the bottom of my pocket.
I take a ragged breath as I lean into a seat, removing my helmet and night vision. Hope turns into joy and that turns into visceral anticipation. “Time to go home,” I whisper to myself.
_______________
I had a normal video call with Clover four days ago. In an effort to surprise her, I kept quiet about when I was returning from the U.K., I crept back into my house last night at midnight. All the lights were off at her house and it took all of my power to not barge into her house and take her in every way possible. I want to play it cool, because I have big plans for the first time I see her. It’s going to be perfect. Everything that Clover Wellsley deserves. I didn’t sleep a wink because my sleep cycle is all fucked up, and because the diamond ring my mom gave me is sitting on my dresser burning holes into my subconscious. Mostly because I’m not sure I deserve Clover, and I’m still hung up wondering if she’ll actually say yes. We’ve been apart longer than we’ve been together. Even when we were together, we weren’t really together in the ways traditional couples are together. My stomach wants to heave chunks all over my bedroom floor when I finally let my feet meet the wood and make my way to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. The sun is rising, and the feelings of security and happiness overtake my nerves about what I’m going to do today.
Pouring a cup of coffee, I look out my front window and I unexpectedly see Clover. She’s wearing a silk pajama set that swoops low, revealing her cleavage and that hugs her thighs perfectly. Black running shoes, laces untied are a stark contrast to the pink silk. I narrow my eyes in her direction as I take my first sip of coffee.
“What in the fresh hell,” I mutter, drawing nearer to the window to get a better look. God, I’ve missed her. My heart pounds out as my love for her swells. Her darker hair is in a mad tangle on top of her head. Her body is lithe and sculpted. She’s up to some sort of antic this early in the morning. Clover motions to her roof saying something, her warm breath cutting a fog in the cold November air. She lifts her arms and points, raising the hem of her top exposing the abs that I want to kiss, and that’s when the shirtless man, pants unbuckled, walks out of her front door and looks where she’s pointing.
I clench the handle of the coffee cup so hard the ceramic breaks and hits the floor sending coffee all over my bare feet. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I let the murderous rage do the moving. It ignites inside me like a fucking torch. I breathe, closing my eyes, praying when I open them the scene will be different, that I’ll be back in my fucking metal box in London. That this nightmare is something I’ll work through when I wake.
What would happen if I walked outside right now? The unbearable urge to confront them is dampened when my cell phone rings. It’s my father. I told him I was home. God love him, he knew I’d be up this early. I answer on the third ring, holding my shaking hand up to my ear. “Hey Dad,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
His greeting is bright and cheery. I watch as the shirtless man gets a ladder from his garage and props it against the side of Clover’s house. “Let me buy you a plane ticket home, Son. To celebrate my victory as Mayor of Greenton.”
If he had called a half hour ago, I would have told him no, because I have plans. I continue staring as the man climbs up, and walks unsteadily across the roof, making his way to the bricked chimney. Clover jumps up and down, hand covering her mouth as he shuffles his feet awkwardly. I can imagine the words coming out of her mouth. She seems frantic with worry, arms flailing and posture swaying.
“When?” I ask, clearing my throat. “I’m so happy I’ll be with you to celebrate the big win,” I deadpan, my voice cracking. “Mom must be planning the party of the century.”
The man makes it to the chimney, barely, then reaches inside and pulls out a brightly colored bird. The motherfucking bird. My dad tells me about the events leading up to the main celebration in Greenton and I ask appropriate questions when I should, being totally distracted with Clover and her neighbor and their body language. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds perfect, Dad,” I agree with the time of the flight he suggested. It’s tonight. “Bentley will be able to pick me up?” I ask. “Not you, and Mom, and the whole town,” I assert. “As much as I love Mom’s fervor, I’m not up for it right now.”
Dad laughs. “Bentley can pick you up from the airport if that’s what you’d like. Can’t say I blame you, it’s the only low-key option as far as I can tell. Now that you’re responsible for ending the war everyone is going crazy here.”
I shake my head. Since the news broke of our mission that ended the war, it’s been nothing but one big, sugar-coated media rush. Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one. Doesn’t mean they’re right or even based on fact. I don’t listen to the buzz because the only thing that matters is that I’m home because there won’t be any more attacks and the governments are going to strike hard and fast when copycat artists start chatter of something else. For all intents and purposes, the snake was beheaded, and the minions were set free.
“I didn’t end the war, Dad. We got lucky.”
“Yeah, yeah, Son. Whatever you say. We raised you to be a humble, honorable man.” I can hear the smile in his voice.Why do I want to do dishonorable things and tear that man’s head from his neck then, Dad?
The man climbs down the ladder, handing the bird to Clover when he’s close enough for her to reach up and grab it. She races into the open front door, the bird clutched in both hands like it’s a live grenade. She returns about thirty seconds later.
“It’s over,” Dad says, emotion swelling in his voice.
“I can’t wait to see you,” I counter. “It’s going to be so nice to be in Greenton after being away.” When the guy gets to the bottom of the ladder, he folds it up and turns around, Clover clutches him around his neck. “I gotta go. Nature calls,” I tell my dad. He bids me goodbye and tells me he can’t wait to see me once more.
