An Aria for Nick

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

MOSUL, IRAQ

23 MONTHS LATER

THE stars had faded, and now an empty palette of light gray spread out above the desert from horizon to horizon, waiting for the strokes from God's brush that would create colors and beauty unlike that found anywhere else in the world. Just on the eastern horizon, the first s***h of pink began to work its way through the dark, signaling the beginning of a new dawn. In the blink of an eye, yellow streaks shot through the pink, coming forward like trumpeters heralding the arrival of a king, pushing away the blackness of the night. The colors created a breathtaking image that stretched for as far as the eye could see, and the edge of the horizon began to burn as the white hot globe inched itself upward.

Sergeant Nick Williams sat on top of his bunker absorbing every moment of the breaking dawn. The mild fatigue he felt as a result of the late night mission from which he'd just returned faded away at the sight. He felt light and free and in communion with God.

Nick's first taste of God had come from the Chaplain in Basic Training who had told him about his Soldier's Bible and how to read it. It had amazed him, in hindsight, how empty he felt until he came to know God. What he discovered was a hunger unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and only the Word of God could sate him. Over the past several weeks since he'd arrived here from Afghanistan, during these quiet moments on this bunker every morning, he had even considered the possibility of becoming a Chaplain himself.

After the war of course. For now, other things required his attention, training, and expertise.

"Williams!" He turned when he heard his name, then scrambled off the bunker, sliding his Bible into the cargo pocket on his pant's leg, right next to the linen handkerchief in which it had first come into his possession. First Sergeant Martinez headed in his direction from the headquarters building. Many men before him had made the mistake of assuming that Martinez was a weak man because he was a short man. It had taken Nick less than a week to learn that Martinez didn't have a weak bone in his body.

"Had chow yet?"

Nick glanced toward the structure that housed the mess hall. "No, First Sergeant."

"Get in there and get some chow. I want you on that prisoner transport in an hour. We aren't keeping him here. Apparently he's too high visibility a prisoner. Intel squirrels think they'll try to eliminate him rather than risk him talking, so we're shipping him out to Baghdad right away. Since you were instrumental in the mission that brought him in last night, I want you on that transport. They need a gunner."

Nick stopped the grin he felt threatening his cheeks. "Yes, First Sergeant," he barked, then took off at a run. He went quickly through the mess line, grabbing some scrambled eggs and a slice of toast. As he sat down, he thought of the mission the night before, and their unexpected capture of one of the most wanted Iraqis in the nation.

Nick had recognized him, captured him, secured him, and brought him to his commander. He didn't expect to be given credit for the capture. He knew his unit would get the credit, but he didn't think anyone would pay attention to a new member of the unit. They had and that impressed him. It made him feel really proud of himself, something he rarely had an occasion to feel.

As quickly as he could, he ate breakfast then rushed to the armory, where he secured a flight rigged helmet and side plates for his body armor. He reported to the air field and hopped on board the double-bladed CH-47 Chinook. The copilot helped Nick and two other gunners strap into the gunners' harnesses, and then strapped himself into his seat. Nick positioned himself at the gun, and waited. The pilot started the aircraft and, about five minutes later, two civilians in khaki pants and body armor vests came out of the aircraft hangar escorting a hooded prisoner between them. They were actually wearing brown shirts which made Nick grin a private grin.

The brown shirts did not speak to Nick as they boarded the aircraft and secured the prisoner. As soon as they gave the all clear, the pilot took off. The crew chief broke out his M249 SAW and deployed it using snap links on the legs of the bipod to secure it to the lowered ramp. He performed a function check then lowered himself into a prone position and peered out the back of the aircraft over the gun sites.

The beauty below was not lost on Nick as the helicopter sped across the desert; it was just placed in the background so that he could examine it later. Little stabs of insecurity and maybe a little bit of fear threatened his confidence and initial burst of excitement, but he fought them down. He knew his job and he did it well, but failure here would mean the loss of lives. Another stab of fear clawed its way to the top, and before he was able to give in to it, the helicopter banked a hard turn and went over a rise. On the ground, about two dozen armored vehicles began firing vehicle mounted Soviet built antiaircraft guns at the helicopter.

Nick sighted his gun and began returning fire in conjunction with the other gunners, doing his best to eliminate all the threats. The pilot moved the large craft evasively, but there were just too many of them and they were under the guns. Nick couldn't get the angle for even a deflection shot most of the time.

"Stinger!" The crew chief announced in Nick's helmet.

When the first turbine took a direct hit from the American made state-of- the-art antiaircraft missile, the pilot banked hard enough to nearly send Nick flying out of the helicopter. Only his harness caught him and kept him from sliding all the way out. Momentarily off his gun, he was unable to stop the enemy combatant below who lifted a machine gun and fired into the aircraft. Nick actually felt bullets whiz by his face and heard the single cry from one of the civilians who took a hit directly in the chest. The medic onboard rushed to his side and unstrapped him from his seat, dragging him over to the side where he laid him on the deck of the helicopter. It didn't take him long to stop working on him.

Nick regained his balance and took back control of his gun, returning fire with a roar he unintentionally broadcast over his helmet microphone. The helicopter wobbled and, as the wind shifted, black smoke from the damaged engine blinded him.

Through the helmet speakers, he could hear the pilot and copilot frantically talking to each other and knew they were going down. They were doing their best to get them as far away from the enemy combatants below as possible before they crash landed. Nick looked out and saw that they were temporarily clear. He looked behind him. The prisoner fought against his restraints. The other civilian, a tall, salt and pepper haired man, struggled to keep the prisoner contained. The door gunner on the opposite side of the aircraft from Nick hung suspended in his harness, dead. The medic kept him strapped to his harness and just secured the slack so that he didn't fall out of the aircraft.

The copilot was broadcasting while the pilot struggled with the large helicopter in an attempt to get them to safety. "Hammer this is Arrow Four. We are taking fire. I say again, we are taking fire. Hostiles in the area are danger close. I say again this is Arrow Four. Come in Hammer."

"Arrow Four, this is Hammer Actual. Send sitrep, over."

The crew chief announced, "Incoming on our six!"

The pilot jinked the entire aircraft and simultaneously released flares and chaff. The inside of the helicopter filled with blinding light from the flares and the smell of the burning cordite reminded Nick of the fourth of July fireworks that the kids in the trailer park usually started setting off in June. The missile followed the flares down and the pilot instantly descended to treetop altitude, hoping to take advantage of ground effect and reflected desert heat.

The copilot picked up his radio broadcast as if nothing had happened, "Roger, Actual. Line 3 is Arrow Four and supercargo listed on manifest. Get with SCIF for itemization. Line 7 is approximately one-four klicks north by northwest of Log Base Zulu and beacon is hot. Line 8 is a company sized element with armored vehicles, archie, missiles, and a truck load of small arms. Over."

They never saw the missile come up on the far side of the aircraft opposite Nick. The dead gunner who still hung suspended in his harness never reported incoming. It struck the remaining engine on their blind side and the turboprops began to slow almost immediately.

The pilot gripped the sticks with both hands and broadcast, "Any station this is Arrow Four. Mayday, mayday. We are going down. Hostiles in the area danger close. I say again this is Arrow Four. Mayday, mayday. We are going down."

The copilot broadcast, "Line 10 we are auto-rotating. Nine line to follow shortly, break."

Nick unhooked himself from the door and rushed to the rear of the aircraft, taking the empty cargo seat next to the prisoner. Grabbing the back of the prisoner's neck, he forced the man's head between his knees, fighting against him as he struggled.

The pilot interjected, "Brace yourselves!"

"Be still!" Nick yelled in Arabic, using the phrase he'd picked up from the translator in last night's mission. Then he bent at the waist himself and braced for impact.

It felt like the entire world suddenly moved in slow motion. He felt like he could see every molecule in the helicopter. The smell of the smoke burned his nostrils. The blood on the deck from the civilian casualty reflected the sunlight outside. The sound of the whirring blades above barely penetrated the panicked voices of the pilot and copilot echoing in his helmet speakers. The feel of the back of the prisoner's neck against his hand, of the cold sweat and the pounding pulse under his fingers. All of that became crystal clear for a split second before impact. The thirty thousand pound beast of an aircraft — with overhead blades moving at well over two hundred miles per hour when they began to splinter and fly apart — struck the ground in stages that Nick felt in the very soles of his boots.

¯¯¯¯

ARIA inspected the envelope that had contained the letter. As always, it had no return address, not even a postage stamp. Just the handwritten words FREE APO where a stamp should be. For two years, she'd received letters from Nick Williams, detailing his growing and changing thoughts about God, his feelings about the world, his hopes to one day go into ministry. It thrilled her, this precious contact with him, yet it frustrated her because she had no way of replying to him.

One thing not in the letters — ever — was anything about them. No promises for the future. No hopes for serving God together. Aria told herself that the more he wrote her, the more he thought of her. One day, they'd see each other again in person. Maybe looking at her through the eyes of a fellow believer would remove any of his silly notions about not being the man she needed.

He was all she ever wanted, from the first time she ever spoke to him. She couldn't imagine even wanting to spend time with a man other than Nicholas Williams. As far as she was concerned, he just needed to catch up to her way of thinking and then the two of them could go forward, together.

She glanced at the ticket she had taped to her mirror. Aria would perform tonight at the Kilbourn Hall in Rochester. It was her first solo performance since she started school at Eastman. Every time she performed, she got bombarded with phone calls, e-mails, and texts from agents and music industry representatives, but she had no desire to leave college to pursue a professional music career. Not yet. First, she had other musical aspirations. Having seen them perform, Aria hoped to play with the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra at the Kodak Hall. Mainly, she wanted to wait; wait for Nick to come back to the States, wait until she graduated, wait until she could talk about her options with him. Because, as far as she was concerned, her future included him and he had a say in it.

Whenever she had an upcoming concert, she kept a ticket back. In case he just showed up, as she fully anticipated him to do at any time. She just knew the first time she didn't save a ticket for him, he'd need one.

With a grin, she put the letter into the box in which she saved all of his letters. She had to get to class before she was late, and then meet her coach for warm ups before tonight's concert.

¯¯¯¯

THE armored vehicles surrounded the crash site. The helicopter had split in half. The fire at the rear of the helicopter would soon force them to evacuate but the blades still spun dangerously overhead. The survivors would have to move into the open away from the blades and that meant they would surely die at the hands of the enemy.

The remaining crew and the lone civilian barely held their positions, firing short bursts from SAWs and M-4 carbines while trying to take cover within the burning aircraft as the enemy bore down on them from all sides.

Nick reloaded for what felt like the tenth time and sighted his gun again, but before he began to fire he watched the pilot lift the copilot to his shoulders in the cockpit across a patch of desert from them. They were very exposed so far from the others. If they didn't get to cover quickly, they would certainly be killed. Nick was wondering why they weren't moving until he saw that the man had no legs.

Dear God, Nick prayed, please protect us, God.

The pilot struggled to lift his copilot in a fireman's carry but it didn't really work out since the copilot's legs had been severed at the knee in the crash. Apprehension overwhelmed Nick, tightening around his neck like a noose. The pilot looked up and met Nick's eyes. Suddenly, he found his strength again. These men needed Nick. Everyone needed to just hold, just keep fighting, until help arrived. Or else they wouldn't survive this day. With a roar that came from his soul, he sighted his weapon and started firing. Training took over, and the scared kid from Georgia became a soldier again.

As the medic leaped out of the helicopter, Nick saw another vehicle carrying enemy combatants coming over another rise. He called for the crew chief to cover him, and unstrapped, grabbing an M-4 as he jumped out of the burning Chinook. As he ran, he fired in the direction of the enemy and heard the loud and ironically comforting sound of the M249 SAW being fired from the helicopter. He reached the medic, who was trying to apply a tourniquet to one of the copilot's legs. "We have more company coming. You need to get onboard now. Do that there," he yelled to them. "I'll cover you."

The pilot helped the medic lift the copilot to his shoulders, and they ran to the broken Chinook. The new group of enemy combatants reached the high ground and started firing. Nick surmised their operational objectives and priorities. They would either kill every American and rescue their prisoner, or else they would kill the prisoner. In either scenario, they were clearly willing to keep trying until they achieved either outcome or else they all died in the attempt.

Nick found partial cover behind the fractured cockpit of the helicopter and returned fire until his clip ran dry. He managed to pick two of them off before he saw the medic and pilots had made it to relative safety. The pilot waved him forward and he reloaded and started to run in that direction.

Suddenly, he felt as if a truck had slammed into his chest. His individual body armor deflected the bullet, but the force of the hit knocked him backward. The impact knocked the breath from his body, but years of living with his father trained him to move even then, and he managed to get back on his feet. Thirty feet to go. Thirty short feet and he was there.

Everything around him moved in slow motion, and the smallest of details seemed so absolutely clear - the brightness of the sun, the insidious grit of the powder fine sand, the acrid smell of the desert soaking up the spilled aircraft fuel.

Then something ripped his helmet off, jerking his head backward, and it felt as if his whole head had exploded. From the corner of his eye, he saw red blood spatter on the ground, and his helmet landed on top of it then bounced away. Was that his blood?

He put his hand to his head — it took hours to reach up and touch his temple — it came away covered in crimson. He didn't feel his knees give out, but somehow he was lying on the ground, watching his helmet roll down an incline. The crew chief fired his SAW again, the noise of the rounds vibrating Nick's chest and throat. Then blackness enveloped him.

¯¯¯¯