Chapter 1

Peter woke up to a loud pounding. He looked at the dark ceiling. It stared back at him, silent and unfeeling. He was freezing, but he had no clue why. Where in the world was he? This wasn't his comfy little house in Colorado. He rolled over and sat up on the edge of his bed. Jesus, why was it so cold? The pounding came again. He looked around his tiny room. The walls matched the ceiling. Darkness enveloped the room. He looked at his little, sad excuse for an alarm clock. It was only 1:05. What in the hell was going on? He turned his head to the door. There it was again.

"Get the fuck up! We just got hit! Time to move!"

The reality of where he was hit him. He was instantly awake. In a flash he was at the door. He opened the door and almost knocked over Staff Sergeant Williams. The only thing that kept him from tumbling over was the fact that he was a very well built man. From head to toe it seemed to Peter that he had too much muscle. His light caramel skin looked pale in the moonlight. He had a lot of stubble on his face, but that couldn't be helped. He had a shaving profile, after all. A lot of black men had them. It was something about their skin that formed shaving bumps quite easily. Before the Army, Peter had never even heard of shaving bumps, but as soon as he joined they were everywhere.

"We roll in ten minutes. Get your shit on and get your vehicle running." He turned and walked away as he finished the last sentence. The cold air bit at Peter's heels as he retreated into his room.

Now he remembered where he was. Peter was a Private First Class in the US Army. No, not Peter. PFC James Guillot was his name here. He was currently on his first tour in Iraq. He was assigned the Quick Reaction Force as a driver. The dark unfeeling walls were the metal walls of his CHU. He still wasn't sure what that stood for. In the Army, chances are if something has a ridiculous name, it's a verbal pronunciation of an abbreviation. Usually, you had to guess until someone said what it stood for out loud. He was pretty sure CHU stood for Combat Housing Unit. Then again, that would make too much sense.

He was dressed and in full gear within two minutes. He bolted out of his room to the Den across the street from the CHUs. About halfway, James was struck with a feeling like he was completely naked for everyone to see.

"I know this feeling," he said to himself. "MY WEAPON!" He had been in such a rush he had forgotten his weapon. A soldier's best friend is his rifle. In James' case, it was an M4 Carbine Assault Rifle. Small, lightweight, but if you aren't wearing it you'll know. A soldier is trained from the first second he gets his weapon until the day he leaves the Army that his weapon is his lifeline. James bolted back to his CHU before he was spotted in full battle rattle without a weapon. Surely, if he was caught, he would receive an Article 15. He would lose half his pay for two months. He didn't really need the money, but he second part of the punishment was 45 days of extra duty. His free time was his sanity. They would not take that from him.

James reached his room and fished for his key. It was then that his heart dropped into his stomach. He had forgotten his key, too. This was bad. James checked his window, checked his door again to make sure he had locked it. It was no use. He was fucked. He accepted defeat. There was only one thing to do. He walked to the Den where a very impatient SSG Williams awaited him.

"You're late Guillot. Get the vehicle started." He stared as James tried to speak. "Where the FUCK is your weapon private!?" James' voice finally started working, but very quietly.

"It's in my room sergeant. I locked my key and my weapon in my room." His voice was the only hint that he had any emotion at all. Looking upset or scared when you're about to get torn apart by an NCO was about as useful as washing your hands thoroughly before a bath.

"Get in the Den. Wait for me there. It'll be a while, so entertain yourself." SSG Williams sighed and looked at the one person James hated more than anyone.

"PFC Townsend, you're driving four! Hurry and get it started. We're keeping the whole FAB from leaving their rooms." Townsend stood up and just the sight of him pissed me off. He was taller than me and as he stood up in the gunner's hatch, he just looked even taller. This thought annoyed me for no apparent reason. He was a skinny black man of about 25 years. He was one of the few people with a goatee and sideburns. He said he was on a shaving profile, but that would eliminate all shaving and his little style was very obviously trimmed for looks. Actually, everything about him was for looks. Every ten minutes he'd pull out a brush from his calf pocket and brush his hair forward. The only thing was that he barely had any. It was extremely wavy and reminded me a bit of an oompa loompa's hairstyle. He was a pretty boy. The kind of man that was all looks and no performance.