Beyond the Point(95)
Looking at the nearly finished construction site, Hannah put her forefinger and thumb in her mouth and whistled hard and loud, gathering the rest of the platoon together.
“Listen,” she ordered, commanding their attention. “We can’t afford to waste a single second. Murph, you and Willis join me and finish platform one. Johnson, Kiggler—stop digging the trench and help finish the plumbing so that’s not ruined by the sand. And then the rest of you, get moving securing the anchors and any other equipment. We’ve got less than half an hour. Any questions?”
Without hesitation, her platoon moved into overdrive. For the next fifteen minutes, Hannah forgot that she was thirsty and hot and tired. She simply pushed through the pain until her heart took over and the sky turned dark. Soon, they were all sitting in the shade of the tent, drenched in sweat, laughing at the feat it had required to finish the work in such a short amount of time. As they chugged water and tried to regain their breath, Hannah spied the rumbling darkness in the distance and felt her eyes narrow.
An ocean wave would terrify an ant. That’s how Hannah felt, standing several thousand yards away from the edge of a sandstorm. Every second the wall grew, massive and brown, with arms and fingers rolling more dust into its belly, stretching wider and higher into the sky. The majesty of it struck Hannah so immediately, she didn’t even have time to register that it was coming right toward them.
Where did it get the energy to move?
Was God himself in the storm?
Tiny particles of sand flew into her hair, her neck, her cheeks, like a thousand shards of glass.
“Get inside,” she ordered. “Everyone get inside.”
The platoon moved underneath the cover of the canvas, zipped closed the door, and checked that all the window panels were securely attached—so they could watch it go by, without the sand destroying every weapon and tool in the tent. If you think you’re important, if you feel that your life matters, all you need to do is spend some time in nature, Hannah thought. Stand before an ocean. Climb a mountain. Stare out over a canyon. Creation—wild and untamed—reminded her of her size in this universe. But feeling small did not send her into despair. She was like a child, trusting her Father when he said the storm would pass.
As the storm rolled over their heads, Private Murphy held a camera up to one of the clear plastic tent windows, recording video. “Holy shit. It’s a fucking monster . . .”
The entire world turned from day to night as the cloud passed over, pummeling the tent with twenty-five-mile-per-hour winds.
“Looks like we might be in Tarin Kot a little bit longer than we thought, Lieutenant Nesmith,” Murphy said.
“It’ll pass,” Hannah answered. “It may take some time. But it’ll pass.”
THE STORM DIDN’T pass.
For twenty-four hours, they were stuck inside that tent, smelling of sweat and dirt. They ate MREs, read books, and slept. They only ventured outside to relieve themselves, and even then, came back in the tent coughing, and covered in dust. Hannah filled her time with paperwork, and stopped every so often to listen to the sound of the wind. The Taliban were unlikely to fire rockets or mortar in the midst of a storm—their equipment was just as susceptible to sand as the U.S. Army’s—but Hannah still felt on edge. She’d rather have heard the constant, sporadic accompaniment of gunshots outside the camp than the sound of the wind swirling around her. Rapid fire, popping in the distance, reassured her. It meant the enemy was being defeated. But in silence like this—quiet like this—there was a real temptation to forget she was in danger. Hannah found herself straining to listen so she wouldn’t be caught off guard if an explosion disrupted her imagined peace. To die in the midst of a firefight or while on convoy was one thing. But what Hannah feared most was death arriving, when it was completely unexpected.
ONCE THE SANDSTORM passed, Hannah’s platoon finished construction. On Wednesday, they began the long, winding convoy back to FOB Sharana, stopping overnight in Kandahar. On Thursday, their six-vehicle convoy bumped along the unpaved roads, churning up dust under their tires. Buckled into the front passenger seat of the second Humvee, Hannah watched the walls of the FOB come into view and breathed a sigh of relief. Their work was done, and the storm had done limited damage. As they passed through the gates, she made a mental list of the things she wanted: a shower and a chance to check her e-mail. She needed to see if she’d received an update from Tim.
Murphy put the Humvee in park. Hannah stepped out.
But as soon as Hannah closed the vehicle’s door, she knew something was wrong. The unit’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Markham, stood a few feet away from the vehicle, looking directly at her, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive. His eyes spoke of sadness. His shoulders slumped under an invisible weight.
Before he even said a word, Hannah knew what he was going to say. Her jaw went numb. The sky above and the views around her blurred as her eyes focused on only his face.
“Hannah,” he said, using her name and not her rank. “I need you to come with me.”
In his office, he told her to sit, but Hannah refused. It was the first time she’d ever disobeyed a direct order. A blue tissue box sat on the colonel’s desk. The Army chaplain sat in a chair, leaning forward with his hands intertwined. Hannah couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t remember if it was night or day or if it mattered.