August
Iraq
She didn't even say goodbye. The last thing I need to be thinking about in a war zone is Katya Khavalov. Maybe it's the abrupt manner of her ditching camp or the fact she didn't come down to see us that Saturday, but I can't get her out of my mind.
Thinking about her stirs my blood like a triple espresso, even when I've spent the past forty-eight hours awake on mission. I don't know if it's desire or anger. She has that affect on me and leaves me wired when I need sleep. A month after camp ended, and every conversation we ever had continues to haunt me.
Sweating and tired, I'm the last of the team to enter the isolated, abandoned house we've been using as a base of operations in the Iraqi desert for the past two weeks. No one was hurt and we found our target. It was a successful day.
Lowering my ruck to the ground, I glance over at the skinny Ranger who's in charge of our communications.
"We up?" I ask.
"For an hour."
"I gotta get my report in." I crouch at the station where the single laptop connected to the outside world that we always take on a mission is hooked up. Internet is hit or miss. We rely on satellite connections rather than ground lines, and most days, they're shoddy at best.
Duty always comes first when the mission is over. Reporting to my commander, taking accountability of the team's health and mental awareness, assessing the condition of our equipment, setting up the duty roster for the night, cleaning my own gear, food and then, if there's time, sleep. Thank god I type fast, or I'd never have time to sleep.
Hunkering over the laptop, I have the report done and out before the connection goes down. I check on the guys and equipment then take care of my gear. The two-room house has an antiquated bathroom and a main room that serves as our living and sleeping quarters. The guys are cleaning their weapons by lantern light, and I join them, claiming my spot between Riley and Carson.
Taking apart my weapon is second nature. I go through the motions without registering them. The token Air Force spec-ops guy, Ian, is racked out already while the others are either eating MREs or cleaning weapons and gear.
"You've been quiet," Riley says, glancing at me.
"Not him. Everyone," Carson replies. "The Khavs always had the stories."
"Yeah, they did."
It's odd that five months later, we still can't go a day without mentioning Mikael.
"You hear from Petr, sir?" Carson asks me.