In the gloom it enfolded him like an unpleasant memory as they rushed out to the divisional staging area. Bret Melton had jumped out of helicopters and into another war not far from here, not long ago, and at times riding out toward the line he had wondered if he’d be doing the same thing in another ten years. And ten more after that, forever and ever amen. Now he knew that he wouldn’t. The thundering engine and rotors made normal conversation impossible, but the four troopers in the cabin with him all needed to talk, to know what was happening back in the real world. In the faint glow leaking through from the cockpit their faces were hollowed-out and haunted. They all knew him, or knew of him. As a former ranger, Melton was a popular embed. His shit was stowed according to regs and he could be trusted. He was as close to a believer as an outsider could be. The questions started as soon as they recognized him hitching the flight back to Third Infantry Division. “What the fuck’s happening, man?”
