Bones of the Lost

didn’t say it.
    As I waited with what seemed like a thousand marines, crew offloaded cargo onto palletized rollers, then flipped down flooring.
    “Word to the wise,” Mensforth said. “The heads on these babies aren’t designed for our team.”
    “What’s the flight time to Bagram?”
    “Two, maybe three hours.”
    “I’m good.” I planned to sleep.
    At a signal from a camouflage-clad kid with a rag around his head, Mensforth plucked me from the line and led me onto the plane. The marines watched in hostile, exhausted, or good-natured silence.
    Seating was on long benches arranged in facing pairs. Back support came in the form of red nylon latticework strapping.
    Parachutes and other gear hung from the fuselage walls. Pipes, tubing, cables, and countless things I didn’t recognize snaked overhead.
    “Ass to the wall, you freeze,” Mensforth said. “Ass to the center, you go numb.”
    Numb sounded good.
    “You can lose the body armor.”
    Grateful to offload the extra poundage, I removed the hated jacket. Mensforth tossed it to the floor at the end of the bench, then showed me how to stow my helmet at my feet and my pack in my lap.
    “Use ’em.” Offering a small packet containing two orange earplugs.
    I nodded.
    “You’ll be met at Bagram by a Captain Welsted.”
    I thanked Mensforth, wondered briefly if she knew the purpose of my trip. Then she said an odd thing.
    “Watch your back.”
    “Got my trusty IBA.” Tapping my helmet.
    “That’ll handle the bullets.” Glancing left then right, she leaned close. “Be careful.”
    Before I could ask her meaning she said, “Have a good one.”
    Then she was gone.
    The plane filled fast. A marine the size of a linebacker took the “seat” to my left. A black kid with spectacularly white teeth dropped down on my right. Opposite, I drew a guy who had to be seven feet tall. My knees met his lower legs at about mid-tibia. Snugly.
    After a final round of shouting, the crew shut the hatch. I glanced at my fellow passengers. Most were male and in their twenties.
    I heard a lot of “fucking” this and “fucking” that. Bravado. We were going downrange. In Pete’s day the phrase had been “in country.” Same idea. Same apprehension. We were heading to war.
    I noticed a man three over and opposite, watching me intently. Asian. Maybe eighteen.
    I smiled. The man looked away.
    The engines thundered to life. I inserted the earplugs.
    The ungainly craft lumbered skyward. Finally leveled.
    I lowered my lids. Tried to sleep.
    We pitched and dipped, engines throbbing out a deafening roar. Icy air blew up my back. Though shoulder to shoulder, shin to shin with my seatmates, a penetrating cold invaded my bones. Before long I felt desperate to stretch, or at least reposition. Knew there wasn’t a chance.
    Time passed. My brain lingered on that border between waking and sleeping.
    Suddenly my body lurched at an angle that had to be wrong. Beside me, the linebacker tensed.
    Adrenaline shot through me.
    My eyes flew open.
    The plane was dark as a tomb.
    And plunging toward earth.

ALL AROUND ME was black.
    My left side was smashed against the linebacker. The kid with the teeth was smashed against me. Knowing it was pointless to fight gravity, I made no attempt to right myself.
    Then the whine of the engines dropped. Our three-person sandwich unzipped slightly.
    The wheels hit hard. Hit again, with less force. Again.
    My heartbeat settled. We were rolling on terra firma.
    After a short taxi, the plane jerked to a stop. The lights came on, the hatch opened, and outside air filtered into the fuselage, bringing with it the smell of fuel and exhaust.
    We waited as pallets of cargo were unloaded, and then, row by row, collected our gear, moved rearward, and hopped onto the tarmac. My eyes swept a three-sixty arc, anxious for a sense of the strange land I’d heard so much about.
    Overhead, a universe of stars winked in a boundless black dome. On the ground, nothing but darkness.
    We all waited for the luggage pallets to be opened. Collected our gear. Then, unsure what to do, I followed the marines toward a square black shape on the horizon.
    As we drew close, the shape crystallized into a one-story building. Standing at its door were a man and a woman, the former in civvies, the latter in camouflage fatigues and eight-pointed utility cover.
    The woman was about my age, tall and solid but attractive in a no-nonsense, no makeup way. Her dark hair was knotted at the