• Why was it always quiet. Corporal Nikita Romanov, or Niki to the men in his HUMMWV, was manning his vehicles .50 Cal Browning M2, the armored shroud doing little to calm his nerves. His M249 S.A.W., his best friend out of the HUMMWV, was slung just inside the vehicle, in reach just in case, one would never know what would go wrong, they just knew it would. His driver, a lowly Private, was jabbering incoherently to the Sergeant First class in the front seat, his vehicles commander. The men inside the HUMMWV, and in the back row, were watching the terrain quietly, both knew what could happen on the road. The Browning on his vehicle was facing the rear, Niki facing the port side of the vehicle, scanning the country side, debris from old battles littering the landscape. A slight hit on the back of his leg was enough to set him off, as he turned to look over his shoulder as fast he could, working the crank on his turret to face the starboard side of the rig, his eyes wide in fear as a single Explosive Force Projectile ((Hereafter referred to as an EFP)) came streaking towards his vehicle, all men but him bracing for impact. His Browning M2 came to life, chasing the trail, hoping to kill the men responsible, so that the next truck wouldn’t meet their fate. The heavy staccato of .50 Cal fire was suddenly drowned out by the impact of the brass shot, tearing the front windshield, and the truck leader’s head, clear off and away from the vehicle, which shuddered to a stop, the Private driving knocked out by the impact.

    The smell of burning steel, cloth, flesh, and fuel greeted Niki as he awoke with a start, one of his comrades dragging him from the shattered and shot up vehicle, the other remaining soldier placing accurate and deadly suppressive fire upon the enemy, before taking multiple hits. The man dragging him let him go lightly, to check on the wounded warrior, only to shake his head lightly, a clear sign that he was already dead. Someone was yelling at him, it sounded like “Get up!”, and then he felt the thud of his weapon hitting his body armor. He shook off the damage, he had to get up, fire back, and get out alive, a treat three of his brother’s would never get again. As he helped himself up heavily, the dirt around him kicking up, he was finally coherent enough to hear the remaining soldier screaming, having been hit hard more than once.     “I’ll get you out of here man, I owe you that much.” The quick rat-a-tat-tat of his M249 brought down an enemy combatant, probably UAD, as he began to engage those trying to kill him, the world drowning out as the tunnel vision took over. And suddenly, someone was pulling him back, shouting for him to move. His wounded truck mate was being drug away by a medic, into the rear door of an up-armored HUMMWV, as Niki took up the Gunner’s turret once again, the M2 more than comforting, as the HUMMWV sped away, seven men escaping the ambush.

    A hour on the empty road would bring the overloaded vehicle to a small firebase in Lafonia, the original destination of Niki’s destroyed truck, a supposed safe zone. Medics were everywhere, dragging the wounded man whom had rescued Niki onto a stretcher, before carting him away to the medical bay. For the first time, Niki began to notice just how lucky he had been, his body armor torn from grazes, his helmet splintered, yet not a single scratch. He would have traded anything for the lives men with him, but, they were gone, and he could do nothing about it, except kill