Al-Qaim, Iraq
SEAL Forward Operating Base
One day after a night raid
The heat clung like a second skin. Even in the shade of the makeshift tarp strung between two Humvees, sweat lined Caleb's spine, soaking into the back of his T-shirt. He sat on an ammo crate, boots unlaced, elbows on his knees, watching a fly land and re-land on the rim of his water bottle.
Someone had rigged a Bluetooth speaker to play an old Johnny Cash track, the audio warped and crackling. The squad was scattered around—shirts off, limbs stretched out, the usual post-op mess of jokes and half-hearted card games. Gear lay in lazy piles: rifles, vests, helmets caked with dust and sweat.
"Tell me again how you managed to fall through a goddamn roof," Mason said, grinning, flicking a peanut at Garcia.
"It wasn't a roof, asshole. It was plywood. Cheap as hell. I stepped, and it gave."
"You screamed like a kid at a haunted house," Vaughn added, laughing.
"I had a man with an AK under me, what do you want?"
Caleb gave a small huff through his nose—half amusement, half fatigue—but didn't join in. He was leaning back now, squinting into the sun, rolling a small piece of paracord between his fingers. Vaughn lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head.
"You good?" Vaughn asked quietly.
Caleb nodded. "Just tired."
That was always true. Always enough.
The smell of gun oil and sweat mixed with heat and sand in a way he was used to now—too used to. His body still buzzed from the raid two nights ago. No one had said it out loud, but it hadn't gone clean. The target was down, but a civvy got caught in the crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time.
Caleb hadn't looked. He didn't want to know.
Someone opened an MRE and the smell of chili mac made a few guys groan.
"I swear to God," Mason muttered, poking it with his spork, "this is what hell smells like."
"Nah," Garcia said, laying back with his hands behind his head, "hell smells like Jersey in the summer."
Caleb shifted, feeling the grit under his hands as he adjusted his seat on the crate. The fly buzzed again, annoyingly persistent.
No one said much for a while. The heat wrapped around them like a weight, the kind that made your skin ache.
Mason cracked a smile, nudging Vaughn. "You think we'll ever get a break?"
Vaughn shrugged, smoke curling from his cigarette. "Break's just a word they throw at you to keep you going."
Garcia snorted. "Yeah, until they throw us right back into the grinder."
Caleb watched the dust swirl in a slow spiral near his boots. The chatter felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
He shifted on the crate, the coarse wood pressing against his palms. The heat wrapped around him, thick and unyielding, but his mind drifted away from the dry dust and distant gunfire.
The heat pressed down like a weight. Caleb stayed still on the ammo crate, the rough wood biting into his palms, but his thoughts had drifted miles away.
Chicago felt distant—streets he hadn't walked in six years.
His brother, barely older than thirty when Caleb left, balancing work and family.
His sister-in-law, just about the same age, juggling their lives together.
And June. Only eight then. Wondering if that stubborn scowl was still there.
He hadn't heard from any of them in a long time.
The hum of distant traffic was faint in his mind, like a ghost calling from far away.
Caleb rolled the paracord between his fingers, eyes on the cracked dirt.
Johnny Cash's voice sputtered out from the speaker, rough and worn, a little echo of home in the desert heat.
Mason stretched out, cracking his neck. "Man, I swear this place makes you forget what fresh air even smells like."
Garcia grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Fresh air's overrated anyway. Give me a New Jersey traffic jam over this dust cloud any day."
Vaughn snorted. "At least in Jersey, you don't have to worry about getting shot just walking to the chow hall."
Caleb didn't respond, but Mason shot him a glance.
"You ever miss it?" Mason said quietly. "Home, I mean."
Caleb blinked, caught off guard. Didn't say anything.
Garcia shifted beside him, voice low. "You don't have to answer if you don't want."
Mason chuckled. "Yeah, sometimes silence says enough."
A distant engine rumbled. The others fell quiet for a beat, listening.
Vaughn flicked ash onto the dirt. "Six more months here and I'm done. Can't wait to see my kid again."
Garcia smiled, eyes softening. "Same. My girl's gonna be two when I get home. Hell of a motivator."
Mason laughed. "You all sound like you're writing a damn Hallmark card."
Just then, Rodriguez, Tate, and Lopez came over, dusty boots crunching on the dirt. Rodriguez held up a half-eaten granola bar, offering it like it was treasure.
"Tate swiped these from the supply tent," Rodriguez said, grinning. "If anyone's hungry, grab one before they're gone."
Tate rolled his eyes but smirked. "Yeah, because a granola bar is gonna save your life."
Lopez plopped down next to Mason, rubbing the back of his neck. "Man, I swear, I'd trade all these damn bars for a cold beer and a burger."
Mason shrugged. "Sounds like paradise. We'll be dreaming about that stuff for a while."
Caleb watched them, the casual camaraderie pulling him back from the edge of his own thoughts. The rough jokes, the small grins, the shared exhaustion—it all felt like a lifeline.
Rodriguez passed the bar to Vaughn, who took a bite without looking up. "You think anyone back home knows what we're really dealing with?"
Garcia shook his head. "Nah. They see the pictures, hear the headlines, but none of this. Not the waiting, the heat, the bullshit."
Tate laughed softly. "And they definitely don't get how gross these MREs are."
Lopez held up his own, half-melted granola bar like a trophy. "I'm surviving on these and bad coffee."
The group laughed quietly, the noise mingling with the faint hum of engines and Johnny Cash still crackling from the speaker.
Mason shook his head, wiping dust off his hands. "Fuckin' bad coffee, man. I swear, that's the real enemy out here."
Rodriguez snorted. "If it weren't for the caffeine, half of us'd be dead by lunch."
Vaughn, chewing the last of the granola bar, nodded. "That shit's the only reason I haven't drop-kicked Tate off a roof yet."
Tate puffed on his smoke. "Yeah? Joke's on you, I'd bounce. Tight ass like mine? Gravity's got nothin' on it."
Garcia wheezed a laugh. "Jesus. Somebody draft this man for Playgirl already."
Lopez leaned back, groaning. "Bro, if I ever make it outta here, first thing I'm doing is hittin' a diner. Bacon, eggs, hash browns, a waitress who calls me 'baby' and smells like menthols."
Mason cracked a smile. "I'd let her spit in my food, long as it's hot."
"Dude," Tate said, shaking his head, "you need therapy."
"We all need therapy," Vaughn muttered. "But they gave us MREs and a cot instead."
Caleb shifted on the ammo crate, rubbing dust from his palms. The sun hit him square, but he didn't flinch.
"Brass don't care," he said, voice low and dry. "They just want numbers. And we're the meat that makes 'em look good on paper."
Mason grunted. "Ain't that some Hallmark shit. 'Thanks for your service, here's a boot up your ass.'"
"Better than a bullet," Lopez muttered, peeling a granola bar with the same energy as unwrapping a hand grenade.
"Barely," Caleb said. "At least the bullet's quick. That chili mac's a slow death."
Garcia pointed at him with a grin. "Look at that. The cryptkeeper speaks."
"Fuck off," Caleb muttered, but there was a flicker of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
Rodriguez stood up, stretching until his spine cracked. "If we don't get rotated soon, I'm gonna marry one of these goats just for the companionship."
"You already talk to 'em like your ex," Tate said. "You beg, they walk away."
That earned a round of groans and laughter, low and tired but real.
Vaughn lit another cigarette. "Place like this, humor's the last thing standing between us and losing our damn minds."
Caleb took the paracord from his pocket, winding it slowly around his fingers. "Yeah," he muttered. "That and a good granola bar."
"Next thing you know he's writing poetry about it," Mason said. "'Ode to the Goddamn Granola—how sweet thy fake chocolate chips—'"
Caleb deadpanned, "Better than the chili mac sonnet Garcia wrote last week."
"Hey, that was heartfelt," Garcia said, clutching his chest. "It got me through a tough time."
"Yeah," Tate said, "constipation."
Laughter rippled again, the kind that bounced off sun-bleached Humvees and hung in the heat for just a second longer than it should.
The laughter was still trailing off when a shadow fell across the group.
"Christ," Mason muttered, squinting up. "If that's the sun coming to finish us off, just do it already."
But it wasn't the sun — it was Staff Sergeant Greene, broad-shouldered, sunglasses on, jaw like he'd been chewing gravel since '03.
"Petty Officer Maddox," Greene barked, voice sharp enough to cut the heat. "CO wants a word. Now."
Everyone went quiet. Not stiff, just… aware.
Caleb didn't move right away. He let the paracord slide from his fingers into his lap. "Roger that," he said simply, rising and dusting off his pants.
"What'd you do, Maddox?" Vaughn asked with a smirk. "Finally tell the truth on your psych eval?"
"Nah," Tate said. "Probably caught writing more granola poetry."
"Hey," Mason called after him as Caleb started walking. "If they're court-martialing you, can I have your bunk fan?"
Caleb gave a lazy wave over his shoulder, not looking back.
Garcia leaned toward the group, voice low. "Man's got the same expression if he's going to take a shit or defuse a bomb."
"Probably both," Lopez said. "Same time."
More snickering.
Caleb crossed the compound, boots kicking up dust, passing sun-baked trucks and hungover silence. The air inside the CO's tent hit different—cooler, somehow heavier, like the heat left its weight at the door.
The flap closed behind him, dimming the sun. The air smelled like old canvas and stronger coffee than anyone out there ever got.
Commander Halverson stood near the field desk, sleeves rolled, arms crossed. Late 40s, salt in his beard, the look of a man who's seen enough and still signs up for more.
He glanced up. "Maddox."
Caleb stood at ease. "Sir."
"You look like hell."
Caleb gave the faintest shrug. "Blends in out there."
Halverson grunted, motioned to the folding chair across from him. "Sit. Not a firing squad."
Caleb sat, slow and steady. No nerves — just waiting.
"You eating?" Halverson asked, almost like a human.
Caleb blinked once. "MREs don't count."
"Shit," Halverson muttered. "If they did, half the guys in this unit would qualify for sainthood."
Small pause. The CO glanced down at a manila folder on the desk. Fingers tapped it once, twice.
Then:
"We got a call. Stateside. Red Cross channel."
Caleb's jaw tightened just slightly.
Halverson looked up, steady. "It's about your brother."
Halverson didn't reach for the folder. Didn't have to.
"There was a shooting," he said, voice steady.
Caleb's eyes narrowed, waiting.
"Chicago. Two nights ago."
Caleb's chest tightened, but he didn't say a word.
"Your brother and sister-in-law… were killed."
The words hung between them. Caleb stared, unreadable.
"Drive-by," Halverson added. "Wrong place, wrong time. They were outside a family friend's house in East Garfield Park."
Caleb's jaw twitched. The silence stretched, heavy.
"They didn't make it."
Caleb's hands clenched into fists on his knees. Still quiet.
"And June?"
"She was home that night. Not there."
Caleb swallowed hard. "How did they reach me?"
"Red Cross got in touch through your brother's will. Next of kin."
Caleb exhaled slowly, eyes flicking up, searching Halverson's face.
"So… what now?"
Halverson met his gaze. "They want you to look after her. For now."
Caleb's brow furrowed. "For now?"
"That's what they said."
Halverson's voice softened just a bit.
"I know it's a lot. But it's temporary."
Caleb leaned back, rubbing his face with one hand.
"Temporary," he repeated, but the word felt foreign.
Halverson nodded. "You'll get orders to come back once this is sorted."
Caleb's lips pressed tight.
The weight was there, but it hadn't fully landed yet.
He looked past Halverson, beyond the tent flap.
"To handle things."
A long beat.
Then Caleb said, low and steady, "Yeah. I'll handle it."
Caleb stepped out of the tent into the harsh sunlight, the heat hitting him harder than before. The distant buzz of the camp felt distant, muffled.
His boots crunched on the dry dirt as he walked slow, hands loose at his sides, his chest tight but trying not to breathe too deep.
He passed the scattered gear, the ragged laughter from the guys still lingering, but none of it reached him.
His jaw clenched as the weight of the news settled, uninvited and cold.
When he reached the shade of a Humvee, he dropped his pack and started pulling his kit apart—methodical, almost robotic.
Garcia noticed first, stepping over with a cautious look.
"You okay, Maddox?" he asked, voice low.
Caleb didn't look up.
Mason came up next, folding his arms, brow furrowed.
"What the hell happened?" he said, quieter now.
Caleb's fingers trembled as they fumbled with a buckle.
He swallowed hard, voice rough and low.
"Family… They're gone."
A pause hung heavy.
"Shot. Drive-by."
The words felt jagged, breaking the quiet.
Vaughn stepped closer, eyes searching.
"You alright, man?"
Caleb's throat tightened. His gaze finally lifted, eyes glossy.
"I gotta pack," he said, voice barely a whisper.
"Take your time," Garcia said, stepping back.
Caleb didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to his gear, hands shaking slightly, as the first sting of tears blurred his vision.
The squad gave him space, the usual noise fading to a respectful hush.
Caleb crouched beside his duffel, the coarse fabric rough against his fingers. His hands moved stiffly, slow, almost foreign—like they belonged to someone else.
He folded each piece of clothing with care, but the motions were clipped, lacking their usual precision.
The patch on his uniform—his name, rank—felt heavier than it should.
A helmet, a water bottle, an extra magazine. Each item packed with the quiet finality of a man preparing to leave more than just this place.
His breaths came shallow, uneven. The desert sun was relentless, but he barely noticed the sweat dripping down his neck.
Garcia stayed nearby but gave him distance, leaning against a Humvee with arms crossed, eyes on the ground.
Mason's usual teasing smile was gone. He stood just a few feet off, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching Caleb with a mix of concern and something like helplessness.
Caleb's fingers snagged on a zipper. He cursed under his breath, sharp and sudden—a rare burst breaking the stillness.
He paused, then rubbed at his face, jaw tight.
Garcia shifted again, voice low.
"You want a minute? Or you want us to keep the hell out?"
Caleb looked up, eyes dark, steady.
"Just... don't say anything."
The guys nodded, understanding.
Caleb went back to packing, slower now, hands lingering on a worn photo tucked inside his pack—the only thing not folded perfectly.
He stared at it briefly, eyes flickering with something almost like hope—or denial.
Then he zipped the bag shut, shoulders squared, and stood up.
Caleb slung the duffel over his shoulder, his movements stiff but controlled.
He glanced at the squad—Garcia, Mason, Vaughn—faces tired, watching without prying.
He cleared his throat, voice low but steady.
"This… it's temporary," he said, more to himself than them.
"I'm just gonna look after her for a bit. Get things sorted."
He paused, then forced a small, tight smile.
"I'll be back. This isn't forever."
Mason nodded slowly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
Garcia stepped forward, hand briefly on Caleb's shoulder.
"Yeah. You handle your shit. We got your six."
Caleb met their eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"Thanks," he muttered.
He turned, boots kicking up dust as he headed toward the convoy.
The squad watched him go—quiet, knowing—but said nothing.