Red Room Where the Writers Are

Web Links

                                                                                 Belonging
                                                                            By Jessica L Smith

        "Have you ever considered that you may not belong here?" Master Sergeant Grey spoke as
smoothly and calmly as he could through his stiff lips. It took all of his self control not to lay hands on
the boy.
        "I'm sorry, Sergeant."
        "Its not about sorry kid, this is about men's lives being at stake. You realize you could have
been killed about four times this past hour? I can't afford to have a fuck-up on my hands."
        “It won't happen again."
        "Damned straight."
        The kid's tall, muscular frame sagged a bit in humiliation. He was a handsome guy. Six foot
two, dark hair, the lightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His tan skin glistened with the sea water he had
just emerged from. Even shamed and pouting, he was uncommonly attractive. Very little body fat got
in the way of his prominent muscular physique. This wasn't his first major catastrophe. He had a dark
cloud over him that he couldn't shake. His name was Thomas Kester. Tommy to his mom, "Boner-
Killer" to his peers.

                                                       ***
                                                                                                     

        Six months earlier, Sergeant Kester narrowly avoided a court martial by the bare skin of his
teeth. It had to be his good looks. There was nothing else that explained it. Down in Key West, Kester
and Hoole were rooming together on a training mission. For some inexplicable reason, Kester had
passed CCS training on his 3rd try. He had thought of quitting so many times but he couldn't deny his
ambition. He just wanted to belong there. He idolized special forces and tried to emulate them in
every way. This meant taking extremely good care of one's weapons. Thorough cleaning and detailing
were the mark of a real soldier. So what if regulations said all weapons should be locked up in the
locker at night. He was an elite Air Force fighting man and his weapon needed cleaning. So he
brought the M9 back to his hotel room to lovingly disassemble and clean it.
        "Kester, what are you doing with your fucking weapon in here?"
        "Relax, it just needs cleaning. I ain't gonna shoot you."
        "You sure the bullet is outta the chamber?"
        "Huh? Oh yeah." Kester realized Hoole was right, a split second too late.
        It happened so fast, Kester wouldn't have known the weapon fired if he didn't hear his ears
ringing. It startled him and he dropped the gun. At the same time Hoole grabbed his crotch and started
howling, pitifully, he doubled over on his bed screaming.
        "YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOU SHOT ME!"
        "Let me see, I don't know how that happened...did I shoot your...uh. Oh shit!" Blood was
oozing from Hoole's thigh. He had a two-handed death grip on his groin.
        "Get the fuck AWAY from me!"
        "Okay, okay. I'll get someone. Hold on."                                                                                                         
         Kester was shaking as he knocked on the lieutenant's hotel room door. Shit. He thought. How
did I...what if its not repairable? Shit, what if he's dead already? Kester's stomach turned and he beat
more frantically on the door.
         "I shot Hoole!" Kester blurted when Lieutenant Vermeer came to the door.
         "What in the hell, Kester?" Vermeer shook his head and followed Kester who was already back
in his room.
         Hoole was patched up and flown to Key West Naval Hospital. The bullet had entered his thigh
and traveled up to his groin. It was a painful recovery, but Hoole was okay. No permanent damage
was inflicted to his junk. At least, that is what he said. The incident was swept under the rug. It is not
the kind of thing that usually gets swept under the rug. But this was only Kester's first screw up.
         A couple months later, Kester got the tips of his ring and middle fingers chopped off. It was a
bone-head mistake. Loading gear in the C 130, he set a load on the tips of his fingers. They sliced
clean off between the gear and railing. There was blood everywhere and the mission was delayed.
After that Kester's fingernails never really grew back properly. It wasn't terribly noticeable. But once
again, this wasn't an incident that would go unnoticed by his peers.
                                                     ***
         The mission was routine, but several things had gone wrong for Master Seargent Grey. First of
all, his assistant team leader who was to serve as the jump master for the other plane had bailed on him.
This meant Grey had to coordinate jumps between two teams in two separate airplanes all on his own.
Grey separated the jump teams, the experienced jumpers from the young guys and of course, Kester.
                                                                                                        

They were jumping out over the Aegean Sea and boating in to the shore. There was a lot to coordinate.
Inflatable boats, dive gear, parachutes, making sure the two teams landed as close to the DZ as
possible. Making sure the parachutes were recovered. Grey was already at his wits end without
Kester, and all his fumbling glory.
        "Don't inflate the boat until I say." Grey instructed the team that had jumped with him. He
didn't have time to explain about putting it in the right inflation mode. He said it to his team, but he
was looking directly at Kester. Grey kicked over to the other team to help set up and when he came
back to his team, the boat was inflated upside-down. Great. Not only was the boat inflated upside
down, the motor filling with water, but the cells were clearly off-gassing CO2. He could hear it. Each
of the cells of the inflatable boat would have to have the valves closed or it would completely deflate.
Nobody said a word and Grey could see Kester was the culprit. Grey took a deep breath and kicked
under the boat. He knew he could probably get all the valves shut before having to take a breath. He'd
held his breath longer than that in dive school. Everything was going to be fine in a minute, but then
came Kester.
        Thinking he should fix his mess, Kester kicked under the boat. The first thing he did was take a
huge gulp of CO2. The CO2 burned his lungs and nose. Shocked, he kicked out from under the boat
and ran head-long into the jet prop of the second team's boat, which was fully loaded and idling nearby.
Luckily for Kester, the propeller was in a casing or he'd have had his head laid open right there in the
Aegean Sea. Grey emerged from the upside-down boat, having successfully closed all the valves only
to find Kester yelling at the other team, most of whom were doing their best to stifle a laugh.
        The boat was righted in short order and everyone was aboard, but the next challenge for Grey
                                                                                                         5
was to get the motor clear of water and started. Kester couldn't leave well enough alone. He bent over
the puzzle, clearly not mechanically inclined. His dog tags were swinging from his neck over the
exposed fly wheel. Grey saw this near tragedy before it happened and knocked Kester with all his
force toward the front of the boat.
        "I. GOT. THIS." Grey spoke as little as possible and shortly the motor started up and they went
to shore.
        Later in the week, Grey took Kester aside and had a talk with him, man to man.
        "Listen, its nothing personal, you know."
        "I know, Sergeant. I'm gonna get better at this, you'll see."
        "Bud, I've been doing this job a long time. Either you get it or you don't. I don't think you're
gonna get it if you haven't already."
        "What d'ya mean?"
        "I mean, you are gonna get someone killed some day. You don't get what we do. You're trying
to hard to be a hero. Thats not what this job is. We deploy with small teams, usually Rangers or Green
Berets. There is no hot-dogg'n on the job. If you go getting yourself killed you're team is in danger.
You are trained to do shit they don't understand. You really think you can be responsible for getting a
team out of a bad situation with the black cloud you got over your head? You don't belong here."
        Kester nodded and looked down.
                                                   ***
        Back home at Pope AFB, Kester started to out-process. The Key-West debacle was only the
final nail in his failure at becoming an elite commando. The rest of the Pope Combat Control team went home and prepared to deploy forward. They went on to Afghanistan and Kester stayed back to
out-process and line up a construction job with his uncle in South Carolina. Kester was disappointed in
himself. This was not the outcome he had forseen. Not after finally making it through CCS school.
Not after three fucking times humping out that damned 10 mile run. He was amazed at his body's
ability to continue on despite discomfort, disappointment, and sheer exhaustion. He really thought he
had made it. Fuck it. He thought. I don't need this shit anyway. Masochistic PT workouts, sleepless
nights in the field. Add to that the fact that everybody on his team seemed to hate him. He didn't need
any more convincing. He was on his way to his exit interview, almost done with this place and his
miserable career.
         “Sergeant Kester.”
         Kester saluted, “Colonel Birchford, sir!”
         “Says here you want to out-process. You mind telling me why, after all the money the Air Force
has invested in you, you want out?”
         “Jobs not right for me, Sir.”
         “You know the rate of attricion for CCS school as well as I do. Why the fuck did you keep
going back if it wasn't right for you?”
         “Uh. Well, I'm not suited for indoor work, Sir. Combat Control seemed cool as hell, Sir.”
         “Listen, I've seen your reccords. You've had a run of bad luck. I'm willing to overlook that
right now. The truth is, I'm denying your request to out-process. I have a request for a Combat
Controller for a short deployment in Afghanistan with a small group of Rangers. Right now, you're all
I've got. Why don't you just try a real deployment, see how you like it. If you still want to out-process
when you get back I'll let you go.”
                                                                                                        

         A wave of something unfamiliar washed over Kester. This turn of events was completely
unexpected. He would be deploying with people who didn't know what a fuck-up he was. He could
start all over again. Maybe request a transfer to a different team when he got back.
         “Yes Sir...Thank you Sir.” Was all Kester could muster in his state of shock. Hallelujah! He
was going to get to do the job he trained so hard to do. It was like Christmas.
                                                   

                                                                                ***

         The team was made of five Army Rangers, lead by Sergeant Major Rodriguez. They jumped in
in the dead of night and set up shop with the use of their night vision. Kester was on his game. When
the jump light went green and he waddled to the door with his rucksack tied between his legs he got
that all-familiar feeling. The unbelievable feeling of stepping out into the dark abyss. The absolute
screaming rush that followed as he fell through the sky. He timed the drop of his rucksack, landed
softly, feet fluttering softly over the rocky ground before barely making contact. It was an elegant
landing. Fuck yeah! Kester thought as he gathered his parachute and his gear. This is fucking real. It
was cool as hell.
         The next day as the team observed the goings-on of a ramshackle camp due east at the bottom
of a 20 foot drop.
         "Hey, is it true you shot one of your buddies in the nuts?" Rodriguez asked once things were
settled.
         Shit. How does everyone know about that? "Not exactly."
         "You did shoot 'im though right?"
         Kester saw an opportunity here, to appear to be a bad ass instead of just an idiot. He shrugged
his shoulders and half-frowned.                                                                                                        

       "So what, you don't     KNOW if you shot your friend?"
        "I shot him."
        Now Khan was interested, "What in the hell? You shot someone on your own team?"
        This wasn't going the way Kester had hoped. "Yeah, I did. Accidently."
        "Hey Kester, This right here, its called the SAFE-TEE. They teach you that in the Air Force?"
Smith said, holding up his M4. Smith pointed his weapon at Kester's crotch. "Uuuhhh." Smith
pantomimed checking his hair and having his gun fire accidentally. "Aw, man you Air Force cats got it
rough, don'cha? What is it, 2 weeks in boot camp? Probably didn't have time to teach you about guns,
huh?"
        "You have no fucking idea the kind of shit we have to go through to do this job, man.”
        Smith laughed, “Oh okay.”
        Kester thought about explaining to Smith the hell he went through just to get to phase two of the
five phases of Combat Control, but he decided against it. “I was cleaning my M9 and didn't realize
there was a bullet in the chamber. Rookie mistake, I'll never do that again."
        "No shit." Rodriguez said shaking his head in disgust.
        "Can the guy still fuck?" German, who had been quiet up to this point spoke up from his
reclined position inside his sleeping bag.
        "Yeah, he's fine. Bullet entered his thigh and traveled to his groin."
        "Oh, man!" Smith said, grabing his crotch. "Oh, that sucks."
        Not going well at all. Kester thought to himself.
        Being out with a team of Rangers was cool as hell. Kester felt this aura of importance, of being
in a group that was unique to existing in a place he didn't belong. This was the edge. He was living on it. None of the six men were invited there. They made their way in. They made it there through sheer
grit and determination. Each man, a specialized weapon, honed into the very definition of Hoo-ah.
Khan was a medic/language specialist. He was as sharp as they come. Rodriguez, the ranking NCO
was a battle-tested, born leader. Smith was a weapons specialist fresh out of Ranger school, top of his
class. German and Boone were the oldest of the group. What they lacked in communication, they
made up in experience and skill. As the sun went down, Kester volunteered for the first watch of the
night.
        "Hey Kester, its okay, I got my safety right here." Smith had fastened his Kevlar vest around
his crotch like a diaper. He knocked on the hard plate with his fist. When Kester turned away
annoyed, Smith just giggled softly. "Hey, man I'm just mess'n with ya. Its what we do out here."
        Kester turned back and attempted a half smile, exhaling imperceptibly through his nose.
        Kester lay awake in the dead of night watching with his NVG's for any sign of movement
below. It was a still, moonless night. Then, suddenly, he felt an excruciating pain stab at his ankle,
right through his boot. He screamed out before he thought of the consequences. Equally as dumb, he
ditched his goggles and fished out his flashlight an pulled off the boot. The other men in the team woke
up.
        "Hey, shut up, dumbass!" Rodriguez hissed.
        "Something bit me!"
        "Shut off that light! You just gave away our position!"
        "I gotta see what bit me!"
        "Get over here! Geez, you better hope them ragheads are passed out drunk down there."
        "Oh crap, I see a puncture mark, Khan, what do you think this is?"
                                                                                                     10
        "Looks like a scorpian bite maybe."
        "How do we treat that?"
        "Was it a big one or a little one?"
        "I don't know! I didn't see it!"
        "Well, how do you feel?"
        "Fine. I think."
        Khan swabbed the bite and put an instant cold pack on Kester's ankle. "You'll be fine, don't
worry about it. Most scorpions aren't deadly."
        "Yeah, it could be worse. It could-a got you in the nuts."
        "Knock it off, Smith." Rodriguez suddenly regretted bringing up the accidental shooting
incident.
        Just at that moment there was a rustling sound and all the men jerked to into ready-mode. Khan
silently put down his medic bag and picked up his weapon. Kester forgot about his ankle bite and took
the safety off his weapon slowly. Rodriguez motioned with his hands for Kester not to shoot. For a
long moment nobody made a move or sound. After all was quiet for what felt like an hour, everyone
relaxed, slightly.
        Before Kester could resume his position and put back on his boot, something landed with a dull
thud in the middle of the six men. There was no time to react. There was no time to determine the risk.
All five Rangers dove for cover and Kester was frozen. He thought a dozen thoughts in a split second.
His mind was racing faster than was humanly possible. Grenade. Without thinking, Kester spread eagle and his body made a small arc downward hugging the ground. Nobody is taking a hit because of
me. I can't add another fuck up to the list. I have to do something... Its amazing how we're wired.
Reflex comes faster than reason. He felt his body contact the ground and shut his eyes, waiting for
oblivion. He waited with eyes shut tight. Silence. There was no flash of light, no burning amber.
Kester thought perhaps it happened too quickly. Maybe he was dead and this is what it was like on the
other side. Just a seamless transition.
        "Kester, you okay?" German whispered.
        "Uh, I think so." Another grenade landed by Kester's side. Whoever was throwing those things
had perfect aim. Obviously the first was a dud.
        The explosion threw blood and dirt and obliterated body pieces up so far in the air it was almost
like a fountain springing up from the ground. Like something you might see in Vegas. An impressive,
sickeningly wasteful display. Only shriveled fragments of Kester remained after the explosion. It was
such a shock, it almost didn't register to the rest of the men that the hissing sounds of bullets had started
to whiz toward them.
        "Oh shit." Rodriguez said under his breath. He was in controlled panic and disbelief.
        "Tell me his fucking radio is still in tact." Smith said taking his defensive position behind a
rock.
        "If it is, you get to carry it." Rodriguez said.
        "What? Naw, man, I got the fuck'n SAW."
        “Anyone know how to use that thing?” Boone asked, cool and emotionless.
                                                                                                     

         Rodriguez darted out from behind his cover and picked up Kester's radio, which was still warm
and slick with blood. Back behind the large rock, Rodriguez kneeled and fiddled with it and when he
got some kind of sound he shrugged and said, "Chicken-hawk, this is Foghorn-six, we're taking enemy
fire. One casualty. We're going to need air support at...” Rodriguez checked his GPS device,
“+32.14.16 -62.50.27 standing by for exfiltration point." For a few moments the only sound was the
pinging of bullets against the bleached out rocks.
        “Chicken-hawk, this is Foghorn-six, do you copy?”
        Abruptly, somone answered. “Say again? Who is this and what is your status?”
        “This is Foghorn-six, we're going to need to be picked up, we're taking fire and have one
casualty.”
        “Copy that, Foghorn-six. I take it your casualty was your radio opps? This is the Ladybird six-
two. You're hailing the wrong frequency.”
        “Ladybird six-two, I appologize, please advise.”
        After the distress message was relayed to the propper channel, Khan asked, "Hey, Rodriguez,
what about Kester?"
        "Get what's left of him and stuff it in a kit bag or something."
        "What was he thinking?" Smith asked, not expecting an answer.
        The firefight had slowed a bit, only random bullets ricocheted off of the ancient stones.
        "God only knows, Smith.” German answered. “No sense trying to figure out where we belong.
Its beyond our control. We live here on earth, then we die. Just like that.”
        “Damn.”
        “Yeah...”