12
Iraq
July 2004
It was hot and quiet, the wind spinning eddies of sand around the base.
“I don’t get premonitions often, but I feel like this is going to be a bad weekend,” said Sergeant Sonja Davis.
“Bugger off, Davis. Premonitions never got anyone rich,” said a sleepy Johanna, from her huddling position on Tavish’s lap.
“But they have gotten many safer, love,” answered Tavish, burying his head in the crook of her neck and closing his eyes in slumber.
Out of the silence came the crackle of a handheld radio, and the dispatcher cried, “Medevac! Medevac! Medevac!”
Davis, Johanna, and Tavish shot to their feet and darted from their tents, along with nine other camouflaged figures.
A rehearsed riot of belts and straps, buckles and Velcro, and twin Chinooks were airborne within five
