The Corporal and the Choir Girl

Chapter One

It was the metallic smell of fresh blood that knocked him off his feet, not the blast from the bomb exploding behind him. Corporal Brandon Lucas got down, ducking and covering to avoid the deadly fragments that radiated from the center of the attack. From his training, he knew that most of the damage from an explosion was caused in the first few seconds of the blast wave. It was the shock that left a lasting impact.

Heat licked up his back. Screams pierced his ears. Even with his eyes closed, he saw the flames flicker on the inside of his eyelids. When the worst of it was over, he looked over his shoulder. But all he could see was black smoke and orange flames.

There was no one left standing. Not his commanding officer. Not the other two men on his team. That’s when he lost his footing.

He’d been on his knees. As he tried to stand, the combination of smoke and blood knocked him onto his chest. Brandon went down hard.

His palms scraped the coarse desert sand. Dirt mixed with the metallic blood on his tongue constricting his throat. He couldn't speak, but he had to. There were orders to be followed. He was trained for this, though the simulations and drills never quite prepared any soldier for the realities of combat.

He inhaled. Blood wasn't the only chemical smell. Mixed with the synthetic smell of the explosive material were the charcoal scent of gunpowder, the rancid odor of burned flesh, and the toxic fumes of diesel fuels. He knew he had to push past the assault on his nose. It was a rookie mistake, and he was a seasoned officer. The unexpected smells of war typically startled privates who’d just gotten a bit of hair on their chests and dust on their polished boots.

Under orders, Brandon had given the command to proceed. Yet, when he had, there had been hesitation in his voice. Brandon never hesitated. Not once in his years in the United States Army. But something had been off. His gut had told him so. But orders were orders. And so he’d given them. Unfortunately, his team had heard his doubt, and they too had hesitated.

Then everything blew up in their faces. All that was left was blood, and burning flesh, and a blaze. And it was all his fault.

"Lucas, wake up."

Brandon jerked awake at the sound of his superior’s voice. He'd only closed his eyes for a few moments. He knew that because the last time he looked at his watch it had been five minutes ago. But that was all it took for the scene to invade his dreams and assault his senses like he was back in that village with smoke and gunfire and the cries of women and children and enemies all around him.

That was not the scene before him now. The sun was peaking up past the horizon. He’d watched it go down the previous night and rise up as it brought forth a new day. The scenery outside the window moved slowly past him as the airplane made its slow taxi to the gate.

"We're here."

Sergeant Colin Chase looked back at Brandon from his seat. Beside him, Brandon felt an elbow from his seat companion. Private Mark Ortega had already unbuckled his belt and was ready to bounce out of his seat. Brandon knew that Ortega was more ready to get out of the confines of their metal transport than he was ready to carry out their latest orders. Brandon saw no reason to rush for that very reason. Also because he knew they had ample time to make their connecting flight.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot's voice from the overhead speakers. "Please allow our members of the United States Army to depart the plane first. We thank you for your service."

The three men in uniform rose slowly from their seats. Applause sounded from the back rows of the commercial airplane. Chase turned to the civilians at the back of the plane. He put on that thousand-watt smile that had been captured once or twice in military brochures. Brandon swore he heard a few feminine sighs of approval as Sgt. Chase saluted and waved.

Those sighs doubled when Private Ortega, now free from the confines of the window seat, smiled his dimpled grin from the aisle. There was a reason he was nicknamed Lady Killer back on the base. It had nothing to do with his sharp aim and everything to do with those twin bullets on the sides of his face.

For his part, Brandon gave a quick salute and turned away. He didn't want the praise, not today. Maybe not ever again. His gaze fell on the empty seat beside the one Chase had vacated. Brandon’s mind went to the missing fourth member of their team.

“Hey.” Chase’s hand came down on his shoulder, a vise grip that Brandon knew he’d never escape. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could. We all did.”

Brandon didn’t nod his agreement. He turned from the empty seat. Reaching up to the overhead compartment, he grabbed his duffle bag and headed to the exit. His movements decisive now that he was back on his home turf.

It was his first time back in the

United States in over a year. The heat of Atlanta felt like the same heat he’d confronted every day in the deserts of Afghanistan. Brandon wasn't from Atlanta. None of the men were. This was just a layover. Their final destination was the northwestern state of Montana.

After a favor pulled by Chase, their fire team was headed for some rehabilitation at a ranch run by vets. The Purple Heart Ranch it was called. There, the three remaining members of the team might heal from the ravages of their last assignment. Though Brandon doubted it.

All scrapes, burns, and bruises from the ambush had healed. Brandon’s skin had reknit from the burns. His aches had dulled. It was only his mind that still had an open wound.

They all had open wounds on the inside. Classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Brandon's symptoms robbed him of sleep where every time he closed his eyes he’d relive the events of their last mission and his one mistake that had knocked their four-man fire team down to three.

It was supposed to be their last job before their separation from the army. He hadn’t expected that separation to be so permanent. But it’s what they all had signed up for.

Now they had one mission left before the separation was complete. In this final assignment, they had to tell the family of Private Reece Cartwright that the vibrant young man wasn't coming home again.

At the arrivals gate, people waved signs and held up posters thanking the soldiers for their service. Chase and Ortega put their winning grins on. Brandon forced a smile, but a glimpse in the glass window told him it did not meet muster. Still, he did what he was trained to do, he soldiered on.

Chapter Two

The choir director’s fingers struck the first chord on the ancient organ in the church’s music room. Voices rose in praise and perfect harmony. It was a joyful noise.

Reegan Cartwright raised her voice alongside the small but devoted choir. This was her favorite song of the program. She closed her eyes as the words of the song penetrated her heart.

There was nothing like the sounds of the choir singing praises on a Sunday. This wasn't a Sunday. It was a Saturday night at choir practice. By the way practice was going, it was going to be a rapturous service come tomorrow.

As the music swelled, so did the passion in Reegan's heart. It lifted her voice. Unfortunately, the note was an octave out of step with the other singers around her. The organ music came to a crashing halt.

Everyone turned to Reegan since the dissonant note had come from her lips. Reegan pressed a hand to her throat, rubbing at the corded skin she found there. This was the third time that day where she’d hit the wrong note on a song she’d sang in perfect accord her whole life.

“Is everything okay, Reegan?” Barbara Bowen, the choir director, asked her. “Are you coming down with something?”

Reegan checked in with her body. She did feel out of sorts, but not the yucky feeling that accompanied a cold. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and was met with cool skin. She swallowed a couple of times, but there was no scratchiness in her throat.

“I’m fine,” she said. But even those words hadn’t felt quite right. “I’m just going to grab a drink of water.”

Reegan stepped out of the group. Her friends and neighbors that she’d known her whole life all made room for her to take a moment to herself. These were the same people who had rallied around her after she’d lost her parents three years ago. They were the same people that invited her to family dinners every Sunday night or on holiday weekends now that her parents were gone and her brother was away. She loved each and every one of them and couldn’t fathom her life outside this community, her extended family.

Her twin brother Reece was off overseas serving his country, just as he’d always dreamed. Reegan was also doing what she’d dreamed of. Singing in a choir was all she ever wanted to do in life.

Her mother had joked that she’d come out of the womb singing. That even when baby Reegan had awoken her late in the night, it had been the most resonant cries she’d ever heard, and she was tempted to listen to Reegan’s wails rather than offering her comfort to get her quiet.

The moment she could join, Reegan had signed up for the youth choir. By the time she’d become a teen, she’d graduated into the full choir with the other adults. Reegan spent all of her time singing. But not just any singing. She might hum along to a pop hit or country song. But gospel and hymns were what brought her joy.

Singing in the church that she was raised in, the church her parents were married in, the church she and her twin brother were baptized in, that was the dream. And she was living it. Even though her parents had passed on and her brother was away saving the world in the service, Regan was living her best life.

She sipped from the cool water in the cup. The liquid slid easily down her throat meeting no obstructions or sore spots. When it reached her chest, it met with a rumble there.

Reegan rubbed at her chest. Her palm rested on her heartbeat. The organ raced, beating twice as fast as normal, as though she’d just run down the hall. But she hadn’t. So why was her heart racing as though something was wrong?