Triggered Response

Twelve days after the accident His brain was on fire again. He did his damnedest to stop from being sent to his private hell, but as always he was dragged kicking and screaming back into the raging inferno. THE CRAGS OF HADES surround him, blazing hotter than the sun gone nova. The desert air is so intense that it blisters his skin. His mouth so dry that he can't swallow. Can hardly breathe. He glances through dark glasses at the two men behind him. Both look like him--camouflage pants and armless T-shirts, heavy boots and helmets, carrying holstered pistols and K-bar knives and submachine guns. The mission went off as planned. They found the camp in the maze of caves and will use the GPS system to guide in the Afghani guerillas who'll route the enemy from their cover. And then the American helicopters will take over. Still, he has to be vigilant. The enemy could be anywhere...waiting.... He senses danger like bugs crawling over him. One misstep and they're dead men. Circling, he moves back against rock until their carefully sheltered Humvee comes into sight. Peering around between them and the vehicle, he sees no indication that the enemy is anywhere within shooting distance. Al Qaeda snipers could be positioned anywhere up in those rocks above them. Sweat trickles down his spine as he signals the other men. Though they're all equipped with radios and headsets, he figures better to keep from making a sound. He indicates they should get back to the truck. He'll cover them and bring up the rear. He raises his MP-5, ready to trigger the submachine gun at the slightest movement, at the smallest hint of light reflected off an enemy's weapon. The seasoned guy goes first. Trigger-finger tense, he turns this way and that, vigilant as his buddy goes for the driver's door. He signals the other one, the youngest kid in their unit. His dark skin is ashen, but if he's afraid, that's the only sign. Running for the vehicle, the kid takes a fatal step, explodes like a child's piÑata. Instead of candy and toys, his body bursts into bits of flesh and bone. And blood. Pink mist. Covered with the kid's life force, he loses it and runs to the Humvee. His gorge in his throat, he throws himself into the passenger seat, his driver buddy's tortured-sounding curses ringing in his ears. The vehicle takes off, throwing him hard back against the seat. Something inside him finally breaks. An inner explosion inside his head. He can't breathe. Even closing his eyes can't erase the image of another senseless death heaped on dozens of others he's seen. His brain is on fire. Burning. Melting. But he has to be okay. Has to. People are counting on him. His Special Ops unit...the ones who aren't dead yet. The government that sent him here. The people back home. He has to be okay. Has to. He forces back the flames. Only to have a second flash of sound open his eyes. An explosion throws a wall of heat at him. Amid rubble and smoke, a white lab-coated body lies there at his feet. Not the kid. Not in the mountainous desert. Not all those years ago. Somehow he traverses through space and time. A different place, a different explosion, a different victim... "NO! Not again!" Flying up out of the nightmare, he realized he'd been asleep in the bunk in the Baltimore homeless shelter where he'd been placed. He began to shake. His brain was on fire. Burning again as it had night after night after night. He fought back and pushed the images away as he always did because he had to be okay. Had to. Whoever he was. SECURITY EXPERT SOUGHT For Questioning. The headline glared up at Claire Fanshaw as she picked up the Baltimore Sun on the way tRosemoor, Patricia is the author of 'Triggered Response', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373887323 and ISBN 0373887329.