Then she covered my hands with her own.

“Can you feel yourself inside me?” she whispered, her voice husky.

She’d said those exact same words to me the very first time we’d made love after I’d been bruised and beaten by my father. And she’d taken care of me; she’d taken me into her arms, into her bed, and into her body. She healed my body, mended my cuts and bruises, but more than that … she healed my soul. I’d never stopped loving her.

“Yes,” I said, staring up at her, “I can.”

We loved each other all night, but it couldn’t stop the clock from ticking.

I’d set the alarm, even though neither of us had slept. I’d sleep on the transport out of Ramstein; I wasn’t going to waste a second of being with Caro.

We showered together, speaking with our hands and our bodies. And then she watched as I dressed in my desert cammies. Her face remained calm, but her eyes had already told me what she was really thinking.

She held out one hand toward me, and in her palm rested a small pebble of white quartz, shaped by the ocean into a tiny heart.

“Tesoro, go with my love, but take this with you. It’s just silly, but I always carry it with me when I leave home—I found this the first time I went to Long Beach. But now I have your ring to wear.”

I closed my eyes and leaned down to kiss her hair.

“I’ve never had something to come back to before, Caro. Don’t worry about me—just take care of yourself.”

I kissed the piece of quartz and tucked it into my pocket.

“I love you, tesoro. Stay safe for me.”

A car horn sounded in the street below us.

“Time to go, baby. Love you.”

I kissed her once more, tasting her for the last time in God knows how long. Then I scooped up my sea-bag and ran down the stairs. The car was one of the featureless black sedans that Military Intelligence used around the city.

The driver saluted.

“Your orders, sir.”

He handed me a packet of papers, then popped the trunk, stowing my bags inside.

I glanced up at the window, and smiled when I saw Caro looking down at me, then the door closed and I was heading for the airport.

The flight was a charter and once I was through security, I was directed to a small room with other US military personnel scheduled on the same flight.

I scanned the faces—no one I recognized. I wasn’t expecting to, but you never know.

I checked my orders, but there was nothing different since I’d talked to Cardozo last night. I had forty minutes before my flight, so I shoved my bags under my seat, and stretched out to take a nap.

As soon as my eyes closed, I could see Caro’s face. I imagined her lying in my bed, her hair spilled out across the pillow and … oh fuck, not a good idea thinking about her if it was going to make me hard. Not here and definitely not now. Instead, I tried to reprogram my brain to think about the mission. It wasn’t working: every time I closed my eyes, Caro’s face swam into view.

I nixed the idea of sleeping and sat up, rubbing my eyes. I had a copy of Paulo Coelho’s ‘The Alchemist’. I’d read it before, but now I had a new insight into its message: ‘Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself.’ I wasn’t sure I agreed, especially now. But as a book, it was still the shit.

The flight was called and I found a seat near the bulkhead next to the window. It was a short flight—90 minutes depending on the head-winds—but I didn’t want some fucker crawling all over me if he had to take a piss.

I guess I did manage to sleep eventually, because the next thing I knew my head thumped against the window as we landed, waking me up and pissing me off in the same breath. My next conscious thought was of Caro. I knew that I’d have to get a grip on that, because having my mind on her instead of the mission was going to make me fuck up, a situation that could be slightly terminal. I smiled to myself, thinking how pissed she’d be if I got myself killed. I patted the pocket over my heart a little self-consciously, feeling a slight bump from the little pebble she’d given me.

Must be getting soft in my old age. And yeah, 27 could feel fucking old at times.

Most of the guys on the flight were PCSing. Their Permanent Change of Station were to bases across KMC—or Kaiserslautern Military Community—to give it the full name, and Ramstein was the air force base.

I managed to find a café that was selling coffee and found a few Euros in coins to pay for it. Then the waiting started. That’s the military for you: hurry up and wait. Happens all the time, so there’s no point getting your panties in a bunch about it.

I glanced out to the runway and saw a parked airplane: a C-130 turbo-prob. If that was my ride, the flight to Kabul was going to be a bitch and noisy as hell.

It wasn’t long before the flight was called, so I showed my orders to the wing nut in charge, wondering if he could read, the way he scrunched up his eyes scrolling down through the papers. Eventually, he nodded and waved me through. I tossed my sea-bag on top of the baggage cart, praying it would arrive with me on the same flight. It didn’t contain anything that couldn’t be replaced, but I wasn’t looking forward to getting tied up in red tape the second I landed. I made my way to a seat at the back and stuck in my ear-buds, listening to Lifehouse, until I got to the song ‘You and Me’ and then I had to fast forward. Fuck, I really was getting soft. I switched to Linkin Park.

I rolled up my uniform jacket to use as a pillow then closed my eyes, seeing her face smiling behind my eyelids. I’d been dreaming about her for 10 years, but now it didn’t hurt quite so bad.

I wasn’t really asleep—I was just resting my eyes, so when the intercom crackled seven hours later and the pilot said he was prepping to land, all hands reached into the overhead lockers to suit up: helmets and body armor. It was bright daylight outside the window, so that made everyone nervous. A Hercules is a big fucking target. It’s better to fly at night because the cold air is denser, but also because the dark is some protection from enemy fire.

So after traveling for a total of 11 hours, I landed in Kabul.

What a fucking dump.

There are three things you need to know about Afghanistan: one, it’s a shithole; two, it’s hot in summer; and three, it’s a shithole.

I hadn’t been here for 36 months, but nothing had changed. From a distance the Koh Daman Mountains looked beautiful, still covered in snow, despite the 110oF heat at sea level. But up closer, the city was just as ugly and miserable as I remembered.

If you’re doing a winter tour, it’s constant cold and freezing mud; summer tours, it’s dust. Endless, yellow dust: in your food, in your water, in your bed, in the lining of your helmet. Rumor says the dirt out here is 10% fecal matter so the whole place is shit.

And soon Caro would be here, too. I hated to think that she’d be stuck in this rat trap, even if it meant she’d be closer to me.

Yeah, I wasn’t happy to be back.

The sticky heat hit me as soon as I exited the plane, and I breathed in the dust and acrid stench of fuel and hot rubber. In the distance, gray-blue smoke drifted upward. IED? Car bomb? Welcome to Afghanistan.

We’d landed at Bagram Airfield, about 15 miles northeast of Kabul. Most of the guys I’d flown with were in transit to other bases, but my orders took me into the city.

I squinted into the white heat of the sun and slid on my Oakleys, staring out at the acres of tents and shanty buildings that made up the base.

The air was humid, but we still disembarked fast, getting under cover as quickly as possible. In the arrivals area (aka a shed), I had to go through the rigmarole of checking into theater. Despite being ID-checked and listed as getting on the flight at Ramstein, I still had to go through the exact same procedure getting off at Kabul. What the fuck? Did they think anyone might have gotten on the flight halfway? Probably the cheap fucking computer systems they use. Thanks, Uncle Sam.