Pete Conrad: Survival of the Sparrows

Winston’s emotions flared for a fraction of a second as he pondered what might have been. The bleeding did not subside; he stuffed gauze deep into the wound and grabbed a tube of instant clotting gel. Suturing the artery was far beyond the scope of the book’s instructions, but he did determine that it hadn’t been severed. When the gauze was soaked through, he removed it and quickly squeezed the gel into the wound. The blood flow immediately halted and he was relieved. He applied several elastic bandages that acted as stitches, dressed the wound with blood-clotting gauze, and wrapped it tightly.

The entire procedure had taken a little over an hour, and he had some time before his next mission began, so he sat next to May and watched her breathe slowly, matching her breathing with his own. He couldn’t imagine a life without her by his side. As cliché as it sounded, she was his rock and his savior, a woman every bit as strong as any man he’d ever known, and probably even more so. Winston lamented that he had never met May’s mother. He would have thanked her for raising a daughter who wasn’t afraid of anything. He didn’t sleep; he only watched May’s eyes flicker and flutter under closed lids, praying that she was dreaming only happy visions. They had a long life to live together and a community to rebuild when the war was over. They only had to make it through the night.

At 9:45 p.m., Winston readied himself. He remembered seeing that May had packed some of his army things in the bin labeled Memories , searched through it, and found his old uniform and decorations. He swapped out his trusty old Rusty Wallace #2 cap for the camouflaged boonie hat he wore the day he and Tran had earned their way home. He also stuffed his trusty M8A1 Scabbard knife into his combat boot — it was sharper than his pocketknife, and he’d need it to cut off that PLA soldier’s finger. He tightened up his boots, donned his black hoodie, and grabbed the first aid kit’s black backpack. The rifle would have to stay behind.

As he slipped out the apartment door, May quietly mumbled, “nine… pies…”

Winston paused and waited for her to say something else, but she went right back to sleep. He closed the door wondering what she was trying to say. The big overhead lights went off, and as usual, only one of the generators remained operating. It was precisely 10:00 p.m.

He moved to the crate and opened it. A great warmth greeted him, emitted from the armed nuclear weapons, and a faint scent of what might be described as spent laser printer toner cartridge struck his nose. He estimated that he had fifteen minutes to deliver each Tabari to the overpass, which meant he had zero time to waste. He grabbed the first one and carefully maneuvered it into the black backpack, but it wouldn’t fit. He left the black backpack inside the crate, and instead put the single armstrap of the red Tabari backpack over his shoulder, crouched, and waited for the patrol to go by. At 10:04 p.m., he saw the tips of their helmets pass to his right, and then a moment later, back to his left. According to Sergeant Duffy, he had until 10:10 p.m. to cross the fence. At 10:05 p.m., he opened the window, crawled out, closed it, put the stepstool down, grasped the branch, pulled himself up — the heavy Tabari backpack weighing him down — leaned down and grabbed the stepstool, pushed his laden body onto the top of the thick branch, scooted over the razor-wire fence, and lowered himself down safely on the other side. He stashed the stepstool in its usual spot, and waited behind the tree, watching the patrol go by. At 10:11 p.m., he dashed to the overpass and crawled up the steep concrete incline on all fours. At the top, he placed the warm Tabari pack onto the ledge and slid down, nearly losing his balance. He hit the concrete surface harder than he would have liked, and limped back to the tree. It was 10:16 p.m. At 10:17 p.m., the patrol went by, and at 10:18 p.m., he climbed back up the tree, over the fence, dropped down, and climbed back through the window. It was 10:22 p.m., and he just narrowly avoided getting caught by the patrol. At this pace, he knew he wasn’t going to make it, but he sallied forth like the good soldier that he was, stole another nuke, and repeated this process again and again and again and again, ignoring his exhaustion and his body’s joints and back screaming out for him to slow down, rest, stop, or die. He just did . At 2:30 a.m., he checked in on May. She still slept peacefully, for which he was grateful. He took a swig of water and continued his mission. So far, he had succeeded in moving fifteen of the twenty Tabaris to the ledge without incident. Winston managed to shorten the time it took to cross the fence after the first few rounds, which made up precious time. He would have to move two Tabaris at a time on his next two crossings, a daunting task, given their weight and Winston’s fatigue. The good news was that these two Tabaris had full shoulder straps and were far easier to move than those with only the single strap. He slung one over his back and the other over his shoulders so it hung facing forward. He didn’t buckle them because of a mechanical contraption that he suspected meant they were vests for suicide bombers. Another man might have made the mistake of buckling the backpacks, forever sealing his fate, but not EOD Specialist Sparrow.

Winston attempted to cross the fence again, but the second Tabari simply weighed too much. However, the branch he had been using bore several nubs where smaller limbs had broken off. From the stepstool, he placed a Tabari over one of these nubs, and left it dangling in the air while he crossed the fence and secured the other nuke deep inside a large knot where a much heftier branch had once grown. He plucked the second Tabari from the nub, and as he crossed the fence, lost his grip on it. The red backpack tumbled eight feet to the ground, thudding as it hit the pine needle floor. A moment later, he caught a glimpse of the patrol coming back around. He made himself as flat as he could behind a large limb, and prayed that neither of the PLA soldiers would turn and look in his direction. They passed by once. Winston waited, sweating profusely. They passed by again, and he grabbed the Tabari and started his descent. He plopped to the ground and reached for the Tabari that had fallen. Suddenly, Dong-joo appeared, flashlight in hand and trained into the woods. He had heard the noise when the backpack hit the ground, and left his post to investigate. The light beam scanned over where Winston had taken cover. Dong-joo put the flashlight away, unzipped his pants, and pissed near Winston’s window, looking backwards over his shoulder, and making sure his absence went undiscovered. He zipped back up, which was complicated by the fact that his finger was still implanted inside the Tabari, and went back to the barn’s front door, eager for daybreak to come.

Winston grabbed the Tabaris and wheezed all the way to the overpass. This time, though, he hid the backpacks in the brush, stood upright — as erect as he could — and tried to catch his breath, but it was becoming harder and more labored. He checked his watch.

“Ten minutes,” came a low voice from behind.

Winston jumped and turned.

“Why the fuck you always gotta do that?” Winston asked, “sneaking up on people an’ givin’ ‘em heart attacks.”

The soldier who stood before him wore a Russian uniform.

“Please, keep your voice down. I’m American.”

“Yeah, I figured that from your impeccable English.”

“Ya mog by govorit’ po-russki?”

“English is fine.”

“I’m here to help, Sir. You have two left and the truck will be here in nine minutes. I’ll move these, but we need those last two.”