Robots dusted and picked up tiny debris in Misha’s office. She allowed the low, droning sound to seep into her consciousness and focus on this new task. At her desk, she held a pencil and a yellow legal pad pressed up against the wood. There remained arrows, loops, strikeouts, and erasures on the page. But she wrote. Her mind turned into an engine driving her thoughts into frozen reality. The warmth of the ideas in her head chilled on the piece of paper. She read back each and every line. She crossed out lines that dangled and straightened up words that could use some clarity.
“And you’re not my goddamn brother,” Sergeant Dante Sellers said. Sellers stood at about six feet. He wore a high and tight haircut and a fresh Marine utility uniform. Aged twenty-three, and oak hued, he had journeyed upon an electronics shop in Makkah, Saudi Arabia.
“I’d never experienced racism until I got into the Corps,” said Lance Corporal Lawton Sails. Aged twenty, he stood at 5’9”, possessed walnut colored skin and a regulation fade. He hailed from Wilmington, Delaware. He withdrew some of the game controllers for the video game console in the barracks room.
She possessed enough breaths to cry out in a fragile, small voice. “Take my rifle and my boots. Make a battlefield cross with a picture of my parents and my two boys and Jameel.” She tried to breathe. Every ounce of life that she had left focused on getting those last gasps of air into her failing lungs. She was a steam engine running low on fuel. Dangerously low. She brought up a few more words to instruct Staff Sergeant Melody Grohl. Her superior wasn’t having it.
Glasses with liquid gold that bubbled up to the surface stood on the table. Two steaming plates with duck and truffles permitted the party of two to partake in the luxuries of being president and the top Marine general as Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
They trudged through the sand with heavy packs. Across the battlefield, the Marines kept morale by remaining motivated. This was their last hump before returning to the United States from Iran. Platoon Commander First Lieutenant Garrison Safer ensured that his men and women would make it to their next objective. Like a rolling tank covering the land, these Devil Dogs kept in rhythm. Safer drove the troops with a fervor that powered their minds.