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The Chariot

Allan Onik

    Brock took cover behind the fallen statue. He slowed his breathing and focused his eyes. He loaded a new clip into his M6A1 assault rifle. A medic crouched quivering next to him, holding a first aid kit.
    “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die,” the medic said. Automatic fire whizzed over their heads. A grenade went off in a nearby building.
    “No, you’re not,” Brock said, “I’ve got you. Just patch this gash on my arm.” Brock held out his arm and showed a large cut that sank deep into his forearm. The medic went through his wound binding procedures.
    “There must be at least a hundred Jihadis over there. And how many of us?” the medic asked.
    “Just us two,” Brock said, “We’re officially the targets of a rescue mission. I’ve already called it in.”
    “We’re gonna die.”
    “Not if we can hold out till the cavalry arrives.”
    “And how long will that be? What unit are you from anyways?”
    “I don’t know how long. And I’m a SEAL. My unit is classified along with my mission. What I can tell you is that my initial objectives are now aborted and I have to assist the rescue squad in getting you and me out of here.” Brock took a pin out of a grenade and threw it over their cover.
    “We might as well write our death notes,” the medic said.
    “Do you know what it takes to get through Hell Week in SEAL training? Medics in the Army Reserve deserve their accolades, sure. But Hell Week is all mental. It’s about mental discipline. Conquering your emotions. If you conquer your emotions there’s no situation that can stop you. And that goes beyond the military. If you end service after the war, you need to remember that. I had brothers in the SEALs who lived and died by that mentality. It’s not about how many pushups you can do. Or how good you are with a combat knife. It’s about how mentally tough you are.”
    “I’d still feel better about getting sentimental if there weren’t eight dozen Jihadis over there trying to send us straight to Allah.”
    “I have something I want to give you, buddy,” Brock handed the medic a card. The medic flipped it over.
    “The Chariot. What’s it mean?”
    “It means everything I just talked about. I pinned the card next to my bunk during SEAL training. And now I want you to keep it. A mystic gave me that card just before I left for service.”
    “I see. I’ll take good care of it if we get out of this.”
    “Ok. Just take cover here. I have to keep them at bay.”
    The medic crouched and held his knees as Brock rolled out and shot his assault rifle. The men were in an urban area with multiple levels and indoor spaces. His shots rippled across the chest of a Jihadi holding an AK-47. The man was wearing a black ski mask and fell from the balcony he aimed from. Another Jihadi rolled out from behind a burning barrel and fired. Brock strafed and threw a stun grenade. Three Jihadis dropped their weapons and gripped at their faces.
    “Keep going!” The medic cried, “It’s working!”
    “Remember what I said!” Brock cried, “We must master our emotions! For us, we must do it all in the face of Evil.”
    Brock shot a gas canister on the ground near four of the terrorists. The can exploded and body parts flew in all directions.
    “But I don’t think I can master Evil!” The medic cried, “Just look at Hitler, Stalin, North Korea, Sudan, Iran, Afghanistan, andÉ”
    “Here,” Brock finished.
    “It seems like evil crops up everywhere, like a shadow from behind a rock.”
    “Yes. But the rock cannot have a shadow without the light of the sun. And light will always shine out the dark, so long as there are good men. In us, there is a Power that Preserves.”
    The two could hear helicopters in the distance.
    “We just have to hold out a little longer,” the medic said.
    “Yes,” Brock said, “focus.”

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