Caution:  Adult language!

Sergeant Krista Andrews’s blue eyes glistened with tears. “I should have gone on the mission, doc. I could have done something.”

The late afternoon Texas sun streamed through the office window. Dr. Mark Dowdell frowned. “What?”

She shook her head and the tears fell down her pale cheeks. “I don’t know. Something. I was their medic and I let them down.”

“I see.” Nothing like a stock phrase to buy time, the psychologist thought. He leaned back in his black swivel chair and stared at the framed Crab Nebula print.

For the past nine months, Sgt. Andrews had grappled with her survivor guilt following an attack on a convoy that had left six dead. Dowdell tried Prolonged Exposure, Cognitive Processing, even Virtual Reality therapy. Nothing worked. The young woman just wouldn’t let go of the idea that things would have been better if she’d gone on the mission.

Of course, Dowdell had one more option: send her back in time. Let her try, then bring her back. The Box might be experimental, but the theory–physics and psychology both–was solid. Since the beginning of the decades-long Global War on Terrorism, the accepted treatment for Posttraumatic Stress Disorder involved exposing the client to the traumatizing event. Sgt. Andrews’s case was a variant on PTSD, so it should work. Right?

“Sergeant, would you be willing to participate in a research program?” he asked.

#

Krista sat with the rest of the platoon in the stifling briefing room. The window air-conditioning units wailed in their futile battle against the late July sun. It’ll be worse when the monsoons start in a few more weeks, she reminded herself.

The lieutenant stood in front of a screen with a diagram of the proposed mission. The line of the Pakistani-Taliban advance hovered just north of the border between the state of Punjab and Haryana. A red streak followed back roads north to a point just shy of the front.

“Okay, folks,” the El-Tee said. “Today’s mission is to escort a supply truck to the Indian Army base on the other side of Tohana. First Squad, this one’s yours. Which medic is up?”

Everyone in First Squad groaned, while the rest of the platoon grinned. Krista felt a moment of dizziness, as if the world had just shifted a few centimeters. She shook her head to clear it.

Specialist Martinez, the platoon’s other medic, kept his hand in his lap, even though he was the one scheduled for the next mission. Uh-uhn, Krista thought, not me, not today. Martinez, you’re up. I want to go back to bed. The stocky Specialist often managed to worm his way out of going on a mission. No wonder he was such a lame excuse for a medic. An odd sense of having gone through this all before washed over her. Again she shook her head.

Martinez glanced at her, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Earlier, around oh-dark-thirty, Martinez had burst into their billet, shouting, “I’m a dad! I’m a dad!” He’d been awake all night, watching via Internet connection as his wife delivered their first child. Krista gave him a grimacing smile and nodded. Oh, all right. But I swear, it’s the last time I cover for you.

As her hand crept up, Krista felt the world shift again, stronger, as if displaced by a half-meter this time. “I’ll go. Let Martinez get some sleep.”

The nine-person squad, plus Krista, piled into the two sand-colored Light Tactical Vehicles and connected their uniform subsystems to the vehicles’ onboard power supply. The engines turned over and filled Forward Operating Base Sword with their teeth-chattering rumble. The first TeeVee took up position in the lead, while Krista’s vehicle slid into place behind the truck. The convoy eased past the entry control point and onto the lane leading to the main road.

From the back of the second TeeVee, Krista could see the ass-end of the supply truck through the front windshield, but not much else. The high side windows showed only the tops of ficus trees and the washed-out blue sky. At least her uniform’s micro-climate conditioning system kept her cool, though it didn’t block the stench of anxiety-spawned sweat.

As the TeeVees rumbled down the road, Krista checked the telemetry projected from the inner layer each squad member’s uniform. Body temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, hydration level, brain waves, and stress level appeared on her helmet’s visor as a list of green alphanumerics.

Staff Sergeant Carter’s blood pressure was a little elevated, reflecting her increased stress at the start of a mission. The price paid for being squad leader. The increased heart rates and quick pulses of the three newbies spoke a different kind of stress.

Specialist Khan, as usual, was dehydrated. Krista keyed her comm unit. “Khan, drink water. I don’t need a case of heat stroke.”

“Sure, doc.”

The sound of Khan slurping water from his hydration system filled Krista’s helmet. Smart ass.

Delta brainwaves from one soldier in the first vehicle told Krista that Sergeant Shephard was sleeping, again.

The chatter on the radio devolved into a background drone. Krista’s own brainwaves edged toward the drowsy theta frequencies.

The TeeVee hit a pothole and Krista felt the jar streak up her back.

“Motherfucker!” someone yelled. “Look where you’re going, shithead!”

“You want to drive, be my guest, Bates,” the TeeVee’s driver, Corporal Lujan, shouted back.

“Knock it off, soldiers.” Carter’s voice was level, almost bored.

“Like we want Lujan as gunner. The only things he can hit are potholes.”

“Stow it, Bates.” This time there was a snap to Carter’s voice.

Krista checked the squad again. Not much else to do. As a medic, she only got busy when thing went wrong and she could never wish for that. The members of First Platoon, Echo Company were hers. Her responsibility. If the shit hit the fan, she’d take care of them. How many times during her nine months in-country had that happened? Ten? Fifteen? She’d lost count. No wonder she was tired. She just hoped—

“RPG!” Bates screamed from his exposed gunner’s position. “Ambush! Ambush!”

Lujan swerved the TeeVee; Krista’s shoulder banged against the vehicle’s side.

She shifted, tried to right herself.

Noise. Light. Pain. Nothing.

 #

Specialist Jaime Martinez’s dark eyes glistened with tears. “I should have gone on the mission, doc. I could have done something.”