Fire for Effect by Kendall McKenna Page B

himself, he was even a little bit rusty when it came to combat.
    Jonah and Kellan were assigned to ride in the rear seats of a Humvee in the center of the convoy. Kellan had ridden through Iraq in a gun truck, which was less cramped and more open, so he wasn’t used to the claustrophobic feel.
    “Is the view different from the back seats?” he asked Jonah jokingly.
    As an NCO and a Team Leader, Jonah had spent his deployments in the front passenger seat.
    “All the additional armor changed the view after that first deployment,” Jonah responded. “For all the reduced visibility and reduced maneuverability caused by the hillbilly armor, we might as well be in tanks instead of Humvees.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by the roar of the diesel engine firing up. Their gunner climbed up the rungs of the small ladder into the turret on the roof. The familiar sound of a .50-caliber round being racked into place reached Kellan’s ears.
    Minutes later, they were oscar-mike. The rough, unpaved roads made the ride kidney-jarring and uncomfortable. The volume of the engine made idle chatter with Jonah impractical and getting to know the other Marines in the victor impossible. Kellan settled in for a long, boring journey of staring out the window.
    The patrol’s first stop was at the fields of a local farmer. The man greeted Captain Miller and the rest of his family soon joined them. The conversation was friendly and animated, rapidly translated by one of the Marines.
    Their Humvee’s Team Leader advised them it was clear for Jonah and Kellan to exit the Humvee, but not to wander too far. They were told to extend their situational awareness and keep their heads on swivels. This farmer was friendly but insurgents were everywhere.
    Kellan walked along the side of the rutted road that paralleled the farmer’s crops. Jonah stayed right on Kellan’s six but didn’t say much. Kellan blinked several times, his brain refusing to register what it was he was seeing. Granted, this was the first time he’d ever seen this particular crop outside of a photograph.
    They stood looking out over acres and acres of infamous Afghan poppy plants.
    Coming to a stop, Kellan quietly asked Jonah, “Are you aware of what this is?”
    Jonah seemed to focus on a plant just a few feet from where they stood. “Is it what I think it is?”
    “Poppies,” Kellan replied. He should have recognized them sooner. Now that he looked, he could see the score marks where the farmer had let the sap ooze.
    “Stay close to me, Kel,” Jonah said tightly, his body going tense as he turned three-sixty. “He’s growing this for a local tribal leader who could show up at any time.”
    Kellan didn’t argue. He knew Jonah was right. “We probably shouldn’t separate ourselves from the rest of the Marines.”
    Together they walked back toward their Humvee, mixing among the Marines who stood watch and held the perimeter. Captain Miller was still talking to the farmer and it seemed a friendly, informative conversation. Kellan approached slowly, ready to be waved off by Miller if necessary.
    Instead, Miller gestured Kellan forward. He introduced them both to the old farmer, saying that Jonah and Kellan were honored guests, on their way to talk about a Marine who had died a hero.
    The translator went through the polite ritual greetings.
    “Wasim cultivates poppies at the request of a local tribal leader,” Captain Miller explained. “He would rather not, but it’s a crop that pays well enough for his family to live comfortably.”
    “Not to mention the fact that cooperating with the tribal leader allows him to live in relative peace and safety,” Kellan added.
    “It bothers Wasim that he is a source for something that makes so many American people ill, but he has to take care of his family,” Miller said. “The tribal leader might be able to force Wasim to cultivate the crop, but he hasn’t earned Wasim’s loyalty.”
    “He provides Marines with