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itself looked unreal, like a puzzle piece. He read how the population was mostly Pashtun; how the average citizen made the equivalent of $1,000 a year; that Kabul, the capital, was also the largest city; and that there were ongoing threats to assassinate U.S. citizens. He could imagine the risk to marines. The time difference between Kabul and San Francisco was 12.5 hours, with San Francisco behind. His brother might as well be on the moon; Jack would have preferred it.
    Driving home, he found a brochure that William the recruiter had left behind that had been underlined and annotated in what he realized was Charlie’s hand. He read the first paragraph:
    â€œThe Middle East is in the vanguard of the War on Terror, and the Marines support this effort with a number of operations. Those deployed in the region regularly provide security services or go into combat, but they may also work as instructors, trainers, protectors, and mentors. In Afghanistan, troops are involved in mentoring and training the country’s national army. They may also be involved in combat with insurgent forces.”
    Charlie had underlined the words instructors, trainers, protectors, and mentors. That’s me , he wrote. But Jack focused on the word combat .
    Each morning he studied the casualty list in the newspaper with his heart in his throat. Yet even as he exhaled with relief after scanning the list of names, he knew that for someone, somewhere, a name on this list would become the heartache of a lifetime, signifying the loss of a precious someone—father or daughter, son or wife—who could never be replaced.

CHAPTER 4
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    Charlie sat on patrol duty at five o’clock on a broiling Saturday evening, the sun still beating down on his back like a white-hot hand. He was cradling a heavy, futuristic rifle that had radio-controlled “smart” bullets designed to explode on contact with targets far out of conventional range. There weren’t enough of these to go around, and all the soldiers wanted one, but Charlie was half afraid to use it, anxious that it might go off in his face. He was also smoking a cigarette—a habit that he’d picked up within days of deployment.
    After basic training, he’d been transported to Wardak province, near Kabul—one of the most dangerous regions in the country. Rumor had it that this was where most newcomers were sent, after the area had taken its toll on more seasoned veterans. Lately there’d been an increase in convoys being ambushed and government officials being killed.
    Charlie had witnessed one weary platoon pulling out as his moved in. He’d never beheld such grizzled faces on young men before. Sunburned, their beards sprinkled with what looked like salt, their eyes beyond weary.
    â€œThat’ll be us,” said his new friend Ernesto, smoking beside him.
    â€œWe’ll be lucky if that is us.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The answer was so obvious that he didn’t bother to say it.
    Ernesto was the kind of friend he probably wouldn’t have had back in the States. Hispanic, a staunch Catholic, and already a father of two at 25, Ernesto worked at a chicken plant in southern Missouri and was the most important person in Charlie’s immediate world. Ernesto already knew the ropes, so he kept an eye on Charlie as they scrambled up the mountainous terrain together. His new friend had even given Charlie a Saint Christopher medal. Charlie didn’t know what it signified exactly, but he was grateful for it and wore it always.
    At night, on patrols like this one, Ernesto talked about his family, especially his wife.
    â€œI don’t know if she’ll wait for me if I’m gone much longer,” he told Charlie, who was shocked, though he tried to hide it.
    â€œBut why not? And what about the kids?”
    â€œShe’s hot, man. You saw her picture. She could find someone else to look after the kids. She probably don’t