Sirhiy Nigoyan quietly checked over his equipment—an old beaten up Canon camera and its accompanying lenses. They’d served him well so far throughout this conflict. Around him the other journalists were finding their own ways to cope with the wait. Their long journey by helicopter was nearing its end.
The dull throb of the blades of the helicopter beat a steady pulse, while underfoot the green fields of the lush Maidan valley swam in the hot summer sun. A river wound its way down from the foothills of the Yanuychk mountains to pool within the valley in a small lake.
Firebase Kearney sprawled along the lakeside, a small village of prefab barracks and hangars barricaded by thick HESCO walls and sandbagged towers. The helipad was a thin strip of concrete right against the beachside; an Apache lay silent on the far right of it and the burns of their jets marked the pad. A small party was waiting for their helicopter, a band of doctors huddled around cots of wounded soldiers.
The helicopter came down in a whirlwind of sand, blasting clean the strip as it touched down.
An airman running under the still spinning blades pulled open the door of the helicopter, letting them exit with their heads down to shuffle away from the strip. A party of soldiers stood behind a smart looking officer to greet them before a pool of jeeps.
“Gentlemen, welcome to Candyland. I’m Second Lieutenant Jack Restrepo. This is my platoon with me from the 18th Virginian CAB (Combined Arms Battalion).” The officer was young, just past 25 by Sirhiy’s estimation. The officer continued speaking. “You’ll be tasked to different platoons within my regiment over the next three months. I hope you’ll get the chance to see the good work we’re doing here.”
The journalists staggered over to the jeeps, escaping into their shade from the punishing sun. The journey from the helipad was short, the jeeps bounding over the grass to slide into a large hangar. They came to a stop next to a trio of tanks, all of them stripped down, a band of engineers working them over. Beside them a wild pack of men hooted away as a pair of stripped-down men whaled away at each other. The journalists were quickly taken off to their quarters, a whole barracks given over to them.
Welcome to Candyland. Sirhiy chuckled ironically to himself at the name, such an innocent name for the most blood-soaked corner of this war. He squared away his stuff and headed for the door. His post was with the second platoon of Delta Company. Time to see who they were.
Three hundred and sixty days to go.
