Time of Attack Read Online Free

home. They shouldn’t talk about it, but by now, it was national news.
    “Good for you,” the barber said. “You should be home tomorrow night.”
    “Takes a bit longer than that.” Bedford chuckled. Aina had never bothered him with such small talk.
    “Still, you are going,” the woman said. In her exuberance, she nicked him with her scissors.
    He brought a hand to his ear and came back with a drop of blood.
    “Please forgive me,” the girl said, eyes down, glistening with tears. “It is nothing but a tiny scratch, I assure you.”
    Sergeant Bedford took a deep breath, biting his tongue. But, if he was anything, he was a nice guy. “Patient to a fault,” his last performance rating had said. He just wanted to get home in one piece and see his wife before some overzealous barber cut his head off.
    “It’s all right,” he said. “A little scratch won’t kill me.”
     
     
    “It is done,” Ali said, pressing the cell phone to his ear. A fierce wind blew down from the Hindu Kush, whipping the black beard across his face and pressing loose robes against his body.
    “Excellent,” Ranjhani said. “I will alert the others.”
     
     
    Eight days later
    Sunday, 2:10 PM
    Kanab, Utah
    It took two days from the time they left Bagram for the members of Bedford’s U.S. Army Reserve Civil Affairs 405th Battalion to plant their boots back on U.S. soil in Fort Dix, New Jersey—where they spent the better part of a week filling out paperwork and talking to shrinks. Military brass conducted mandatory training to assist returning war-fighters in their demobilization and reentry into civilian life—even going so far as to give a class on remembering to kiss their wife before trying for any other “end state.”
    First Sergeant Bedford and members of his reserve unit made it out at the head of their group and boarded a military hop to Nellis Air Force Base outside Las Vegas late Saturday evening—nearly a week after they’d left Afghanistan.
    Two weeks before they returned to the United States, Sergeant R. J. Howard’s wife had told him during a pouty Skype session that she’d decided to split the sheets in favor of a fellow professor at Southern Utah State. The young sergeant had bought a brand-new Ford F250 on the Internet that same night in an effort to salve his wounds.
    Understandably, Howard was in no great rush to get back to Cedar City and decided to stop off and visit a sister in Kanab. Bedford hitched a ride with him.
    Both men were feeling achy by the time they picked up the truck at the dealership in Las Vegas early Sunday morning but chalked it up to jet lag and deployment fatigue.
    Seven days after his C-130 had gone wheels-up from the hellhole of Afghanistan, Rick Bedford found himself standing on the familiar concrete front porch of his modest red brick house—the thing that contained all he’d been missing and fighting for over the last year. His throat hurt and his butt was sore from endless hours of sitting, but he was home.
    Marta answered the door, blond hair loose around her shoulders. It was just the way he liked it, but after a year’s separation, he wouldn’t have cared if she wore a Mohawk. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
    Her neck flushed red over the collar of a white blouse when she saw him. Her jeans were tight, oh boy were they tight. Red lips parted and hung there a moment before she spoke.
    “I thought you weren’t coming home for another day . . .” She fanned her face with an open hand in a futile attempt to keep from crying. “The girls went to Kendra’s after church. They’re doing homework over there.”
    “Well, you know I miss them,” Bedford said, “but it’s not such a bad thing for us to have the house to ourselves right now.” He let his daypack and heavy canvas duffel fall to the porch. The change in weight made him sway on his feet. For a moment, he thought he might pass out. It was to be expected, he supposed, after being awake for so