A Small Sacrifice by Lee Gimenez

The day I turned 18, I went to the enlistment office and signed up. Growing up, every time I looked at the flag, I was proud and knew I wanted to serve. My father was military and so were my older brothers.

My first day in, I was issued Army fatigues, had an ID chip implanted in my arm and told to report to the C-Center. The Center was a typical military building, concrete block painted dark green.

“Steve Nichols, reporting,” I said to the sergeant behind the desk.

She looked up and scanned my arm. “Good morning, soldier. Welcome to the Army. Have a seat. I’ll call you when the doctors are ready for you.”

For the next three months, we were stationed at Fort Marshall, home of the 85th Airborne Division. We went through Basic Training, then Airborne school. Finally, we shipped out to the war, ready and eager.

Today is August 3, a Tuesday. I logged on to Theatre program and closed the door to the computer cubicle. We’re located in the Safe Zone, an underground bunker in Kandahar. The walls of the cubicle are covered with video screens I controlled from my computer. The satellite images are so good now I could read name tags on soldier’s uniforms. I zoomed in on my squad, located near a cluster of buildings in a desert area east of Kamal Khan. Their mission is to observe and stop enemy troop movement. This morning, there’s been no activity.

Suddenly, on the horizon, two Iranian helicopter gunships appeared, approaching fast.

“Choppers coming at you,” I yelled into the microphone.

“See ‘em,” Steve5 yelled back. He grabbed a shoulder fired rocket launcher and aimed at the gunship.

The helicopters were close now, flying low, the growl of their jet engines deafening. They blasted their machine guns, spraying armor piercing bullets into the buildings and desert. The bullets thudded all around, kicking up gravel and dirt, tearing through the concrete walls.

I saw Steve’s rocket shoot up to the lead gunship, hitting it squarely. There’s a huge roar from the explosion overhead, the noise and heat from the blast registering on my monitors. The chopper dropped like a rock, crashing to the desert in a tangled mess of metal and fire. The second one thundered by, turning for a second strafing run.

I called for air support, but it’ll take our jets a few minutes to reach the squad’s position. I prayed they’d all make it out alive.

That night I was in the mess hall in the Safe Zone, having dinner. It was a very bad day. Two of my squad were killed, Steve3 and Steve7.

My platoon leader, Lieutenant Harris, came over and sat down across from me. “Sorry for your loss, Steve,” he said. “Were these your first?”

“Yes sir, they were.”

He nodded, a concerned look on his face. “I know they were clones, but believe me, I know how you feel. They’re still a part of you, they’re still you.”

Harris got up. “Don’t forget to report to the C-Center tomorrow morning. We need to be fully staffed as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I looked at my left hand, at the missing finger. The doctors used it to make my first ten clones; unlike for animal cloning, human cloning required larger pieces than single cells. I wondered what part of me they’ll use next.

I looked around the mess hall, at some of the veteran soldiers, the ones who’ve done three and four tours over here. They’re easy to spot. They’ve had whole hands and even arms amputated.

But it’s worth it. It’s a small sacrifice to make.