Chapter 2 - The Road Nobody Was Supposed to Take
Six years earlier, the rain had started before sunset.
By nine that night, the emergency operations center at our training site in central Kansas was receiving calls about flooded roads, washed-out culverts, and stranded drivers.
Our brigade had been participating in a field exercise.
I was a captain then, assigned to logistics coordination.
Brody was a newly commissioned lieutenant attached temporarily to a support element for the exercise.
He had been an officer for less than a year.
I had been in the Army long enough to know that confidence could be dangerous when it arrived before judgment.
Brody had confidence to spare.
He also had a habit of treating my advice like a personal insult.
That evening, he was responsible for moving a small team and equipment back toward the main training area.
His assigned route had already been approved.
It was longer than the county road running alongside Miller Creek.
But the approved route crossed higher ground.
The county road crossed a low concrete bridge.
At 9:17 p.m., our operations center received notice that the bridge was closed because water had begun washing across its surface.
The restriction was passed to every affected unit.
I knew because I was sitting three chairs away from the radio operator who transmitted it.
At 9:42, Brody's vehicle reported that it was still twenty minutes from the main gate.
I remember looking at the map.
Something didn't feel right.
They should have been farther along by then.
I called his radio.
"Ruddock, this is Lennox. Confirm your route."
Static answered me.
Then Brody's voice.
"Taking the shortcut past Miller Creek."
I stared at the radio.
"Negative. That crossing is closed. Turn around."
"It's barely raining out here."
"Brody, listen to me. The crossing is under restriction."
"We can see the road."
"That doesn't mean it's safe."
He laughed.
I can still hear that laugh.
The sound of a young man who thought being wrong was something that happened to other people.
"Relax, Erin. We're almost through."
"Lieutenant Ruddock, that is an order."
For a moment, there was nothing but static.
Then he said, "Copy."
The transmission ended.
I expected him to turn around.
I needed him to turn around.
Three minutes later, a distress call came through on another frequency.
It wasn't Brody.
It was Sergeant Dwayne Tillman.
His voice was strained.
"We're in the creek. Vehicle's going over. We need help now."
Behind him, someone was shouting.
Then the radio cut out.
I remember standing so quickly my chair fell backward.
The operations sergeant looked at me.
"Captain?"
I pointed toward the map.
"Miller Creek. Get emergency services moving. Now."
The next twenty minutes blurred.
Military police notified local responders.
A rescue team began moving toward the site.
Another storm cell crossed the area.
The rain grew heavier.
Then someone said the road to the bridge was blocked by fallen trees.
I looked at the map again.
There was another way to reach the creek.
A maintenance track leading to the western bank.
It wasn't suitable for a rescue truck.
But a smaller vehicle might get through.
I asked for permission to take a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle to the access point and assess the situation.
The duty officer authorized reconnaissance and told me not to enter the water.
That last part matters.
Because what I did next was not something anyone had ordered me to do.
By the time we reached the creek, it was nearly eleven.
The water had risen above the bridge rails.
There were branches, pieces of fencing, and entire sections of wooden decking spinning through the current.
I stepped out of the vehicle.
Somewhere downstream, a man was screaming.
"Help!"
My driver, Specialist Nolan Pierce, grabbed a flashlight.
We followed the sound.
Then the beam caught a pair of headlights beneath the surface.
A military truck had been swept off the roadway and pinned against the remains of an old concrete support.
It was leaning onto its side.
Three men were visible.
Dwayne Tillman was clinging to a tree.
Specialist Aaron Mercer was trapped against the truck's damaged cargo frame.
Brody was in the water on the downstream side, holding a broken length of railing.
I couldn't see Corporal Daniel Price.
But I could hear him.
His voice was coming from somewhere beneath the truck.
"Please!"
Pierce reached for the radio.
I grabbed the rescue rope from the vehicle's emergency equipment.
"Captain, don't."
I tied it around my waist.
"Keep the line clear."
"Ma'am, we'll lose you."
I looked toward the river.
Dwayne had begun slipping.
There are moments in your life when the future becomes very small.
Not because you aren't afraid.
Because there isn't time to consider what fear means.
I stepped into the water.
The current knocked me sideways before I had taken three steps.
Pierce shouted my name.
I grabbed a submerged branch.
Pulled myself forward.
And kept moving.
What followed lasted less than an hour.
But it became six years of silence.
I reached Dwayne first.
He had injured his shoulder and couldn't hold on much longer.
I managed to get a rescue sling around him.
Pierce and another soldier who had reached the bank helped pull him toward safety.
Dwayne went under once.
For one terrible second, the river swallowed his face.
Then the rope tightened.
He came up coughing.
We got him onto the bank.
I should have stayed there.
Instead, I went back.
Aaron Mercer was losing consciousness.
He was wedged against metal, with the current pushing against his chest.
I reached him.
Cut a section of loose webbing away.
And fought to get his weight off the truck.
By the time the soldiers onshore hauled him in, I was shivering so badly I could hardly untie the sling.
Someone shouted that local rescue crews were getting closer.
Then I heard Brody.
"Erin!"
He had lost his grip on the railing.
He was sliding downstream.
I went in a third time.
And that was when everything changed.
May you like
Because when I reached my stepbrother, he wasn't asking me to save him.
He was begging me not to let our father find out what he had done.
