I smile in response, silently shifting my M16 on my shoulder, and extend my own hand. “Hello,” I say, then slowly add, “You’re not supposed to be here.” The building looks perilous with its heavily battle-worn exterior, one side torn open so that nothing but mangled metal frames and shattered stone is exposed to the sun. It’s purposefully deceiving. No person in his right mind would work on the top floor of a building that is just begging to give its last breath. That insanity is our cover. It doesn’t occur to me that he saw me enter the building and chose to follow. I assume he is a lost worker; he’s wandered away from his group and armed guard.
He encases my hand in his, less like the handshake I was expecting and more like a shackle. My hand rises and falls in a quick attempt of civility. “You have to go back to your group,” I gently coax.
He steps up another stair, suddenly closer, and I balk at the invasion of my space. I attempt to step back and my boot bangs into the stair behind me, almost knocking me off-balance. “Give me a kiss,” he murmurs, trying to draw his face closer to mine.
He crushes my hand; his slightness is a lie. My fingers grind painfully together in his fist.
I am momentarily more shocked than scared. He is all bones, tied together with wind-whipped skin—I can’t find where his strength comes from. The pain in my hand intensifies as he attempts to jerk me closer. He’s bending my fingers at an awkward angle.
And just like that the old rage is back. Like a red flare I am bright and burning. I breathe out in relief.
I shove. I throw my full weight into it and I have the high ground. He smashes into the wall, gray dust raining down around us. He still twists my hand in his grip, black irises surrounded by white; I bare clenched teeth in response.
His grip slips and I have my hand again. I step back. Repetitive training has relieved me of the need for a fully functional right hand. I shoot left-handed anyway.
I swing the buttstock up from under my left arm; I palm the handguard and continue to swing upward, guiding with my right hand as I thrust the buttstock at his head. I miss his face. And I mean to hit his face.
I’m furious at my own clumsiness. Unsatisfied. Want tastes like blood and suppressed violence feels like pain.
I envision a shattered nose, broken cheekbones, and trails of sticky red blood. I chomp on the vision and want to spit out bones. But he had gotten one arm up and I only smash his shoulder. There is a startled yelp and he stares, one hand gripping his limply hanging arm. Then, like a mouse, he scuttles down the stairs, disappearing around the bend of the stairwell.
I hesitate, listening to him round the last of the stairs and leave the building. I choke on fury; my throat burns with an unexpressed need.
I stare down at my frozen hand, pry open the stiff fingers. My Iraqi silver-and-moonstone ring has buried itself into the flesh, and when I drag it off, the skin is engraved in deep-blue grooves.
My hands shake. I reach the sixth floor just as fury gives way to pride. I walk with a purpose, with the heavy gait of one who can defend herself. This time, at least, I got it right.
The room is brilliant from the Iraqi sun and the glassless windows let in the breeze, made more bearable from the shade. I strip off my gear, still favoring my bent hand. I instantly feel lighter, and I sit cross-legged on top of the old wooden desk. It’s only one of two pieces of furniture in the once grand room. It’s battered, the delicate wood and gold engravings shattered along most of the trim, but it’s sturdy. The torn blue couch is a far less reputable piece of furniture. It somehow appears seedy just sitting there against the wall, spilling stuffing from its ripped cushions, oozing a suspicious stench that no one can quite name. It doesn’t help that at one point I’d seen a three-inch black scorpion make its escape under the wooden legs. Now I consider the couch a no-man’s-land. Let the scorpions have it.
I stare at my hand, M16 balanced across my knees. I laugh. Who makes a pass at a girl with a 5.56 mm magazine-fed, gas-operated, air-cooled weapon on her shoulder?
Even so, when a roar rumbles through the room my heart jumps. I lunge to my feet, M16 swinging around, only to see Avery Langley in the doorway, arms held over his head as he attempts to make himself monstrous and loud.
“Jesus Christ, Langley!” I yell, pulse still racing. “You just scared the shit out of me!” I collapse back on the desk in relief. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Avery Langley sweeps into the room with his usual cocksure gait, lacking Kevlar or flak vest, because he doesn’t care much for rules and regulations. “What up, Dostie,” he says, waving, eyes crinkled in humor.
I gesture grandly at the broken building, its walls stripped of marble, the gold yanked from the frames and light switches. The crystal chandelier somehow survived, reflecting little rainbows across the decimated hall. “Same old, same old. What are you doing up here?”
But he shrugs, his smile full of secrets. He sits with me on the desk, body pressed right up next to me and resting his head against my shoulder, presenting his best puppy-eyed stare. Avery is a shameless flirt, though he does it more out of good humor and habit rather than actual want. He’s not interested in me. I know that and so does Avery. Andres still hates him for it, but Andres always has been a little possessive.
“Oh my God, you smell.” I shove him with my elbow, trying to bury my nose into my other shoulder. Some of the men have a competition going on to see who can go the longest without washing his uniform or body, and usually those who participate are preceded by a stench that makes the eyes water. His uniform bears the typical white salt stains, stiff, unyielding, and smelling all kinds of horrid. “Go away,” I tease and he sits up, throwing his cap back. It dangles on the string around his neck.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, head half-cocked. “You look fucking pissed.”
I shrug. “Nothing. You just startled me, is all. Not a smart thing to do around people with guns, by the way.”
He snorts. “I’ve seen you shoot. The safest place to be is you aiming for me.”
“Fuck you, I shoot just fine,” I laugh. “I shoot better than you!” Which may or may not be true, I can’t remember how well he did at the range.
The door slides open from our small, hidden office and Brooks emerges, all lightly flushed cheeks and brightly lit eyes. “Hey,” she says to Avery, a grin crawling across her face.
Avery ushers Brooks out of the hall as I take over the shift, sliding open the thin door that leads into the makeshift Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. It’s a small room, carefully secreted away in one corner of the floor, hidden behind a boring slab of a wooden door and jam-packed with classified equipment. The AC blasts the room with freezing air, and the sharp temperature shift is physically uncomfortable. Female King heaves on her flak vest, smoothing the Velcro down with one hand. Her Kevlar dangles in the other, leaving her blond, slicked-back hair to gleam in the white fluorescent light.
“Who’s coming to relieve you?” I ask as I throw my gear onto one of the rickety spare chairs, gleefully stripping off my own flak vest. Cold air slithers beneath my brown undershirt and makes me shiver.
She shrugs. “Sergeant Lee, I think.”
That’s good. I work well with him. King can’t leave until he arrives, though, so she leans against the wall, soaking up the last of the AC.
“Would you believe some Iraqi kid just tried to kiss me in the hall?” I toss the question out to her casually, snorting with a short laugh.
“What?” King freezes, green eyes suddenly intense. “Are you being serious right now?”
I hold up my hand, the mark from the ring still engraved in my skin. “Yeah, look. He fucking crushed my hand.” I extend the fingers until they’re five widely spread points. Everything seems to be working just fine.
She stares, aghast. “Dostie, you have to report that.”
I pause by my equipment, tilting my head, trying to read her face. She actually means it. “I’m not reporting that,” I snap, far more sh
arply than I intend to.
“What did you—what even happened?” She leaves her gear at her feet, pale brow angling down over dark eyes.
I shrug, but a feeling of unease is starting to crawl across my shoulders. “It was nothing. He grabbed my hand and tried to kiss me. I threw him into the wall and buttstroked him. I hit his shoulder.”
Something in my story alarms her, but I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. “You seriously have to tell someone about this.”
“No.” My voice rises in annoyance. We stare at each other in mutual perplexity. I can’t grasp why she’s so upset, she can’t understand why I’m not. The confusion saturates the small space. “They’re not going to do anything about it.” I point out the obvious. “They’re not going to care. They don’t give a shit about that kind of stuff.”
She doesn’t believe me that no one will listen. I find the trust in her expression offensive. I can’t be that girl again. Once reported, shame on them. Twice reported, shame on me. An anxiety seizes me, clutches my throat, and my lips peel back. “Don’t say anything.”
“You have to tell someone—”
“No, I don’t, and I’m not. It’s not a big deal.” It wasn’t at all. That she doesn’t grasp that infuriates me. I will not be the girl who reports twice.
I am heavy with rage, muscles rigid with the weight of it. I regret opening my mouth. I despise this incessant need to speak, to be heard.
When I turn my back to her, she leaves to wait for Sergeant Lee outside. I fiddle uselessly with _____ and _____ on the _____. I _____ in frustration, pulling on my _____ and thrusting my feet onto the desk. I distract myself with the empty _____ of _____, fingers perched on keys as I lose myself to the familiar _____. Hours slip by. Plywood covers the windows, cracks clotted with layers of green tape, sealing out the sun. I do not exist in here. Occasionally, I hear Sergeant Lee at the desk outside, guarding our boring little door, kicking loose bits of marble across the floor.
The door shudders as it opens and I thrust the book I wasn’t really reading under the table, letting it slide down my leg. I cover it with one boot, casually glancing up. Sergeant Daniels pulls the door closed behind him. He is too big for the space. He stares at me for a moment, and a cold sweat rolls down my body. I look down at my work, as if a _____ is going to abruptly appear and I will see his chest fill with pride and approval.
Except I have nothing.
I shift in the chair and the silence digs into me. I grind teeth into my tongue to keep from opening my mouth. I taste metal.
He sits, legs spread in a flawless pose of casual ease. “I heard an Iraqi grabbed you while you were coming to work.”
Oh fuck. I want to strangle King. That she means well doesn’t lessen my anger. “It wasn’t a big deal. I took care of it.”
Sergeant Daniels’s jaw tightens. He leans back in the chair, rifle balanced across his knees. The Airborne Rangers patch is stark on his arm and my eyes trace the lines of the screaming eagle. He’s angry because I said something to King. No. He’s angry because I didn’t report it to him. No. He’s angry it happened at all. That he has to deal with it—no, that he has to deal with me. I can’t place the reason for the way he glares over my shoulder, the way his shoulders have risen in tension. Emotion stings my eyes and makes me hunch forward, pulling inward, away.
He turns toward me and even in the dull light I can see his hazel eyes widen. “You look like I’m going to hit you,” he remarks.
I wish he would. Hit me and believe me. Beat me and be convinced. If only a little pain would make them all just believe me a little more, what a willing trade I’d make.
I have no response and he gives the reasons for why I should’ve come to him, why I should’ve reported some kid making a poorly attempted pass, why I should’ve told them about how I efficiently handled the issue. I can’t recall his words, just the worry that writhes in my stomach, letting me know I’m branded again, marked, I can see it there across my face, perhaps I should write it on my Kevlar: PROBLEM CHILD—YOU’RE THE REASON WOMEN SHOULDN’T BE HERE.
And when he leaves I don’t cry because this isn’t something I should cry about.
* * *
I assume this will be all. It is all so insignificant, so petty, they baffle me with their sudden interest and worry.
Three days pass and then First Sergeant Bell is standing by my room. Not directly in, but in front, as if guarding the small door. He smiles when he sees me, which I don’t remember him ever doing much of when we were back at Fort Polk so I watch him suspiciously from my cot. His big grin causes the skin beneath his chin to jiggle and his eyes to disappear beneath the heavy weight of his white brow. His uniform hangs uncomfortably on his frame, the cuffs too short, exposing thick white wrists with pale-blue lines.
“I wanted to be the one to tell you we’re taking care of the issue,” he beams, as if I should be impressed. He gestures me out of the room.
“What issue, First Sergeant?” There are too many to list; I rank them in my mind, our lists disproportionally imbalanced.
“We just need you to point out the Iraqi who grabbed you and it’ll be all taken care of.”
My arms cross over my chest, an empty hug. “I told Sergeant Daniels that it wasn’t anything major.” Why are they making such a big deal out of this? My exasperation triples.
He claps me on the back, twice, chest puffed up. “This is important. You just have to point him out.”
I want to roll my eyes and tell him there’s no way I can find one guy among the nearly hundred Iraqi contract workers. I nod accordingly, pacify, pacify, yes-Sergeant, yes-Sergeant, can I go back to my cot yet?
“So come with me.” He waves one comically oversize hand.
“What, now?” I blink dumbly. “First Sergeant,” I add hastily.
“Yes, come on.” It’s an order.
The wind burns again. He leads me behind the company building, my head bowed against the heat, scorching sand tearing the inside of my throat. I see Sergeant Daniels first; he doesn’t smile but acknowledges me. I balk at the Sergeant Major; the rank on his collar blinds his features and I shy to the side. Captain Wells stands to the other side, looking bored. He doesn’t glance at me.
That beautiful rage snaps to attention and burns in my chest, threatening to spill over, and I wonder, really wonder, if he ever fears me, that I might actually do it, a slip of the finger on a little piece of metal, carefully timed, carefully aimed.
But he knows I don’t have the balls.
The Sergeant Major, Sergeant Daniels, First Sergeant Bell, Captain Wells: They wait on me, duties paused, appointments held, heads turned to watch me, and I wonder if they believe me. I hate that they’re there, staring at the newly resurrected “victim” label where my face should be. The Sergeant Major? Really? I remember trying to get an appointment with him back in America, scheduling a meeting, only to find it changed, shifted at the last moment and First Sergeant Bell filling in for a Sergeant Major who didn’t have the time or the inclination to listen to a girl’s tears.
And then I see them. They’re lined up in some perverted version of a military formation, standing in rank and file, every head swiveling at my approach. They stare with eyes like holes in wind-torn faces.
I feel my jaw slide open, my knees lock, cold chills battle the heat. They wait, watching, somehow defeated already. I want to run away.
“So who was it?” Sergeant Bell asks, so calm despite the trails of sweat that slide down his cheeks.
A wild kind of horror grips me as I stand at the front of the formation of nationals, suddenly unsure I can even pick out the kid. I glance up at Sergeant Bell, lean a little closer, whispering a little softer, “What if I can’t pick him out?” It was dark in the hall and there isn’t much that’s distinctive between the younger ones, all about the same frame, similar clothing, and I hate myself for not knowing the difference between one pair of eyes and another.
“It doesn’t really matter,” Sergeant B
ell responds. He is wholly unworried. “It’s more to make an example anyway. In their culture, the father protects the daughter. But they look at the Army women and see no father and think you have no one protecting you. So we have to let them know the Army is your father.”
I consider patricide.
He waves one hand toward the group. “So just pick who you think it is and don’t worry about it. It’ll be a good example.” I’m suddenly transported back to that room, before Iraq but after rape, when Sergeant Bell had turned to stare at my mother and asked, “Does she really want to ruin this guy’s life?” The juxtaposition breaks me.
“What will happen to him?” I ask as I scan the crowd for anything distinguishing, anything I can remember.
He shrugs. “Nothing really. He’ll get fired and have to leave the camp. But it’s really to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. They need to understand that we won’t allow it.”
Lies. Lies made further disturbing when they all nod, heads on swivels, yes, don’t you know, we’ll protect you. See, we’re protecting you!
One boy glances at me frantically, up then down to his feet, up again, down, mixed with terror and shame, a wild, flittering stare, and he reeks the most of guilt. He can’t be over eighteen.
I can’t tell if it’s his face or his apparent guilt that convinces me. “I think that’s him,” I say, trying to convey my uncertainty, but they couldn’t care less. They are here to make a point. Let’s not let facts get in the way.
Two soldiers flank him, and the boy’s eyes widen, his gaze stays glued to the ground, but he doesn’t protest, he doesn’t speak. He walks between the much taller soldiers, compliant, defeated between their shadows, and no one looks at me now. I am contagious. The formation of Iraqis stares at the ground; the soldiers up front have better things to look at.
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