Khost

by Vincent Hobbes

  “You send out roaming patrols though, right?” the man asked. He was relaxed, not in a hurry by any means. His laid-back demeanor was confusing; it seemed he didn’t care that he was in the most dangerous place in the world at the moment. It was as if he were on vacation, or relaxing at home watching a ball game.

  “We do, but doesn’t matter much,” the Sergeant answered.

  “Why’s that?”

  “The Major.”

  “Yeah, Major Fucktard,” one of the Privates exclaimed.

  The Sergeant shot him a glare, turning back to the man and adding, “He keeps our patrols close, and on the same schedule every day. So what the Taliban does is wait until our patrol finishes its route. Then they come out, pop off a few rounds, maybe an RPG or two, and take to the hills. They do it quick and are gone before we can mobilize.”

  “You don’t have a fast action team?” the man asked.

  “We’re it, but first we have to get permission. We ask the Major, he asks General Kline. If the order is given to go looking, it’s way too late.”

  The man could sense the frustration, the disdain in the Sergeant’s voice. “That makes no sense,” he stated.

  “I’m of no opinion,” the Sergeant answered.

  “Yeah, but I am. You guys are Marines, correct?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, you should be out killing, not sitting here getting your combat-jack and playing games with permission. Shit, the Sergeant on duty should have that call, not the base commander,” the man said.

  “Don’t make a lick of sense,” the young Private said, speaking out of line once more. “Them ragheads can fucking shoot at us but we can’t kill many of them. Our job is just to keep them at bay is all.”

  The Sergeant turned again, glaring at the Private. The kid would have hell to pay later for speaking without permission.

  The stranger noticed this, saying to the Sergeant, “Ah, don’t hold it against the kid. He’s just as frustrated as you are, I’m sure. He’s a Marine, like you. Wants some action is all.”

  “I suppose,” the Sergeant muttered, his anger at the Private lessening.

  To further deflect the pressure, to help out the kid who only wanted to fight for his country, the man said, “This Major . . . Fucktard is his name? He the one holding you boys back?”

  “His name is Major Becker. He’s head of base security, among other things.”

  “Marine?”

  “Shit, I wish. He’s Army. Makes it even worse.”

  The man nodded, looking around, then saying, “Tell you what, maybe I can talk with him a bit. It be nice if you guys could extend your perimeter a bit, maybe change up the patrols?”

  “Ha!” the Sergeant bellowed. He couldn’t help himself. “I don’t think he’d listen, and I don’t think you want to run into him right now. He’s been in a bit of a mood lately, and like I said, the way you’re dressed might piss him off.”

  “Oh, I see,” the man said, acting impressed, though he was far from it. “He must be a hard-ass. Let me guess, he’s the resident Rambo of the place, right?”

  “Likes to think he is. He’s a dick, that’s for sure. Army ordering Marines, never thought that’d happen,” the Sergeant replied.

  “Well, I’ll give it a shot anyway. Since you boys been so polite and all. And if he won’t hear out my suggestion, perhaps his boss will.”

  “General Kline is his boss and I can tell you he won’t go for it either. Unless you’re the President of the United States in disguise, he won’t hear it.”

  “Political around here, eh?” the man questioned.

  “Lately, yes. Lots of activity, like I said. The big brass, private contractors and civilians. The works. Polo here says he thought he saw a Congressman, though I call bullshit.”

  “I did,” the Private who had interrupted earlier defended. “Well, pretty sure.”

  “That’s it,” the man said, understanding. “Your base commander is afraid of embarrassment. Afraid of hitting back, so he’s playing it safe.”

  “I won’t comment on that,” the sergeant said. “It’s just the rules, and we play by them,” he said, though he completely agreed. He still didn’t know exactly whom this stranger was. “I seriously doubt General Kline will listen to anyone about the matter, but you’re welcome to suggest it to him. We’d love the action. Might sleep better if we could keep them fuckers more than a thousand meters from the base.”

  The man looked at the sergeant, his face suddenly serious, his eyes telling the same tale. “I’ll have you guys running wider patrols within twenty-four hours.”

  “You must be important if you have that sort of pull. Even the Spec Ops guys tried for us. Kline refused.”

  “Oh, I have a bit of pull. Twenty-four hours. And guys . . . do me a favor, will ya? When you do go out, hit ’em fucking fast and hard and make it hurt. Do it ’cause you guys are Marines.”

  The sergeant grinned, “Hoorah!” He studied the man, still not placing him. He wasn’t dressed in military attire, nor normal civilian clothes. Even the Operators dressed regional, but this man stuck out. But there was something about him the Sergeant liked. His casual attitude, his genuine friendly nature. Finally, as he could tell the man was about to move along, he decided to ask, “You Marine Corps?” he asked, hopeful.

  “No, I’m a mechanic. I’m here to get some of those engines spruced up. The sand does numbers on them. Now boys, I gotta run. Have fun,” the man said with a grin as he passed.

  “Huh?” the Marine paused, then added, “Thought you weren’t any good with engines.”

  The man turned back, a wide grin. “Pretty good at plumbing, too. Keep up the good work, Sarge,” he said.

  “I . . . I will. It was nice to meet you . . .” he paused, holding the man’s name at the tip of his tongue. It had slipped his mind, something simple like Ted or Bill.”

  “Steve,” the man replied.

  “Ah, that’s right. Well, Steve, have a good day. And keep clear of the major,” the Sergeant reminded, “he’s been moody lately.”

  37

  “Morning, boys,” the man said, still smiling as he continued on to the base. He passed rows of trucks, tanks, entering the long lines of parked helicopters. A group of mechanics gathered outside one of the many hangers.

  “Um, can we help you?”

  “That’d be great! I’m looking for your command center. General Kline’s office? I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Um, yeah, we’ve heard of him,” one said, looking at the stranger with wide eyes, a surprised look on his grease covered face. The man’s appearance was baffling. “Go past the hangers there,” the young kid said. “But if I were you, I’d go around the side. That way.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Well, the Major’s office is in that left hanger. I’d skip it and hope he doesn’t see ya.”

  “Oh, the Major. That’s right, I’ve heard of him. Sounds like a nice guy.”

  A few of the mechanics chuckled. They were stunned at this man’s behavior, looking at him oddly. The same kid, no more than twenty years in age, replied, “Well, you might be too late. There’s the Major now, and he’s headed this way.”

  The man turned, seeing the Major in the distance. He gazed for a moment, then looked back to the huddle, seeing the apprehension on their faces. “Wonderful! I’ve been looking forward to meeting him. Hear he’s a nice fellow.” Then, the man extended his right hand toward the kid.

  It took a few moments, but then the kid gestured to his hands. They were filthy, caked in grease and sand. But the man had no complaint, keeping his hand extended.

  The kid smiled, reaching out and shaking the stranger’s hand, coating it with grease.

  “Nice to meet you guys. Name’s Michael Tomis. Keep up the great work,” the stranger said, still smiling as he turned sharp on his heels, AK-47 slung across his back, walking directly toward the approaching Major.

  38

  “What in the fuck are
you doing?” The Major stared as the man approached. He marched right up to the man, huffed his chest, taking deep breaths as if hyperventilating.

  “Just taking a stroll.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just walking, man. Admiring the base. What can I help you with?”

  “I . . .” the Major was momentarily at a loss for words.

  “Though I’m not sure if there’s much I can do to help you. You see, I just got here. But nice base. I like watching the planes take off,” the stranger said, grinning.

  “Now just who the fuck are you?” the Major demanded.

  “Name’s Joel. Not sure if I’ve met you yet, but heard great things. Heard you’re a real nice fellow.”

  “Now you listen to me,” the Major began. He was flustered, angry, a vein in his neck bulging. The man was a massive African American, shaved head, rippling muscles. His uniform was neatly pressed, his shoes shiny; the Major wore his uniform with great pride, and was appalled by this man’s appearance. He continued, “I’m Major Becker. I’m second in command here, and I’m also in charge of base security. Now give me your identification so I might report you.”

  The man dug in his pocket with his left hand, producing his ID, handing it over. He had an amused look on his face.

  The Major snatched the ID, glanced down, eyes back on this intruder. “Is something fucking funny to you? ’Cause where I stand, there’s absolutely nothing funny about this!” he barked.

  “I’m sorry, perhaps I heard you wrong . . . your name is Major Pecker?” the man asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Like the nine inches between my legs sorta thing?” he added.

  The Major was beside himself. He tensed up, controlling himself so not to mop the tarmac with this man’s face.

  “Becker!” the Major shouted. “Major Thomas Becker, and I’m second in command here.”

  “I think you said that.”

  “Well, you damn well better remember my name. When I’m done with you, you’ll never forget it.”

  “I’ll never forget someone whose last name is Pecker.”

  “Becker!” the Major screamed. “What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you?” His face was mean, his eyes glaring. He had the look of a soldier who had seen little action and needed to make up for it with a showcase of toughness.

  “I told you, name is Michael. Just taking a stroll through your base, Major Pecker.”

  “Dressed like a homeless bum?”

  “It’s the new thing. Some people, they just don’t understand fashion,” the man replied.

  “Carrying your rifle like that?”

  “Yup.”

  The Major stared at the man, a nasty look on his face. For a moment, the man felt the Major might have a heart attack and die at this very moment. He hadn’t seen anyone this angry in a long time.

  The Major began to reach out, to grab the man and give him an epic beating. But something stopped him. The man’s eyes were confident, a bit wild. Something about this stranger named Michael didn’t sit right with the Major. Instead, he stared back at the identification card. It was white, the size of a credit card. It had a strip on the back, an RFD chip embedded. On the front was the man’s picture, a security number, and nothing else. On the surface, the identification seemed normal. The Major had viewed many, especially these past three weeks. Problem was, this card had no name, no rank, no military branch or identifying marks that told him exactly who this man was. Under the security numbers, three words caught his eyes—

  Clearance Level: Zulu.

  The Major ignored it for the moment, looking back up, a grimace on his face.

  The stranger held up his hands, saying, “I know, I know . . . I look much younger in person.”

  “Excuse me?” the Major asked.

  “I said that picture makes me look older. Reminds me, anyone I can complain about that to? Shit, that’s right, you’re second in command. Think you can get me a new picture?”

  “You want me to . . . get you a new picture? Huh?”

  “That’d be nice. Ya know, to impress the ladies?”

  “You listen to me, and you listen closely. I don’t know who you are, but your attitude is close to getting you tossed into the brig. You sure this ID isn’t a fake? You sure I shouldn’t have you shot . . . maybe you’re Taliban,” the Major said, a wicked grin on his face.

  “Well, your MPs cleared me. They also tossed around the idea of shooting me, but again, I’m much too good-looking.”

  “You might have permission to enter this base, and you can be assured I’ll double check your status. But you come in here like this! Dressed like some California bum, carrying your rifle in an unsafe manner? You have questions to answer, and you better start talking!”

  “Major, perhaps you should settle down.”

  “Michael, or whatever the fuck your name is, you are now going to be placed under arrest!” the Major chimed.

  “It’s Jerry, and Major, before you make a big mistake, I suggest you take a better look at my ID,” the man suggested.

  The Major glanced back down, annoyed, unsure as to what he was looking for. Then, he saw it again. This time it made sense.

  Zulu Clearance.

  The Major’s expression changed, though he was still angered. “Let me guess, you’re either CIA or another Spec Op. As if we need more of you around here,” he said, sarcastically. “Fine, but that doesn’t matter. We still have rules here. Everyone obeys them, and everyone so far has followed them but you.”

  “First time for everything, I suppose.”

  “And the guards let you pass carrying your rifle that way?” the Major asked, grunting under his breath.

  The man shrugged his shoulders, saying, “What could they do? I have clearance. Now, Major, I’d suggest you also let me pass. I have business to attend to.”

  “That rifle hot?” the Major asked, ignoring him.

  “Only when I’m shooting it.”

  “An AK-47, eh? Something the Taliban would carry,” the Major said, still suggesting this man could be the enemy. At least enough to have him detained and questioned. Major Becker would enjoy that.

  “I really don’t care who you are. Even the President can’t show up with a loaded weapon.”

  “I’m not the President. Name’s Jairren, though we already went through that. Major, I suggest you relax a bit. Can’t be good for the ol’’ blood pressure. I understand your predicament, and I’m a fair guy. I’ll even help you out a bit.”

  “You’ll help me, eh?” The Major smiled curtly.

  “Well, as you can see, lots of people watching right now.” The man gestured back, and sure enough dozens of groups of mechanics, pilots, other personnel were watching. They were curious, as they’d all dealt with the Major’s wrath before. His constant lectures on rules and discipline—they’d heard it a million times. They always obeyed, but this man, he seemed to not care. They wondered how this stranger would fare.

  Without a doubt bets were quietly being made.

  “You see, they’re expecting an epic ass-chewing. So, you can pretend you’re yelling, and I’ll pretend to care. You have ten seconds . . . go!”

  “What the fuck! Listen, you better give me a reason why you’re carrying your weapon that way. Why it’s not a standard issue M-16, or M4.”

  “It’s more comfortable, and I like AKs better. Three . . . two . . . one. All right, Major, it’s been nice, but I do need to get moving,” the man said. He reached out his hand in a friendly gesture. “Major Pecker, name’s Jason, and it’s been a pleasure.”

  By force of habit alone, the Major reached his hand out. His shock, his lack of words, caused him to naturally take the man’s right hand. He shook the stranger’s hand, feeling his tight grip.

  Moments later, they unclasped. The Major looked down, seeing the black grease now covering his hand.

  “Oh, sorry about that,” the man apologized.

  “You must be either the cockiest guy alive, or the dumbe
st,” the Major replied. “I’m a Major, you’re a nobody. I answer only to General Kline, and once he finds out about this, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  39

  “Major, I tend to think I’m a pretty nice guy. And might I make a suggestion?”

  “What?” the Major said, rolling his eyes, wishing he had a handkerchief to wipe his greasy hand with.

  “It would be smart to let your patrols wander out a bit. They’d keep the Taliban jumpy if you let them do their jobs.”

  “Base security is my business, not yours,” the Major responded.

  “Just lending a helping hand. I’d hate for your boss, Kline you said? I’d hate for him to get his ass chewed for being a pussy.”

  “Excuse me? He’s a three star general and you just called him what?”

  “Well, his bosses would be most displeased if they thought he wasn’t willing to engage the enemy. Especially since they get in pretty close at times. Figure it’d make you look good if you suggested it. I think by tonight, you should have patrols pushing out. Maybe another thousand meters? That’d keep them on their toes,” the man suggested.

  “Now you look here! You may be important, you may not. Doesn’t matter in my book. You’re carrying a hot rifle over your shoulder and look like a beach bum! You’re on my base, and you’re giving me suggestions? Unbelievable,” Major Becker shook his head.

  “Well, I do like the beach,” was the reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get moving along. My gear will be arriving later today on the next transport. Be a good boy and make sure it appears in my quarters once it arrives.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “Oh, you will, Major. And you’ll let the Marines be Marines and give ’em some more distance and let them do some killing.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit. I’m going to report you!”

  “You do what you feel is necessary,” the man said, reaching out and snatching back his identification card from the Major. “You’re welcome to take up any issues with my commanding officer.”

  “And who exactly is that?”