“I can’t drive without troops, Sergeant,” the captain said. “Most of my company is still sitting on the deck ofEisenhower. ”
The captain and forward squad—dropped off without his company. Jersey, who had always imagined the Army would somehow seem smarter during war time, shook her head.
The heat in the Voodoo Lounge was brutal now, sweat pouring off her and Temple in buckets. She had seen him reach for a canteen before and drink—never taking his eye from the sight of the M-60—and she did the same now, pulling a few sips of water from a canteen, one eye down the rifle sight to the crowd in the distance, one eye on the ramp below her.
“Someone’s driving this shit off here, Sir,” she heard Arnold say, “and if it ain’t you, then it’s us.”
“Not that easy, Sergeant—” the captain said, but Jersey lost his next words in the storm of another chopper.
Everyone looked to the pier, expecting the captain’s lost company to drop. But this Black Hawk didn’t drop and hover; it actually set down, at the half point of the hundred or so yards between the nose of the LSV and the flimsy gate holding back the ever-growing, laughing, clapping, singing population of Port-au-Prince. The rotor wash from the chopper was tremendous, sucking the breath from everyone on the bow, pushing the ship back so its lines went taut.
“What the fuck? Over,” Jersey heard from the bridge on the open channel of the ship’s radio.What the fuck? Over, indeed.
Six soldiers jumped from the open side door of the Black Hawk. Jersey noticed they had no nametags or unit insignia on their BDUs. And no helmets. They all wore mirrored Oakley sunglasses and carried short, stocky machine guns.Delta? Jersey thought.Or contractor bodyguards. They fanned in a circle perimeter, but didn’t seem particularly concerned—they sauntered. The bulge on the chain-link fence had deflated, the monster wind from the Black Hawk driving back the crowd.
Temple gave up on his assigned faces in his assigned window and scooted forward with Jersey. From around the warehouse on their port side three shiny black Chevy Suburbans came flying down the pier, screeching to a halt yards from the Black Hawk. Jersey was so startled she almost shot at them—her rifle instinctively up and over, pressure on the trigger. She barely stopped herself, adrenaline pumping so dangerously hard her head tingled, breath coming short, close to hyperventilating.
What the fuck? Over.
Looking down, saw she wasn’t the only one. The young 10th Mountain captain and SSG Arnold had both dropped to a knee, pistols up. Across the pier, three of the bodyguards had also dropped to a knee, weapons trained on the captain and Arnold.
Mannino’s voice came screaming out of the radio: “What in the Jesus fuck?!”
A tall soldier climbed out of the Black Hawk. Jersey recognized him. He was a three-star Army general, commander of XVIII Airborne Corps. He reached a hand up and helped out a civilian man in an open-throat shirt and sports coat and then a middle-aged woman in a blue suit and puffy hair.
“Isn’t that—” Temple started.
“Yeah,” Jersey finished. She wasn’t sure about the guy, but the woman was easy. She was the undersecretary of somethingoranother who’d been blabbing endlessly on TV the last day they’d been able to see network TV on the way down here.
The general gave a short laugh, patting the two civilians on the back, guiding them toward one of the three Suburbans. They turned as a group and faced the chain-link fence and waved at the crowd behind it, drawing a wild cheer from the mass of people, and smiling they all got in the middle Chevy. The bodyguards hopped on the running boards of the three SUVs as they started rolling down the pier, back from where they came around the warehouse, the Black Hawk lifting then gone.
Temple put a piece of gum in his mouth.
“I take it this means our AO is safe and secure,” he said, contemplatively.
Jersey heard Arnold’s voice down on the ramp: “Motherfuckers almost shot me!”
Gotta watch that friendly fire,Jersey thought.
“It’s a friendly neighborhood war,” she said. “All the friendly neighbors gonna come down to see.”
The radio crackled to life, catching Mannino up in the bridge bellowing a blue line of obscenity. Mac’s voice cut in over the skipper’s: “Harris, Riddle, Pelton, Scaboo—report to the bow, full gear and weapons.”
“I’m already on the bow,” Jersey muttered, but Mac meant the ramp and she knew it.
“Good luck, troop,” Temple said, punching her arm, then crawling back over to his M-60. “I’ll keep the senators and generals at bay while you’re gone.”
Jersey—Harris, her ID said, Sergeant Tory Harris on her ID card—slung her M-16 tight on her back, stuck a few clips in her ammo pouches, checked her pockets for cigarettes, slapped a hand down on Temple’s leg, then scurried down the ladder to the catwalk.
Chapter
2
Down in the well-deck, Jersey slammed into Scaboo as they rounded the front of a deuce-and-a-half truck into each other. Their helmets smacked for the second time this morning, Scaboo’s head jerking back. Jersey opened her mouth to yell, snapped it shut again. Eye to eye under helmet tips, two buck sergeants, Scaboo’s thick brows rising over a hooked nose, panting from his run, but for once not saying anything. Jersey blinked twice then put her arms out to spin him around.
“C’mon,” she said, pushing, then followed him at a jog up the well-deck, ducking between the small rumbling fleet of idling vehicles, Jersey wheezing on the thickening diesel exhaust.It’s all noise and bad air in the Voodoo Lounge, she thought. She remembered Temple pissing down upon this well-deck at dawn and made a mental note to keep clear of the vehicles on the port side near the bow.
Up forward Staff Sergeant Arnold was working with the young 10th Mountain captain—Hall, his name was—pushing soldiers into vehicles. Captain Hall turned as he was talking, his eyes meeting Jersey’s again as she came forward through the well-deck. His helmet was off, exposing a smooth-shaved head. He paused a second, midsentence, seeing her. The man was tense; it was writ on his face, lines cutting deeper on his smooth skin than age should have allowed. But he wasn’t yelling. He was throwing tight, controlled orders to his sergeant and squad. It was tense but the opposite of panic, and striking because someone as tense as this young captain, someone dropped off with less than a quarter of his company, might have reason to panic. Hall finished saying whatever he’d been saying to the soldier beside him, but his eyes remained on Jersey. His gaze was locked so strong, so unexpected, she stopped short. Then he broke it, turning away, lightly pushing one of his soldiers toward a Humvee. The kid almost tripped over Sergeant Arnold, on his knees looking under a truck. The bosun cursed, scaring the kid, then looked up and saw Jersey and Scaboo. He waved them over.
“Sergeant Scabliagni—you’re shotgun with Specialist Pelton. Sergeant Harris and Specialist Riddle, this other hummer’s yours, babies.”
“I’m driving,” Riddle barked. Then, “Where are we going?”
“Airport, loudmouth,” Arnold said. “You four just been drafted by the infantry. Gonna drive these two Humvees with Captain Hall’s mighty squad of ten to help get these vehicles to the airport. Queen of battle, prepare for glory.” He slipped a pair of leather work gloves from his cargo pocket, pulling them on to help T.K. and the deck crew break down the greasy chainlocks holding the vehicles. He was singing cadence now:“Infantry oh in-fan-tree! Queen o battle, suck on me.”
Jersey wiped her mouth, brain clicking away. There were so many issues here, so many potential problems with her leaving the ship. She opened her mouth to say something to Arnold, she didn’t know what, but something should be said, maybe—
A skinny dervish of a 10th Mountain colonel flew up the ramp, his skin an unhealthy pale, helmet in one hand and the other wagging at Jersey. She looked around quickly, unsure. The man was looking at her, but yelled at Captain Hall.
“Is that a female?” the colonel said, stopping in his tracks.
Riddle, standing right n
ext to Jersey, let out a huge one-syllable laugh, immediately realized it was a mistake, and clamped his jaw closed over the sound. Tory Harris did not laugh, or even smile. This was not the problem she’d wanted to talk to Sergeant Arnold about, but it was related.What am I, a fucking specimen? she thought, furious.
Arnold and Jersey both opened their mouths—answers ready to fly—but Hall, turning, cut them both off quick.
“That’s not a female, Colonel,” the young captain said evenly. “That’s a sergeant.” He let that hang in the air a moment, then added, “You have a replacement, Sir? Some other sergeant you’d rather have on the convoy?”
The colonel stared at Jersey and she stared the pale old man back, flat, forcing her mouth closed, jaw clenching.Two and two and fuck you, shitheel, she thought. The man’s eyes were so red she could see them from almost ten feet away. He was old, too old even for a colonel. He was a reservist, or recalled IRR. She waited for him to say something else. Sergeant Arnold, glaring at the old colonel, coughed loudly. Finally, the colonel broke eye contact and without another word moved out back toward the bow ramp, finding other problems.
“Jackass,” Hall said under his breath. He made eye contact with Jersey again, nodded, then turned toward the stern, walking aft between the vehicles.
“It’s all good, Tory,” Arnold said to her, checking to see if it was.
“It’s all right,” she said, watching Captain Hall’s back as he moved through his men. She turned and faced Sergeant Arnold, rolling her eyes. He put his gloved hand on the small of her back, leaning in to whisper.
“Was just the sexy way you carry yourself in all that Kevlar and woodland-green finery, reminded the poor man how long it been since he was laid.”
She snorted, shaking her head, and climbed in the Humvee with Riddle.
“Is that afeeemale ?” Riddle cackled.
“Can you believe it?” she muttered.
Riddle was cracking himself up as he got situated in the driver’s seat. “Is them titties I see? I ain’t seen me no titties in so long I forgot what they look like.”
“Fuck you, Riddle,” she said, laughing.
“Damn, Captain, reach over and see if that soldier is smuggling titties under that BDU top—”
“Will you please shut up,” she said, and he did, but only because his brain had jumped to a new subject. Next to them on the deck, T.K. and his crew were hustling to break down the chains on the last few vehicles. Riddle stuck his head out the side window.
“Can any of you fine gents tell me what this Army clusterfuck has to do with marlinespike seamanship?” he yelled.
That cracked Jersey up. From pissed to laughing in less than a minute, and laughing was a relief. She was glad to be riding with Riddle. He was loud and obnoxious but he was funny. And usually right. And it was good he was driving; she was by far the better shot.
A 10th Mountain soldier humped toward them, checking bumper numbers on the vehicles; one of Captain Hall’s forward squad. He was doubled over from the weight of the ruck on his back—almost bigger than he was. He wore the big-rimmed eyeglasses they give you in basic training.
“Lordy lord,” Riddle said, shaking his head. He put his head out the window again.
“Easy, Riddle,” Jersey said, but Riddle was already yelling.
“Hey there, Private!”
The kid looked up, squinting.
“Where’s your fucking company?”
“What?”
“Your company. The bitches that own all these trucks and hummers.”
The private looked through the windshield at Riddle and Jersey, eyes bugging under those thick glasses, then shrugged.
Riddle shook his head again, laughing, then thrust his jaw forward in Drill style.
“Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance, Private!” he yelled.
Jersey laughed out loud at this.
Captain Hall came from nowhere, his face filling the driver’s-side window inches from Riddle, his hands grabbing the frame of the door.
“Is this funny, Specialist?” he hissed into Riddle’s ear. “Is there something fucking funny going on in Haiti this morning?”
Riddle locked his eyes forward, mouth stammering an apology and asir-sir-sir, hands on the wheel of the Humvee. Jersey looked at Hall—ready to apologize—and saw he was yelling at Riddle but he wasn’t looking at Riddle; he was looking across the front seat of the vehicle at her. And he wasn’t just tense anymore, but somewhere beyond it. His face and bare skull wet, knuckles rigid tight around the door frame, he looked into Jersey’s eyes and she saw he was afraid. Not locked-up afraid. But the realization of reality skipping merrily away from any semblance of plan. He was still devoid of panic, too good a soldier for that, but panic and fear don’t go hand in hand. He was a new captain, twenty-six or twenty-seven, and he was yelling at Riddle but looking at her and in his eyes Jersey could see the ticking in his brain—bastard-big-green-Army-machine-fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition…how could EVERYTHING go wrong less than ten minutes in-country?—and Riddle was directly in this Captain Hall’s line of fire and took it head-on for another twenty seconds. Then the man was gone, tightening his LBE straps and making for the lead Humvee, pulling his pistol from its holster. The captain’s anxiety was as high as a buck private’s haircut, but his shit was dialed tight and it occurred to Jersey if you had to go down range maybe it was good to be led by an officer who knew that all wasn’t as it should be.
“Could be he had a point,” Riddle whispered, and it was the first and last time she ever heard Riddle whisper, or concede.
Jersey pat the top of his helmet once in sympathy, then pulled a dropper bottle of CLP from her cargo pocket and squirted some of the oil into the ejection door of her M-16. Eyes down, hands working the cool metal and plastic of her weapon, she thought of the captain—his face filling the window of the Humvee, and before on the well-deck his eyes finding hers; even on the bow, in Voodoo Lounge, looking down over the edge and seeing his face looking up.What’s that about? she thought.
The LSV’s foghorn sounded loud above them. Tory clucked her tongue twice, worked the bolt of the M-16 back and forth, locked it, then closed the ejection door. Looking up, she thumbed the safety off.
They drove clear of the LSV’s ramp five minutes later, sixth Humvee in line, and when they came to a stop thirty feet down the empty pier Jersey pushed her door open and put boot to concrete, just for a moment. Touching Haiti.
We’re here,she thought.
Two and two and front-line view / friendly fire burns black and blue.
Jersey and Scaboo had pinned their sergeant stripes that spring, after a month in the NCO academy at Fort Knox, drilling fourteen hours a day on all things sergeant. Now her brain couldn’t break free of cadences. Every other thought she had, especially when nervous, came out a cadence. It drove her nuts but she couldn’t break it.
Army green and jungle boot / is it war if they don’t shoot.
So far so good in the friendly fire department this morning. Two squads of Marines almost took each other out at the Cap-Haitien airport at dawn, but clear heads prevailed.Or dumb luck, Jersey thought—she’d come close to sending a bullet into the commanding general’s Chevy Suburban just twenty minutes before. She put her fingertips to the silver tape on her helmet top and sleeve, checking to make sure it was still there.
But if they shoot and I get shot / is it war or is it not.
She looked over to see Riddle watching her. She waited for his comment but none came.
“What?” she said.
He just smiled, the same this-war-is-even-funnier-than-me smile he’d had on his face hearing the news that Jimmy Carter had saved their lives. He tapped his palm against the wheel then finally said, “You think we have time for a smoke?”
The convoy was supposed to drive into the mass of Port-au-Prince’s humanity that lay held back just beyond the port fence and find the best possible route to the old international airport. A route had,
of course, been planned, but before leaving the LSV Captain Hall had warned them the planned route might not be very good. He’d directed a few choice words at the map in his hand, waved it in surrender, then said, “Keep it tight out there. It’ll be confusing.” Now the convoy stood still on the pier, waiting behind the only visible gate in the fence between the port and the city beyond. The Haitians pressed harder on the fence with the sight of the convoy leaving the ship, young men and boys climbing the fence although not going over the top into the port. Excited, cheering, pressing on the fence but somehow respectful, watching more than acting.
A squad of GIs arrived on foot, hustling over from some unseen muster point behind the port warehouses, and tried to figure out the best way to open the gate. “Cedras forgot to leave the key for us?” Riddle said and blew a perfect ring off the first puff of his cigarette. The squad of heavily armed soldiers at the gate didn’t seem to be doing anything. The problem, it seemed, wasn’t the actual opening of the gate, it was the crowd beyond. They couldn’t open the gate unless the crowd moved, and the squad’s lieutenant wasn’t sure you could point a weapon at a Haitian. You were only allowed to shoot them now if they shot you first, and as ridiculously complete as the current rules of engagement were, they didn’t specify whether you could simply point an M-16. This was far too much hair-splitting for the 10th Mountain grunts who’d been called up to clear a path for the departing convoy, but their lieutenant was having trouble getting his head around the issue. He was worried, he said; there might be aNew York Times photographer or CNN camera in the crowd—there were occasional flashes of white faces and black plastic out there—and it might be poor public relations if the troops looked threatening. There’d been a briefing about this sort of thing.
Voodoo Lounge Page 3