Scaboo eyeballed Jersey, paused as long as he could, then made grudging noise about staying back and waiting for the next chance. She knew he was too Italian not to offer, even if it grated him. This amused her to no end, and she let him talk a while. Then she pushed him toward the flight line.
“Tell Dick Wags where I’m at,” she said. “I’ll find another ride.”
He didn’t argue.
As the three Waterborne soldiers climbed up into the helicopter she dropped the clip from her M-16, cleared the chambered round, then slung her rifle barrel-down across her back. Before the chopper was fifteen feet off the ground she was gone, ducked around the side of the terminal building, not to the gate to look for a convoy, just gone across the airport, alone and free and moving out.
She didn’t know she was looking for it until she found it. In a thin, empty alley between two low buildings she ducked through a screened doorway. Wide, tiled hall, two dead ceiling fans above, a clearly marked door to the left. Five thousand uncomfortable troops outside on the sunstroke tarmac, desperately dreaming of a place to piss, and right in here was one dark, cool, empty bathroom. She looked up and down the hall, listened, then pushed the door open and stepped in. There was a bolt on the back of the door She locked it.
Turning, she almost yelled aloud; a soldier there, a crouched, cocked troop in goggles, Jersey slamming back against the door in sudden surprise, her reflection in the full-length mirror doing the same—twin panting, head shake, lips moving around an “Ah, Christ.”
She breathed out hard, clenched her jaw, said it again—“Ah, Christ”—then straightened.What the fuck? Over. She stared intently in the mirror, at the threat, at herself, then laughed a very shaky, fake laugh, out loud—the ultimate friendly fire, baby; taking out your reflection.
Jersey realized she hadn’t moved. She was still crouched to strike, staring, every muscle tight, tense. A Van Morrison song came to her, one she’d never particularly liked, but now it all made sense:You breathe in, you breathe out, you breathe in, you breathe out,
youbreatheinyoubreatheoutyoubreatheinyoubreatheout…
She breathed in. She breathed out.
And moved.
She crossed the three steps and looked at herself close-up. Dirty face, creased where the goggles had pinched. Raccoon eyes. Her left hand went up, fingertips touching the silver tape sewn to her right sleeve, and she mouthed the words—friendly fire.The mirror fogged from her breath, then cleared.
Tory Harris closed her eyes, closed them tight, and saw the man hanging from the tree, ash-strangled face looking at hers. Was he dead before they hung him? He’d had no pants. They must have beat him, like they were beating the three others. Or did they tie the noose around him alive, hands tied useless behind his back, legs kicking out in protest, three or four FADH dragging him across the dirt and grass by his neck as he gagged then hauled up into the tree and a sharp tug and Christ do you feel it when your neck snaps, do you feel that, do you hear it? Can you hear your own neck snapping? Eyes bulging, how many seconds until dead, until purple fades black and you’re dead? Do you watch, do you see the men on the ground, the crow on the next branch over—
Her eyes popped open. She was panting again.
(youbreatheinyoubreatheoutyoubreatheinyoubreatheout)
This wasn’t helping anything.
She turned away from the mirror and pulled her helmet off, setting it down. Taking the canteen from her web belt she ran the last of her water through her close, cropped hair. She was glad Riddle was back at the boat first; he would tell the story of what they’d seen. She didn’t want to tell it. And she didn’t want to hear anyone else tell it either.
What part of “They’re hanging people in the streets” don’t you understand?
Marc Hall. Marcel. A captain. Denied a debriefing.
…is it war or is it not?
His hand was nearly twice the size of hers. He was inches taller, not more than a year or so older, and his hand was nearly twice the size of hers. He spoke Creole like a native and his mother was dead. And he’d told her this and she didn’t know why. She had a very clear thought about him, and she pushed it away as quick as it came.
There was no water in the porcelain toilet, but Jersey guessed being a member of an occupying army had its advantages, and not caring much about housekeeping was one of them. She dropped all her gear; pulling off the flak jacket was like losing ten pounds. She really didn’t have to pee at all—she’d worked through probably a gallon of water this morning, but easily sweated the same.
She sat. Just sitting, for a while, in the cool, on the smooth seat. Five minutes—drifting. Breathing in, breathing out. Calming. Centering. Feeling the blood pushing through her veins. When she heard voices down the hall—unclear, then closer and pronounced, then moving away again—she stood, pulling up her BDU pants, tightening her belt. She took a long look at herself in the mirror, not sure what she was looking for, and not sure if she was seeing it. Then she gathered her gear and started the process of putting it all back on again.
She wasn’t sure if it was war or is it not. She wasn’t at all sure what this was they were in—and wasn’t sure anyone knew yet. Whatever it was, she wanted to be in it. She’d lied to be here. Deceived. But this was what they’d all wanted, right? Or what she’d wanted, anyway. To taste it, touch it. In the face of it. All of it.
Maybe.
What part of…
Flak jacket back on, helmet square and strap tight, rifle barrel down across her back, she opened the door and stepped out.
Tory’s ticket to freedom, her passage around ground zero of an invading army on the morning of occupation—her steps unthwarted by yells, orders, commands, or questions—came from one simple piece of cloth: the green and black 7th Group patch sewn to the left shoulder of her woodland BDUs. She knew this from experience, and used it like a weapon, keeping her left side to approaching soldiers, spinning on her jungle-boot heels to show it if questioned from behind. It wasn’t a known danger to life, limb, and sanity—like maybe the lightning bolts of a Special Forces group patch or the dragon of the command group of XVIII Airborne Corps, both to be avoided for very different reasons—quite the contrary; the 7th Group patch, like 7th Group, was benign and almost completely unknown. But not much is scarier to a soldier of any rank than the unknown. To be avoided at all costs.
You might be a major and that soldier over there only a buck sergeant, but the buck sergeant might be staff NCO of a lieutenant general who outranked and maybe even disliked your brigadier general and there’s a road best not even started down—not when so many soldiers with your own patch were running around in one place, ripe for the yelling at.
Likewise, on the tarmac Jersey was most comfortable around groups of soldiers with the 10th Mountain Division patch; she knew who they were, and she knew they hadn’t a clue who she was. Anyone with a different patch was suspect and to be avoided.
Outside the airport’s arrivals terminal was a tent, an old GP medium, sides rolled up.That didn’t take long, she thought. A lone soldier stood inside guarding a table overflowing with plastic water bottles and flats of shiny red apples.Perfect; what’s a party without refreshments? She stepped into the tent’s shade. The soldier behind the table was young, a smart smile set on his face, specialist’s teardrop insignia on his helmet and collar points.
“Bon soir,Sergeant,” he said. “Welcome to picturesque Haiti.”
“Shouldn’t it bebon jour ?”
“It might bebon vivant. ” He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t have a clue, really.”
She laughed at that. “I don’t either.”
He said something, but a chopper passed over their heads. They both winced, palms to ears. When it was gone he said, “Sergeant, can I interest you in one of my fine apples?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll take two.”
With a bit of flair he handed her two red apples, and she put one in each cargo pocket. She took a bottle of water from his
tabletop and started filling her canteen.
“It didn’t take them long to get a mess crew down here,” she said, carefully pouring a thin stream of water from the plastic bottle. “Although I must say, your lunch selection isn’t great, Specialist.”
“I’m not from the mess, Sergeant. You don’t think a mess sergeant would spare one of his precious people to hand out apples and water, do you? That’s what highly trained Air Assault–qualified infantrymen are for—apple duty.”
“Who’d you piss off?”
“My platoon sergeant,” he said. “Overslept, on Guantanamo. Two mornings ago? Three mornings ago? I don’t know. Maybe yesterday. It’s all kind of running together.”
“So now you’re apple boy.”
He nodded. “Now I’m apple boy.”
“Well,” she said, tightening her canteen cap, “you’re doing a damn fine job of it, Specialist.”
“I appreciate that, Sergeant. I hope to be done with apples and back to killing fascists and communists before the sun sets.”
She laughed and turned to walk. Then, remembering something, she turned back.
“How was Guantanamo?” she asked.
He tilted his head in a question.
“I was there once,” she said, “but a few years ago. Did you see the new Haitian refugee camps?”
He nodded, his lips pursing. “Rough,” he said. “Real rough. We just passed by, and just once. But you could tell it was rough in there. They’re up on that high plain—rains a lot. Nowhere to go.”
She nodded, remembering the empty refugee rafts they’d passed on the sail down—the ones who hadn’t made it.
“It must be bad out there,” he said, gesturing toward the city. “For them to go through all that, I mean. Just to end up in a camp. Must be really bad.”
What part of “They’re hanging people in the streets” don’t you understand?
Jersey opened her mouth, ready to answer the question he didn’t know he’d asked. Then just as quickly she closed it.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll bet it is bad out there.”
A group of field officers was making for the water tent. Jersey thanked the specialist again then stepped back out into the sun, squinting against white glare.
She expected to see convoys of troop-filled vehicles lining up at the gate, moving out into the city. Her pace, her pulse, had been set by the level of action early this morning—the landing, the helicopters, a locked-and-loaded violent unknown; two hours of pale worry, ten minutes of stark fear, then into the Humvees and an hour of bewildered uncertainty, all at double-time. She’d had human targets in her rifle sight this morning; she’d been a target in someone else’s. But there was no smell of that here. Lots of busy, but none of it beyond the airport perimeter, or seemingly even affected by the outside world at all. There were plenty of vehicles racing importantly around the airport, but they were like tiny fish in a deep tank, zooming through the middle then bouncing off the sides, never working up a big enough head of steam to break through.
Instead, as the day went on and hot turned hotter and 10th Mountain Division continued to arrive, it looked like the troops weren’t going anywhere. Not out into the city, not even erecting tents or other shelter. Just gathering in company-size formations of sitting, standing, squatting, hot, sweaty, pissed-off infantrymen. She’d never seen so many soldiers gathered in one spot. Late morning became noon became early afternoon.
Grabbing some shade under the overhang of a stucco building’s tin roof, Jersey stood five or ten minutes with another female buck sergeant, a medic. A MASH unit had grabbed the small, low building as a field hospital. The sergeant said she was from L.A. She accepted a cigarette from Jersey, then glancing around quickly said, “Keep it low, though. Mister Man don’t like standing around, smokin’ and jokin’.”
Jersey pointed out across the flight line to the growing body of troops gathered, thousands of them now. “Wouldn’t be pretty if someone got a few grenades in there,” she said. “Awful big target.”
The medic snorted and said, “Hell—ain’t gonna be pretty if it justrains. ”
They both looked at the sky. The clear blue wasn’t so clear anymore, white and gray billows rising on the horizon. Tory glanced at her watch—she was a sailor, she knew about afternoons in the tropics. “Yeah, they’re gonna get wet.”
“Wet andshitty, ” the medic said. She pulled a long drag on her smoke, blew a smoke ring, then shrugged big and added, “But you know what they say—it ain’trainin’, it ain’ttrainin’. ”
Jersey laughed, but thought only an office soldier with a guaranteed roof would ever say that.
Watching the troops while she finished the last drags on her cigarette, she remembered something Riddle had noticed hours before, and looked close. Every soldier on the tarmac had sleeves down to their wrists. This medic sergeant, too. Jersey was the only soldier in the airport with her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. She brought it to the attention of her new smoking buddy, and the L.A. girl’s eyes widened.
“Shit. Get your sleeves down.”
Jersey didn’t even take time to question, just pulled her perfect rolls down, then buttoned the wrists tight.
“Come from Meade himself,” the medic said, nodding her head, referring to 10th Mountain’s notoriously dense commanding general. “Boot leather in the ass of a soldier with sleeves up.”
“Why?” Jersey said. “It’s Haiti. It’s hot.”
The medic just shook her head again, slow and long negative neck rolls. “Baby, it’s Meade’s world. You just allowed to stand in it.”
Humidity rising and pressing, filling everything like it was all a hollow drum. The air heavy and hard to walk through, bodies pulled like gravity to shade, but almost no shade to be found at the airport. Only the lucky ones, medics and clerks and intel, staff officers in starched BDUs, grabbing the few structures for benefit of their computers and their paper and maybe for themselves. The grunts—and there are so many of them now, whole battalions of them—stuck, broiling and sticky on the open tarmac, steaming in their own uniforms, greased and filthy hands clutching black M-16 rifles because you’re not allowed to put them down and it’s too hot to hang off your shoulders and someone had the bright idea of stringing a few ponchos together to get some lean-to shade action going—good idea, hey grab your poncho liner Jackson and…ah shit wait…no…someone’s making them take it the fuck down anyway, some captain’s telling them to take it down, what the fuck over, gonna goddamn DIE in this shit…
Tory padding through them all, moving moving trying to keep on moving, dying herself in the heat but wanting to see them all and hear them, slipping between platoons and squads, the shoulder patch that says she isn’t 10th Mountain clearing her way as she goes; listening, catching bits and fragments.
Canteens up, gentlemen! Up! Five minutes, time to drink!
…fucking water is hotter than me
shut up, bitch
…fucking niggers anyway, nothing but niggers in this country, why is it we always gotta save the fucking niggers?
…better watch what you say.
Keep that down, troop.
…say what I want—
—shut up!
You got a pork and rice MRE? I’ll trade peanut butter.
What else?
Nothing else, you greedy bitch.
Fuck you then.
All right. M&Ms, too. Peanut butter and M&Ms for pork and rice.
All right.
Cheap bitch.
—better stand the fuck up when I’m talking to you, Private! Did you hear me you deaf-mute? Stand up!
Listen man, I dunno who you talkin’ to, these ain’t our people. These some fucked-up voodoo-talkin’ Africa motherfuckers, ain’t fucking nuthin’ to do with niggaz like us.
Bitches stink, anyway.
You disrespecting your people, man.
Yo, fuck you, man. Your mama’s my people, how ’bout that?
Cunt, I’ll slap s
ome sense…
Sergeant Rollins! How many men you got?
Ah shit, someone’s digging trenches…
Get out.
I told you man, gotta crap somewhere.
I’ll crap in your helmet and call it dessert.
Second platoon! Second platoon! Canteens up! Time to drink!
…drink this.
There it is.
Damn—you see the sky?
Christ, get a poncho on those ammo boxes.
Oh shit.
Sarge, we better get some plastic or something—
Sir? Sir! What are we gonna do if it—
And it rained.
The medic had been right—it was worse than hand grenades.
The raindrops were the size of bullets and felt like it. Jersey was only three steps from the hangar she’d been making for—a few quick questions, a few shrugs, then a helpful pointed finger guiding her—but three steps was all it took to be completely drenched. She laughed despite herself, happy for the momentary cool, wiping her sleeves and her rifle and her face. Turning in the open door of the hangar, the air-field was gone, a torrent of water, somewhere out there thousands of wet American soldiers.
After a half day of wandering, watching, listening, the thoughts in the back of her head moved to the front and she’d started asking questions and this hangar was where the answers brought her. One wrecked and rusting old Cessna stood tied down in the middle, all around it an office already in action, thirty or more staff troops busy at desks with computers and printers and a TV in the corner with CNN showing. Tory watched that a few minutes, not learning anything she didn’t know, but fascinated at the pictures of the city she’d just been in, the crowds, close-ups of young American soldiers in helmets and goggles wordlessly guarding fences and gates. One sweeping shot of the port and a view of her LSV. The CNN anchor called it the Navy and the retired Army general with him agreed. Then a reporter, from a pink hotel in Pétionville: The day was going amazingly smooth, he said. No problems, no violence.
What part of “They’re hanging people in the streets” don’t you understand?
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