I bow my head and say my father’s name, my mother’s name.
I say my sister’s name, my little brother Yunus’s name.
I say my brother Yusuf’s name.
When I raise my head, I see the soldiers advancing toward me, with the captain at their head. The black giant is with them, as is Masood the interpreter, which is unfortunate. I recite the Shahada in my head.
There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger …
I begin counting the moments. One.
Dwa.
Dré.
Tsalor.
It’s up to me now. I’m terrified: my hands are shaking, my mouth is parched.
I wait until their shadows enter the circle of blood.
Then I reach under the blanket covering the lamb with my knife and cut the plaited wire.
LIEUTENANT
IT’S a beautiful day. The temperature’s in the upper sixties, the sun’s dipping in and out of cottony clouds, the sky’s an iridescent blue. I’m canoeing down the Hudson, following the river’s slow, wide course as it navigates between gentle slopes. Occasionally, a wooded copse spills right down to the waterline: green, brown, yellow, clad in camouflage colors. I can’t see a single house, but a freight train runs parallel to the river, its metallic clangor stopping only when it slips into a tunnel at the neck of a bend. The silence that follows seems even more pronounced—and the great white-headed eagle that wheels over my head, riding thermals, suddenly plunges down to the water and flaps away, dangling the silver ribbon of a fish from its talons.
I’m smoking a cigarette, which surprises me, because I’m not a smoker, but I don’t question it. Instead, I glance over my shoulder to where Espinosa is in a bright yellow canoe just like mine, water Streaming from his paddle. He’s smoking too, and I wonder if it’s to overcome the pungent smell of the decaying apples bobbing up and down on the water. There are hundreds of apples, and as many birds—ducks, cormorants, geese—feasting on them, seemingly oblivious to the eagle in the air. Espinosa holds his paddle above the water and waggles it at me. He tucks his cigarette behind his ear and scoops up an apple from the water, throwing it to a duck. I laugh and lean back and let my gaze travel across the crest of a high cliff crowned with pines. I feel grateful at having been able to get away from the ugliness of war. I remind myself to write a letter to thank whoever arranged this day-long excursion.
A thickly wooded island looms ahead, and a black horse with a white star on its forehead lopes down to the river and plants itself knee-deep in the water, nuzzling the apples. I glide my canoe gently past it, water droplets sprinkling my face as I breathe in the smells of the river, the lazy summer day, the strangely silent birds, the floating apples. Someone behind me starts singing Country Joe and the Fish’s “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag,” which I find a little inappropriate, given the circumstances. Then Folsom slips past me with a beatific look on his face. He’s grown his mustache back, I notice. He says: Man, this is fucking awesome!
The play of light and shade on the water reminds me of a mosaic pattern I once saw in a mosque in a village near Kandahar. I’m surprised I remember it—and so clearly. The mud-daubed domes of the houses in the village were like egg cartons, and the splendor of the mosque stood in jarring contrast to the poverty surrounding it. But that world is somewhere else now. I look around and reckon we must be somewhere between Cold Spring and Garrison, and although I’ve canoed this stretch more times than I can remember, I don’t recognize a thing. But I’m not worried. Just before the river narrows into a shadowy corridor, I turn the canoe around momentarily to watch Alpha Company form into a compact group behind me, the knot of yellow, red, and green canoes like a flock of brightly colored birds on the water.
Ahead of me, Folsom slows down and I pull up alongside him. He’s sweating profusely and spits a spent wad of chew into the water.
Where are we, Lieutenant? Bear Mountain?
No … No, that’s farther south.
Then where? I don’t remember this part.
It’s all right, I tell him. You’re not from around here.
That’s true. We should’ve gone to Wisconsin, where I’m from. The White Lakes.
Good fishing, I expect.
The best.
He falls behind and lets me take the lead.
The river contracts into a stream, steep gorges rearing up on either side. I can hardly see the sky overhead but I still feel strangely unconcerned. Then the sides of the canoe begin to scrape against the rocks and I smell the first whiff of scorched earth. The roll of rusting concertina wire that stops me dead in the water is buried just beneath the surface, a litter of rotting weeds concealing it. It’s almost dark as the men cluster behind me with no room to turn around.
Folsom says: Lieutenant, with all due respect, this is impassable terrain.
I acknowledge the obvious and tell him to begin backing up.
He attempts to maneuver his canoe back, but bumps against the man behind him. I raise my hand and signal to the last man to reverse, but he’s too far away and it’s too dark. There’s no sound but men panting and the scraping of plastic hulls against rock. Come on, come on … Folsom whispers fiercely to the man behind him … Frickin’ hurry up!
Initially, I only see a single muzzle flash and a bright swift line of explosions puckering through black water. A second later, the slopes light up. The rounds that hit us tear through flesh, canoes, and gear. I feel thankful for my body armor vest, but then I realize I’m only wearing a thin cotton T-shirt. I struggle to squeeze out of the canoe, but the lower part of my body seems fastened down somehow. Still, I contract my muscles and try to get out, but it’s no use—and too late. The blow that hits me on the back of the neck catapults me around and I face Folsom just as a hole opens up where his nose should be. I’m hypnotized by the blood that gushes out of his face. He’s screaming, but I don’t hear him—I’m already under crimson water struggling to surface, but there’s something thrusting inside my mouth and pinning me down. I begin to gag. I strike out with my hands as my vision fades …
… I can’t breathe …
… Lieutenant …
… I can’t breathe …
… Lieutenant Frobenius … Sir …
I make out Whalen through half-closed eyes. He’s thrust his head right into my bunk.
I struggle to wake. I’m moving slowly. I shouldn’t have taken the sleeping pill last night. I prop myself up groggily on my elbows.
Christ. What time is it?
Just past 0100, Sir. The sandstorm’s outta control and the ANA guards want to come inside. You better get up.
How bad is it?
Bad. Visibility’s near zero. And the storm’s made our detection systems friggin’ worthless.
I try to absorb the news that the storm has knocked out our thermal sights. I’ve never faced a situation where that’s happened before.
Gimme a moment, I tell him. I’ll be there.
You better tie a cloth around your face, Whalen warns as he goes out.
I lie on my bunk for a moment, listening to the sand grains buffet the flimsy plywood walls that separate me from the storm outside. I’ve only had three hours of sleep, and the pill has left me stupefied. It’s dark and claustrophobic inside the B-hut. I scratch an itch from one of many fleabites on my arm, but it only makes it worse. Cursing, sweaty, I slide out of the bunk and land heavily on my feet. In my haste, I knock my iPod to the ground and step on it. I fling it back on the bunk, hoping nothing’s broken, and struggle into my clothes. I’m filthy, unshaven; I haven’t showered in two days. Everything is dusty and covered with grit. I lace my boots quickly and shrug on my body armor vest as I head out.
Whalen’s waiting for me by the entrance to the hooch with his face wrapped in a bandana that used to be white. The sky overhead is a mottled black, but the rest of the world is an eerie yellow-brown wall of sand. The hurtling grains instantly lacerate my face and hands with a million pinpricks. I follo
w his lead and wrap my scarf tightly around my face. The air smells of sulfur. The wind whistles fiercely in the darkness, the entire sky a dark cave filled with swirling sand. The acoustics magnify every sound.
I look around. This is bad.
We gotta ride it out somehow, Whalen says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Mitchell and Folsom are on guard shift at the Entry Control Point. Mitchell’s bleeding from a cut above his eye, although it’s probably not as bad as it looks.
He notices me looking at his eye and volunteers: The wind’s slinging stones off the ground. It’s fucking lethal, Sir, like being in the path of a slingshot!
Mitchell’s a cherry, a newcomer to the platoon. Folsom shrugs wryly. I say nothing.
Folsom says: The ANA over there want to go inside. They keep coming over to tell us they’re quitting for the duration of the storm.
No way. I’ll go talk to them.
I turn to Whalen as we make our way along the Hesco wall that runs around the perimeter of the base, where the Afghan National Army soldiers are crouching miserably. What do you think, First Sarn’t? I ask him. Should I let them go?
He squints through his bandana. The Hadjis would be crazy to attack in these conditions—but then again, the Hadjis are crazy! So: no. They better stay.
My thoughts exactly, I say.
Closer to the ANA, we walk backwards to be able to breathe. Already my lips are chapped, my face encased in dusty mold. I grimace and my skin hurts. We’ve had no letup from the storm these past two days. Now we’re feeling its full impact, and we’ll have to find ways to deal with the situation without letting the enemy catch us off guard. My men know it, but the ANA troops are a different story altogether.
There are three of them by the Hescos and they run forward even before we reach them. I wave them back, but Fazal Ahmed, the smallest of the three, signals to his companions authoritatively, and they attempt to slip past us. I bar them with outstretched arms, while Whalen, who’s six four, picks up Fazal Ahmed and sets him down by the Hescos. Stay here! he roars.
I drag the other two Afghans back. You’re not allowed to leave, I yell.
Ya’ll understand? Whalen roars again, shouting above the wind.
They don’t reply, but return to crouching sullenly by the Hescos.
We leave them and canter over to the camo nets surrounding the guard tower. I clamber up the staircase, while Whalen stays behind. The raw wind buffets me as I ascend the rickety steps, and I have to grasp the guardrails with all my strength. Sand, stones, and clumps of dust whirl upward and hit me. A loose splinter ricochets off the back of my hand and leaves a bloody smear. Then the platform looms above me, its wooden planks bucking madly in the wind. There’s sand streaming off it, and Staff Sergeant Brandon Espinosa, who’s on watch, bends down and hauls me up. He’s put up a canvas screen with the help of the two ANA who’re there with him. The guard tower sways like a ship in the storm. Espinosa looks exhausted, and I don’t blame him.
He shouts: I’m going to send my ANA crew down and stay up here by myself. Less trouble that way.
I lean toward him and shout back: Suit yourself.
The relieved ANA slither down.
I watch them go and shake my head: You’d think they weren’t in their own country.
Espinosa says: They aren’t. They’re Uzbek. This is Pashtun land.
I say: No point telling you to keep a look out, but still …
He cracks a smile and shoves a wad of chew into his mouth. He’s a veteran of Iraq, a man of few words, capable, efficient. I’m not worried about leaving him in the tower by himself.
Back on the ground, I run with Whalen past the brick-and-mortar command post, then follow the Hescos back toward the ECP. We slow down by the shelter of the mortar pit where Manny Ramirez and Pratt have secured the gun with canvas. Pratt has his M-4 tucked inside his poncho liner, while Ramirez stands some distance away, pissing into one of the PVC tubes jammed into the ground for that purpose. He’s bending over with his back to the storm, but the wind arcs his urine way past where he’s aiming it. He buttons up his fly with a grin as we approach. Whoo! he says. Whoo …
Whalen coughs and spits out a mouthful of sand. Motherfucker, he says to no one in particular; then he repeats himself for emphasis.
This is fun, First Sarn’t! Ramirez shouts. He prances around Whalen with an exaggerated mince.
Pratt doesn’t say anything. His dark leathery skin looks gray; his eyes are bloodshot and streaming.
You okay, Pratt? I ask.
M’fine, Suh, he says. This ain’t nuthin’. I worked through worse storms in the fishin’ fleet.
Snowstorms?
Yeah.
I try to see the analogy, then give up.
Ramirez shouts: You expecting an attack tonight, Sir? I’m sorta goin’ crazy doin’ nuthin’. I haven’t fired a shot in days, I swear to God.
Whalen says: You got gunner’s tourette, Ramirez.
No shit, First Sarn’t, Ramirez says. Whatever that means. He asks me again: So …?
I say: Maybe. Maybe they’ll come for us tonight. I got a feeling.
You gotta respect those feelings, Sir, you know what I’m saying?
Pratt says: Be perfect weather for it—if it happens.
Ramirez laughs happily and slaps his thighs. Finally! he exults. Time to kill some badass motherfuckers. I’m stoked!
A gust of wind whips away his bandana and he spends the next few moments cursing wretchedly while trying to tie it around his face again.
Fuckin’ sand in my eye! he yells.
You’re an open target, Ramirez, Whalen says calmly, stating fact.
Like hell I am. Aah! Fuck this.
It might help if you put on your wraparounds, I suggest, stating the obvious.
Can’t see when I have them on, Sir. No peripheral vision.
Jes’ put ’em on, Ram, Pratt says.
Pratt’s an Athabascan fisherman from north of Fairbanks, and functionally illiterate. He’s also the most lethal fighter in the platoon. Rumor goes, before he joined the army, he once waded into a dockyard scrim and disemboweled three men as casually as if he were in some barroom brawl. He always carries an ice pick tucked in his belt and rarely speaks; when he does, you have to lean close to catch what he’s saying. In contrast, Ramirez rarely shuts up. By his own admission, he used to be a drug runner along the Arizona-Mexico border. Strictly part-time, he’s quick to qualify. Strictly part-time, Sir. The rest of the time I worked the night shift at the local 7-Eleven. A bored restlessness is his signature style; he’s a deadly shot, a crack poker player, and he seldom sleeps. Together, Pratt and Ramirez make an unpredictable team, and the other men give them a wide berth.
The base is shaped like an oblong, and Whalen and I circle around the entire perimeter one more time, past the sandbagged mortar pits, the burn-shitters, the plywood B-huts, stopping to check each guard position until we return to where we began. And all the while, the banshee wind scourges the base. I glance back at the plastic shitter screens billowing crazily in the storm.
What do you think? I ask Whalen again as we take shelter behind the medical tent.
I don’t like it.
Me neither.
We’re completely blinded, he says. They can take us out any way they please.
How? If we can’t see anything, neither can they.
They could surround us and we wouldn’t even know it, he says tersely. It’s my nightmare scenario. Three-hundred-sixty-degree catastrafuck.
Whalen’s thirty-seven, a career soldier and another veteran of Iraq, like Espinosa, and I listen to everything he has to say because he’s always sound. All the same, I rib him now.
You’ve been watching too many movies, First Sarn’t.
He laughs. You asked.
I say: At the same time, I don’t know what else we can do in this situation but wait it out. I’m clean out of ideas.
It’s all that college learning, Lieutenant, Suh, he say
s mockingly.
You’re prob’ly right, I tell him, thinking for a moment. Then I make up my mind: Wake up Grohl and Spitz and send them out to replace the ANA. I’m pulling the Afghans back. They’re useless in a situation like this.
All right. I’m also going to wake the Cap’n.
No. Let him be.
He hesitates. As First Sergeant, he answers directly to Evan Connolly, Alpha Company’s Captain, but we both know that Connolly’s not the best leader in a crisis, so Whalen’s had very good reason to seek me out first, and I’ve the same good reason to avoid waking Connolly.
Whalen continues to look worried. I’ll wake Lieutenant Ellison, then, he says.
Nope. Let him sleep as well. He had the last watch.
Lieutenant Frobenius, he says: I don’t know about this.
C’mon, First Sarn’t. We can handle this.
Whalen leaves, and I make my way back to the ANA position. As I pass Folsom and Mitchell, I peer out at the swirling murk. I can’t see the concertina wire at all, and when I turn my head and run my eyes down the Hescos, I can hardly make out the guard tower. There’s something wrong. I can sense it.
I hear a whimper behind me and turn around. Shorty, the platoon’s adopted year-old pup, nuzzles my leg, his tail between his legs. Shorty’s a misnomer: he’s already massive, a cross between a mastiff and some kind of Afghan hound. I can’t imagine how big he’s going to be full-grown. I bend down and pat him. His bushy coat is matted with sand and dust. He whimpers again, then growls, showing his fangs. He’s pointing at the wire perimeter, tail held ramrod straight behind him hound-dog fashion. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. He growls again and begins to bark nonstop. There’s something going on out there all right.
Whalen rejoins me. He’s panting. I can’t believe how quickly he’s made it back. Grohl and Spitz are on their way, and Sergeant Tanner’s at the ECP, he says rapidly. I glimpse the whites of his eyes flash behind his bandana. I can tell he’s worried. We begin running toward the ANA position. The dog paces alongside, then darts out ahead of us into the maw of the storm. We hear him barking wildly.
The Watch Page 4