The Watch
Page 5
The ANA turn and watch us approach. They don’t move until we’re standing right before them. See anything? Whalen says jerkily, pantomiming the question as he gestures toward the perimeter. Fazal Ahmed removes his face cloth. He looks disgusted. His two companions do the same and stand by with surly expressions. None of them answers Whalen.
A wave of irritation invades me, and I seize Fazal Ahmed’s arm and draw him to me so roughly that the others begin to protest. Fazal Ahmed resists, his eyes filling with rage and pain. He continues to remain stubbornly silent, and suddenly he jerks and falls against my shoulder. I hear one of the others shout as I attempt to prop him back up—then let go of him abruptly. His helmet slaps off his head with a neat hole drilled through the back. Bits and pieces of brain slop down the collar of his tunic. The other two ANA swivel in tandem and gawk in the direction of the wire. Initially all I see in the brown darkness is a single muzzle flash. Then a fan of red tracers begins arcing through the haze. Grohl and Spitz come running up just as a turbaned silhouette darts through an inexplicable gap in the wire. Whalen hollers: TAKE COVER! WE’RE BEING BREACHED! He dives behind the sandbag walls that surround the ANA’s position. Something shrieks over our heads and detonates against a B-hut: it’s an 88 mm round. The two remaining ANA are still standing in plain view as if frozen. Then the enemy opens up from about fifty meters away. I hear AK-47 rounds and rocket-propelled grenades. The ANA finally hit the ground and begin crawling toward their machine gun, but Grohl and Spitz beat them to it. We begin returning fire while enemy bullets rake up the Hescos all around us. There are others taking up position beside me. Most of them are in gym shorts and flip-flops: they must have come pelting out from their cots. Someone detonates the Claymores, and they engulf the man in the turban. As he disappears in an explosion of dust and smoke, Pfc. Jackson begins firing meaty M-203 rounds: good man; it’s the perfect antidote for an attack under these conditions. From the guard tower, Espinosa goes cyclic with an Mk-19 belt-fed automatic launcher grenade—firing without stopping. Almost immediately I hear the retaliatory crump of a rocket-propelled grenade, and the guard tower buckles and disappears in a black pall. That RPG came from a different direction from the ones up front pinning us down. We’ve been taking fire from the north and the west and now someone else begins firing RPG rounds from the east. I replay Whalen’s nightmare scenario in my head: we’re surrounded. And we can’t retaliate effectively. We’re all firing blind.
Shorty zips past, heading for the B-huts. GET AWAY, DOG! someone shouts. The dog’s howling like crazy but the sound merges with the storm. Tracers light up the darkness. The enemy’s aim is so precise, they have us pinned down. They must have started moving into position as soon as the storm began. Ahead of me, Grohl and Spitz are working away methodically with the .50, spitting rounds. I can hear them swearing. The two ANA flank them, firing away with M-4s until one of the guns jams. The man spits into the breech of the gun, trying to clear it, but it’s no use. He throws it away, loses his nerve, and sprints past me for the brick-and-mortars. He doesn’t make it. I take over his position, firing short bursts. Whalen pulls me down behind the Hescos. You wanna die young? he snarls. His face is red with exertion; his bandana’s fallen off. The other ANA starts, then slumps to his knees. I grab him by the vest and pull him down. The ground is littered with empty shells. Things are happening too fast.
The air clears momentarily, and I glimpse Connolly to my left standing behind Mitchell and Folsom, screaming grid coordinates into his radio. I shout to him and race over through incoming rounds.
He stands up, fires a round, ducks down.
We’re in a fucking shooting gallery! he screams. And I can’t even call in the birds!
No shit, Sir, I yell back. They’d wipe out in this storm.
Where’d they come from?
They must have used the ratlines down the mountains.
Figures. Okay, I’m going to circle round to the back. See how things are with Ellison.
He flicks a glance at me. You should’ve woken me the moment you suspected a fucking TIC situation, Lieutenant. We’ll talk later.
A mortar shell thuds into the Hescos just as he takes off. He stumbles, catches himself, and runs on. White phosphorus residue from the shell washes over the ground. I watch him disappear from sight, then take up position beside Mitchell and Folsom. I’m seething from his rebuke, partly because he’s right. I should’ve had Whalen wake him.
I glimpse a dark silhouette dart past the wire. Mitchell screams at the same time: THEY’RE PAST THE WIRE!
Folsom starts cursing. Their M-240’s jammed up. The barrel’s smoking.
Come on, come on … he says urgently. Frickin’ come on …
He manages to get the gun working again.
I aim and empty my M-4. The silhouette staggers back and falls against the wire. I realize I’ve run through all my ammunition save one magazine.
I hear the distinctive snap of a bullet inches away.
Folsom jerks back, then turns almost lazily and crumples into my arms. There’s a hole where his nose used to be. Blood spews out. I try to hold him up, but his head lolls to one side and his eyes slide back in their sockets. He’s gone. A gust of sand sweeps over us.
I lay him down and slide in next to Mitchell, feeding him the belt. His hands are raw, sweaty. He stares at Folsom.
Keep going, I tell him. Just keep going.
He steadies the M-240, stolid, workmanlike. For a cherry, he’s holding up all right. He glances at me and shouts: This is nuts!
I can feel my adrenaline pumping. Don’t think about it, I yell, then begin to cough. There’s sand between my scarf and my mouth. A thick coating of dust sheathes my face. I’m having difficulty breathing. I clear my throat and spit. I’m slathered in Folsom’s blood.
Two more ghostly apparitions cross the wire. The M-240 stutters, then jams again. Mitchell struggles with the breech of the gun. It’s coated with sand and grit. I snatch up my M-4 and aim at the enemy. Before I can fire, one falls, claimed by a Claymore, but the other seems to float right through the sandstorm while coolly firing an AK-47 with one hand. A jagged line of bullets rips up the Hescos. Dirt smacks me in the face. Then Mitchell clutches his elbow and yanks back from the M-240. He’s hit. Another bullet slams into his chest but his body armor saves him. Even so, he spins around. Blood belches down his arm. He squats on the ground in a stupefied daze. I’m about to yell at him to fall back when our senior medic, Doc Taylor, comes loping up. I empty my last magazine to give him cover, then catch the 9 mil that Doc throws at me. I’ve lost sight of the other militant, but a fire team sets up beside us and starts blazing away with an LMG. All around, every man in the company is emptying magazines into the darkness. The noise is deafening, the crack of guns somehow amplified by the howl of the storm. Red tracer ribbons stream back and forth, forming an illuminated web overhead. Incoming bullets spark off surfaces. We’re taking heavy fire, and it’s concentrated, accurate. And it’s coming from all directions.
Doc’s wrapping a tourniquet around Mitchell’s arm, but the sand’s making things tricky. Mitchell’s in agony: I catch a glimpse of white bone piercing through a tattoo spelling HEATHEN. Doc packs the bloody wound cavity with Kerlix, then straps a bandage around it and slides an IV into the other arm. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been hit yet.
He eyes Folsom. Is he …?
He’s gone, I tell him. Now take Mitchell and get out of here!
He ignores me and crouches over Folsom.
I yell at him: Go, go, GO …
Mitchell gets up on his own and staggers away.
The LMG team start retreating as well.
Doc takes Folsom by the shoulders and drags him past me. At the last moment, he turns to me and yells: You better drop back, Lieutenant! We’re being overrun.
Mitchell glances back at me, ashen-faced. He looks astonished, as if he can’t believe what’s happening.
I pick up his discarded M-4, and something slams me
in the back of the neck. I feel my breath explode out of me as I catapult with the force of the blow, and then I’m staring up at the sky, everything around me strangely yellow …
… I can’t breathe …
… yellow, yellow, hello …
… I can’t breathe …
… Hello? I can’t hear you …
… Hello? Is anyone there?
… Hello … Emily?
… Nick? I can’t hear you … You’re breaking up …
… breaking up …
… We’re breaking up … I’m sorry, Nick, I’m breaking up …
… with you …
… you …
Emily?
Hello, Nick.
Emily, I love you, baby. I got your letter. Please don’t do this to me! Please.
Why are you calling me, Nick? I asked you not to. It’s only going to make this harder.
You send me a letter telling me you’re breaking up with me, and I don’t even have the right to ask you what the hell is going on?
I’m sorry, Nick, but I can’t talk to you. I’m so sorry.
What is this? Is there someone else?
Of course not. I’d have told you if there was.
Em, I’ve been counting the days. This is fucking crazy! I’m in the middle of nowhere, entirely dependent on a fucking phone for my sanity and … I don’t believe what’s happening. You’re my lifeline. Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me everything’s going to be all right.
Nick.
What?
It’s too late.
Why? For God’s sake, why?
Because you’ve changed! You’ve changed so much. I read your letters and I don’t know you anymore. There’s so much violence in you. Where does it come from?
Violence. Christ. I’m in a war zone, in the middle of fucking Afghanistan! What do you expect?
You wanted to go to Yale Divinity when we met. Do you remember?
That was a long time ago.
Not so long. Three years ago.
All right, three years. What’s your point?
That was the man I fell in love with.
Jesus. People change, Emily.
Not to this extent. I haven’t.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I’ll always love you, Nick, but I can no longer imagine a life with you.
Can’t we talk about this when I get back? Please? I’m on my knees. I’ll be home in less than seven weeks.
I won’t be here when you get back, Nick.
… Emily, don’t leave me …
… hello …
… Emily, don’t leave me, baby, please.
… I’ve nowhere else to go.
… It’s okay, Lieutenant …
…
Doc …?
Don’t try to talk.
What happened?
You took a round …
… I can’t breathe …
… Try putting some feeling into it, Frobenius …
…
What …?
JoAnn walks over and looks at me as if I’m waking up.
She says: You gotta feel it, Nick. Feel it in your gut. This is Sophoclean tragedy, not Broadway. You’re in the presence of the god of Death. Now: show it.
I’m sorry, JoAnn. I’m having trouble breathing. It’s probably stage fright.
Okay. Calm down. Let’s try again. No, wait. Emily, why don’t you show him? Read from the Chorus, lines 115 to 120.
Sure thing.
A girl runs up. She’s petite, blonde. She offers me her hand.
Hi, I’m Emily. Emily Tronnes.
Nick. Nick Frobenius.
Frobenius. Finnish?
Close. My dad’s from Sweden, actually.
Sweden. Cool.
It’s the first time I’ve been on stage, by the way. It’s probably why I keep making mistakes. I’m a Classics major.
Classics. That’s awesome. I’m a sophomore. I haven’t declared yet, but it’s going to be Theater.
JoAnn calls out crossly: All right, you two. Enough chitchat already.
Emily laughs. We’re just getting to know each other, JoAnn. To emote better.
Emote better, my ass. When you decide to take some time out from flirting, I’d like to get on with the play, please.
I blush furiously. Flirting, wow.
Emily says: Don’t mind her. She’s all bark and no bite.
She steps back, pauses, runs her hand over her face. When her hand comes down she’s a different person. She looks exhausted, and I stare at the tiny wrinkles that have magically appeared at the sides of her mouth and eyes, wondering how she did it. The transformation is breathtaking.
In a voice filled with gravity, she says:
Polyneices!
He stood above our city’s homes, hovered there,
Spears thirsty for blood,
A black circle of death.
And then, before the flames of war could burn our tower’s crown,
Before he could slake his jaws’ thirst with our blood,
He was turned back.
The war god screamed at his back.
Thebes rose like a dragon before him.
She stops, and I whisper: Wow.
After an instant, she moves away from me.
Do you want to try it now? she asks.
Sure. You were terrific, by the way.
Thanks.
I mean, really, that was stupendous!
Thanks. Thanks very much.
I start off in a rush and realize I’m reading haphazardly, so I stop.
I turn to look at myself in the mirror, and see that I have gone pale.
Emily says: You need to slow down.
She leans forward and touches my arm, and I tremble as soon as she lets go. She stares at me, and I stare back at her until she leans toward me and touches me again. I stop trembling.
JoAnn asks: What’s going on?
Then she says: Maybe we should try something else. Let’s see … why don’t you read from Creon, lines 174 to 180. Nick?
I jump. I’m sorry. What was that again?
JoAnn rolls her eyes. Where are you, Frobenius? Earth to Nick.
I make a vague movement of embarrassment with my hand, and Emily takes it in midair, squeezing it gently before letting go. Her palm is slightly damp. My heart thumps; I feel dazed. I look down in confusion, scroll through the pages, and find the lines.
Emily whispers: You can do it. Be my king.
I glance at her with wonder. I feel disconcerted, then exhilarated.
Still gazing at her, I say: All right.
JoAnn calls out, exasperated: Nick!
Men of Thebes, I say suddenly, my voice already gaining in confidence. No king can expect complete loyalty from his subjects until he shows his control over government and the law. You cannot know his mind, his soul.
For I truly believe that the man who controls the state must have a supreme and moral vision for its future. But if he is prone to fear and locks his tongue in silence, then he is the worst of all who ever led this country or could lead it now.
I pause, and Emily begins to laugh.
Why are you laughing? I ask her.
I’m laughing because that was wonderful. You were wonderful.
Are you serious?
Of course I’m serious, dummy.
And she takes my hand in hers.
…
… Emily …
… It’s okay, Nick …
…
Captain …?
How do you feel? Connolly asks.
I don’t know. Confused.
I bet. Take it easy now.
Where am I?
We held them off, dude. We pulverized them! Fuckin’ sand devils. They’re all dead.
Sand devils. What?
Relax. It’s over. I’ve called in the birds. They’re on their way. We’re having you medevaced out of here, you lucky sonofabitch. You’re going to be okay.
What time
is it?
He holds up his digital watch before my eyes. The bright green dial’s all blurry.
0400, he says. The storm’s died down and it’s all quiet.
He bends close to my face. He’s still wearing his body armor. His face is grimy, sand-caked. It makes me wonder what I look like.
He asks: Can you hear me, by the way?
Of course I can hear you.
Okay, okay, no need to get all het up. Just checking, that’s all.
I cough a couple of times; something dribbles out of my mouth. Connolly leans over and wipes it away.
That fucking gave new meaning to “fog of war,” I whisper. My voice sounds clotted, unrecognizable.
Yes, it did. It did, Nicko.
I can hear men shuffling around in the background.
Who did we lose, Sir?
His voice drops. Konwicki, Terranova, Folsom, Espinosa.
Jesus. How many wounded?
Four, including yourself.
What about the ANA?
Five casualties. The rest disappeared. They must have hightailed it outta here sometime during the fight.
Fuckers.
No kidding.
Tom Ellison leans over me.
Lieutenant? You okay?
I’m coming around.
They nearly breached us, he says.
But they didn’t in the end, Connolly says. It was close, but we won, we fucking totaled them!
There’s a boyish triumph in his voice, as if he’s talking about a high school football game.
I say: I’m sorry I didn’t wake you guys earlier. My call. My bad.
Connolly places his hand on my shoulder. Lieutenant, you’re alive. Forget about the rest.
Okay.
It was the perfect ambush, he carries on. They caught us with our fucking pants down. There was none of the usual radio chatter beforehand.
I’ve never been in a firefight like it.
It was intense, he agrees, then adds: We lost the tower.