Connolly points to the man: That’s the corpse in your tent. After I’d uploaded our headshots of the corpses for Intelligence, they came back with a match in less than thirty minutes. This particular photograph was taken undetected about four months ago by a Predator drone some two kilometers or so above the clearing. Neat, huh? Man versus machine: machine wins every time.
Who is he, Sir?
Connolly tells me his name.
Seems he’s known locally as the Prince of the Mountains, he continues. Correction: he was known as the Prince of the Mountains. He was some heavy Taliban dude. I don’t know the details.
I’m struck again by the incongruity of the photograph.
But if he’s Taliban, Sir, I point out, what’s he doing in the company of an uncovered woman, and one playing a musical instrument at that?
Connolly gazes at the screen quizzically, then shrugs.
I don’t know, Doc. Maybe it’s his wife, and the rules don’t count. But I’m speculating. I really have no idea. You’re the expert. What’s your take on it?
You got me there, Sir. I don’t have a clue either, I’m sorry to say.
I gaze at the picture, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, before angling the screen in Connolly’s direction again. He examines the picture some more, then switches off the laptop. Raising his head, he looks me straight in the eye. All of a sudden, he gets up and walks over to a corner of the room.
He returns with an AK-47 enclosed in a grimy blue silk gun cover, with elaborate floral patterns embroidered in red chain stitch, and with the hole for the trigger reinforced with black thread.
We found this on your insurgent, he says.
My insurgent? Well …
He takes it out from its cloth cover and balances it on his palm.
I examine it without taking it from him. Its surface is pitted, and the weathered plywood stock strapped with duct tape. On the left side of the receiver, which is solid steel, there’s a triangular factory stamp with an arrow inside it, followed by the weapon’s serial number and date of manufacture: 1955.
Connolly contemplates the gun for a moment.
This is probably from one of the earliest batches of AK-47s, he observes, made when the Soviets were first arming their troops with assault rifles. Then, somewhere down the line in its long history—and who the fuck knows how?—it found its way here, where it’s now part of the Taliban’s arsenal. Can you think of any mechanical appliance that you’ve used that’s lasted as long?
Me personally, Sir? I think for a moment, then say, hesitantly: Perhaps the old ceramic toilets back at my folk’s place, Sir?
Connolly grimaces and falls into a meditative silence. After a while, he sighs and says: This thing is fifty-five years old. What a country.
He glances at me. Alexander the Great was here, you know.
I stare at him, trying to follow his train of thought.
He continues looking at the gun. They say the name Kandahar is a version of Iskander, which is what people called him in these parts; although it’s more likely that it comes from some ancient Indian place name.
Indian, Sir?
Gandhara.
I see.
He smiles wanly. I learned that from Lieutenant Frobenius. You know what he was like. Mad about history and geography and stuff.
I don’t say anything.
He glances at me again, and I see that his eyes are brimming with tears.
It’s all a bunch of bullshit, he says huskily, attempting to conceal his distress with a laugh. Did you know that the small arms fire in his vicinity was so concentrated that the men trying to reach him could only see the sand and dust kicking up?
I refrain from telling him that I was right there, the first to reach Frobenius.
He wipes his eyes hurriedly with the back of his hand. Clearing his throat, he says: He engaged the bulk of the insurgents, taking the fight right to them. It kept the pressure off the rest of us and fucking stymied the enemy’s attack. That brave, crazy fuck!
I look down. There’s a long interval of silence.
Eventually, he places his hands on either side of the Kalashnikov, straining downward as if attempting to snap it in two. His face turns red, and the veins on his neck stand out. Finally he relaxes and his shoulders slump. He gives a limp smile and strokes the receiver with his hand. Machine wins, he says in a quiet voice.
He pauses and wipes his eyes.
Lieutenant Frobenius majored in the Classics, did you know that? In some boutique northeastern college. Me … he pauses. Where I went to college—state college—if you were a guy, you had one of two choices: you either majored in Agro Science or Business Admin.
I remain silent while he nods a couple of times as if carrying on an internal dialogue with himself.
Have you heard of the Pingry School? he asks.
The Pingry School? No, Sir.
It’s one of the best private schools in the country. I mean, it’s fucking elite—a mint school. Lieutenant Frobenius went there, and then he went to Vassar. Vassar! he repeats softly and shakes his head in disbelief. If he’d wanted, he coulda walked into West Point and come out a ringknocker with a friggin’ stellar record. But for some reason he chose a prissy joint like Vassar. Never could figure that out. I asked him about it once, and he only laughed. So I don’t know. Maybe some people want to do things the hard way. But with his background, you’d think …
I suppose so, Sir. Yes, Sir.
He glances at me and then turns away.
What was most special about Nick was his enthusiasm. He was able to communicate his passions like no one else. I still have one of his books of Greek plays lying around here someplace. Problem is, every time I pick it up, I’m so damn tired I fall asleep.
He holds up the gun and, aiming it past me at some distant point, he continues: In any case, what all this means is that these fuckers … these fuckers have been around for a long—a very long time. And there’s probably Macedonian blood in them, which would explain at least some of their disposition.
And some of their features, I add. The dead man in my tent has fair hair and gray eyes. Very European.
I think the technical term is Indo-Aryan.
You’re right, Sir. Indo-Aryan.
He extends the AK-47 in my direction.
Here—have you ever held one of these things?
No, Sir, I have not.
I take it from him. It feels rickety compared to our M-4, its closest equivalent. I tell him so.
He grimaces. You could leave that thing under a rock for ten years and still use it when you came back, no problem. It’s the ultimate killing machine.
And still the Russians lost, I remind him, handing back the gun.
The Russians lost because they fought bunched up in motorized convoys. They didn’t fan out in foot squads like we do. Their tactics were wrong. We’ve learned from their experience. We’re not gonna make the same mistakes.
He puts down the gun and sits at his desk. Carefully folding the blue silk gun cover, he places it next to his laptop. I’m keeping this as a souvenir, he says. Years from now, when I’m shitting away my time in Flyover Zone in bumfuck Indiana or wherever, I want to look at this thing to remind myself that I was really here, in the middle of nowhere, following in Alexander’s footsteps.
Alexander never returned home, Sir.
But I intend to, he says grimly, before correcting himself: We will go back, Doc. That’s a promise. We’ll see this through.
It’s summer back home, Sir, I say reflectively. The schools are out. Summer camp starts in two weeks in Williamsfield. My kid brother’s a counselor this year.
That summer’s miles and miles away, he says. He leans his head on his hand.
I’m tired, he says.
Everyone is, Sir.
He looks at me with an unseeing expression. I don’t know if they’re gonna attack again today, he says, but if they do, we’re not taking any prisoners.
I hesitate before ask
ing: What about when they come to collect their dead?
He doesn’t answer. I wait for a few moments, but he remains silent. Then he turns his back on me and goes back to studying a map. I realize I’ve been dismissed.
I leave his hut and pause for a moment, digesting the conversation. I feel dejected and, as I lift up my eyes to the mountains looming over the base, strangely apathetic. With an effort, I pull myself together, and set out to find Whalen. It’s just before 1600, and I want to catch him before his shift ends and ask if he’s spoken to Ellison about the corpse.
I find him by the ECP, just about to hand over to Sergeant Tanner.
He looks at me bleary-eyed when I ask him.
I’m still thinking about it, he replies.
What about Lieutenant Ellison?
He said he’s gonna think about it as well.
He slaps his cheeks. Boy, he says wearily. I can hardly stand. I guess I’m gonna get some rest. And he shambles off.
I look around. Ramirez and Pratt have left as well, and in their place there’s Alizadeh as the only relief who’s showed up so far. Tanner’s in a lather. He’s just beginning to flay Alizadeh about the others’ whereabouts when Jackson comes running up. Sorry I’m late, Sarn’t, he pants. I was trying to bring Grohl, but no luck. He’s taken Spitz’s death hard. Maybe you should talk to him …
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Tanner says exasperatedly. Where is he now?
Holed up in his hooch.
I say: I’ll go get him.
Thanks, Doc, Tanner says. Tell Grohl I’ll have his ass if he isn’t here ASAP.
Jackson offers to come with me.
We’ll be gone a couple of minutes, I say. That okay?
He better be here or else! Tanner repeats.
We find Grohl in a fetal crouch on his bunk. He’s facing the wall, iPod headphones jammed into his ears. I sit down at the foot of his bunk. He doesn’t stir.
Jackson leans over him and yanks off his headphones.
What the fuck? Grohl yells, spinning around with his hands clenched.
Doc’s here, Jackson says equably. You’re supposed to be on guard shift, dude. Tanner’s fuckin’ seething.
Fuck that, man. Leave me alone.
You gotta get a grip, dude, Jackson says.
It’s okay, I tell Jackson. I’ll take it from here.
Grohl watches me sullenly.
I point to his iPod. What you listening to?
He answers in a reluctant monotone: Gethsemane.
Is that a band?
Yup.
I don’t think I’ve heard of them, I tell him. What kind of music do they play?
Jackson answers in his place: They’re kind of progressive rock, but metallic.
Grohl rolls his eyes, but sits up. They’re not fucking prog, they’re post-prog, he says irritably. And they’re not “metallic,” whatever the hell that means. They’re death metal, but with an aggravated melodic arc. Okay?
All right, man, Jackson says, have it your way. They’re like OMG fucking brutal death metal.
Bullshit, Grohl says. Gethsemane is not OMG fucking brutal death metal. Gethsemane is a band that’s way beyond that kind of classification. When they write a song, it’s not like they’re trying to be as satanic and obscure as possible like some cheesy death metal band. They just write from the heart. Some of their songs sound like death metal, some sound post-prog, some have math rock or grind-core influences, while some others are just mellow ballads. And that is what makes Gethsemane a fucking awesome band.
I got news for you, bro, Jackson says. Mellow ballads are the tool of the undereducated.
You’re a tool, Grohl snaps.
Whatever, dude, Jackson says. He turns to me. If you’ve heard of Dream Paranoia, they’re a bit like them.
Grohl bends toward me. Don’t listen to him, Doc, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Dream Paranoia completely lost it after Downhill. Christ, my dad listens to Dream Paranoia. Then I played him Gethsemane, and he didn’t like it because of the singer’s growl. So I kicked his face in and buried him alive in the basement. You don’t fuck with Gethsemane.
Jackson giggles. No kidding. I did the same with my mom after I got her to listen to Amesoeurs. We’re brothers, you and me.
But Grohl is having none of it.
Amesoeurs! he spits out with contempt. Talk about cheese-eating surrender-monkeys!
So they’re French? I venture.
Yup, Jackson says quickly. Then, nettled by the attack on his favorite band, he says: And what about Gethsemane? They’re fuckin’ Canadian.
Scandinavian, Grohl corrects him. There is a difference. Just goes to show how much you know.
Don’t you guys listen to any American bands? I say mildly.
This time they both round on me. Like what, Doc?
Jackson says: Like some fuckin’ commercial boy band with an aggregate shelf life of ten days?
Grohl adds: Like babbyy babbyy babbyy ooohhhh and I was like babbyy babbyy babbyy ooohhhh?
Oh, I don’t know, I reply. What about Pearl Jam?
They stare at me in genuine astonishment. Then Grohl says wonderingly: You gotta be fucking kidding, right?
I’m thirty-one, but I suddenly feel ancient.
Tell you what, Doc, Grohl says kindly, if you lend me your iPod, I’ll download some Gethsemane for you. You can start with Black-water Daze. You’ll see. They’re like no other band. Even the artwork on their albums is sick as hell.
On our way to the Hescos, he adds: I fucking hate Gethsemane. I swear, the first time I heard them I ’gasmed all over myself after just two minutes. They make me feel all guilty for not listening to them from birth, and after every song I can’t function for, like, two weeks. Awestruck every time!
We reach the ECP, and Tanner marches over to greet us belligerently.
Well? he demands of Grohl.
I can explain, I interject, but Tanner asks me to stay out of it.
Grohl hangs his head. I’ve been sorta fucked up in my head, Sarn’t, what with Spitty and everything …
Tanner takes a step back and purses his lips. He looks disgusted.
Tell you what, soldier, he says, I got a good cure for that problem. Double shift.
I begin to protest, but Grohl says softly: It’s all right, Doc, I guess I kinda asked for it.
Tanner turns on his heel and stalks back to the ECP, while I linger there uncertainly. Grohl props up his M-4 against a sandbag and gazes at the mountains. You know, Doc, he says contemplatively, going back to what we were talkin’ about earlier on, I’m not religious or anything, but every time I look up at those slopes I get these goose bumps all over, and then it’s like all I can hear is Jens singing “Death Whispers in My Head.” That’s when I realize … if I had a religion, he would be my god.
I cough. Who’s Jens?
Gethsemane’s vocalist, he says with reverence. And the ultimate fucking guitar god. Jens Lyhne.
Amen to that, I say.
I pat him on the back and turn to leave just as the C.O. walks over from his hut. He says: I just heard from Battalion. They’re gonna resume Black Hawk flights in a couple of days. Which means that’s how long you’ll have to put up with your friend in the body bag. Sorry about that.
Two more days!
He glances at me sardonically and says: I’m told that there are certain tribes up north who refuse to go through with a burial until a full week has passed, in the belief that anything less is both disrespectful and immoral.
Couldn’t we move him to where the ANA huts used to be, Sir? I mean, there’s nothing left there after the insurgents blitzed it.
He pauses and thinks about it. I suppose we could do that … But you’d still have to watch over him. Tell you what. Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Ellison? See if we can move the damn thing.
Should I tell him that that’s what you ordered, Sir?
All right.
Thanks, Sir.
Sure thing.
He climbs the Hescos and eyes the bodies lying in the field.
No one come to pick them up yet, eh? he asks Tanner.
It’s very unusual, Sir, Tanner replies.
They’re being sensible. They know they’ll get mown down if they try.
Still, it hasn’t stopped them in the past, Tanner remarks. I don’t know what to make of it.
I don’t think we have to make anything of it, Sergeant—it’s not our place. But I’m certainly not going to stand around having them rot in front of our eyes and smell up the base. I’ve asked Sergeant Tribe to round up a couple of squads and bury them out beyond the LZ where no one can see them. Out of sight, out of mind.
Tanner asks him if he’s intending to have the three men lying at the end of the field buried as well.
Nope. The light’s fading fast, and I’m not taking any chances. They’re too close to the mountains, and we don’t know who else might be holed up there. If they’re still around tomorrow, then we’ll deal with them.
In a lowered voice, he asks if he can speak to me in private for a second.
We walk out to the wire, and he says: Battalion also informed me that a rescue team searched the site of the Black Hawk crash. He pauses and clears his throat. They accounted for everyone. There were no survivors. I’ve told all the officers, and I’m going to make a general announcement tomorrow. Right now I think it’s more important for the men to get some rest.
Of course, Sir, I tell him. I can’t think of anything else to say.
We stare at each other and then, simultaneously, turn to gaze at the mountains. The evening light softens his features, his expression a meld of youth, sadness, and fatigue. He badly needs a shave—as do I—and he seems to have visibly lost weight during the past twenty-four hours. I’m sure I look no better, but I can’t resist glancing at his hand where the wasp bit him: the swelling has reduced and it now looks blotchy and inflamed.
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