The Watch

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then another man walks over and introduces himself. Welcome to the Cave, he says. It’s what we call our hooch. And how are you today? I’m Specialist Garcia. Ricardo Garcia—that’s Rick to you. There are seven of us here, and I think you’ve met everyone except for Ash Jackson, though I’m sure you’ll run into him soon enough. As for Chuck Grohl, don’t mind him; he lost his best friend in the bird crash, and it’s made him go crazy.

  He called me a raghead this morning, I say quietly.

  Both Duggal and Lee swivel their heads and stare at me.

  There’s a pause, and then Lee says: He was just messing with you.

  Messing with me?

  It means Chuck was kidding around with you, Duggal explains. He didn’t mean what he said.

  He seemed serious enough, I reply. He stormed out of here. You saw how angry he was.

  He wasn’t angry, all right? You can take it from us. We know him well. He’s hurtin’, man—we all are. We just went through hell. It’s been tough. Our brothers died.

  He’s basically okay, Lee says. He’s family. You know what I mean?

  I don’t think he’s slept since yesterday, as a matter of fact, Duggal adds.

  So what should I do? I ask.

  Just let it go, man, Duggal says. Chucky’ll come around. Give him some time.

  And don’t fucking snitch on him, Lee says tersely. Or on any one of us. It ain’t a good habit. All right?

  He looks away from me in disgust and says to his companions: Fruit’s as gay as Father Christmas. Fuckin’ loud and queer.

  Duggal appears to share my bafflement at this strange comment, because he asks: Santa Claus is gay?

  Lee ignores his question. Instead, he says morosely: If jigga starts goin’ through the gears here, I’ll whack him, I swear.

  Garcia intervenes even as Duggal bursts into laughter. Still and all, guys, he says, Grohl isn’t the easiest guy to get along with. Even at the best of times he’s somewhere south of crazy. He glances at me and smiles. If it’s okay with you, we can exchange bunks.

  I agree instantly, and in a matter of moments find myself in the bunk that’s farthest from Grohl’s. I reflect on the additional bonus of not having to share my sleeping space with the dog, who, I’ve noticed, has returned from his jaunt in the mountains. Still, I feel drained as I lie down and go over the day’s events. My already disorganized train of thought is frequently interrupted by muted snatches of conversation from the card players. I hear Garcia talk about a lieutenant who went down with the helicopter and how much they’re going to miss his leadership. Duggal says that one of the men killed in the firefight was about to become a father. Then Garcia tells them that his house in Florida has been repossessed. Stacey couldn’t keep up with the fucking mortgage payments, he says, and that really, really sucks. Lee asks if they think the Taliban will attack again, but then they start talking over one another, and I stop listening to them. Instead, my mind returns to my afternoon with Simonis, and I find myself wondering about him again.

  It’s because you missed the point, he says suddenly, letting go of my hand. And that really, really sucks.

  I didn’t know, I murmur, my eyes on the floor. Small yellow flames flicker in the corners of the room, and I try to move without making a sound, intimidated by the destruction all around. We are walking through the scorched remains of my mother’s library, which I can hardly remember, but recognize all the same. The rest of the house is as dark as a mineshaft.

  He turns to me with somber, burning eyes. Do you understand?

  I am trying, I reply. It’s difficult for me to put it into words.

  He picks up one of the charred books and asks who destroyed the library.

  Who do you think? The Taliban. It’s what they do. They burn books and murder women.

  I’m sorry you had to go through this, he says abruptly. I truly am.

  I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. That is not what I want you to feel.

  He says: I would like to make it up to you.

  I try to keep the beseeching tone out of my voice. Really? How?

  I’ll show you, he says, and waves his hand.

  I watch in astonishment as the room, along with all its books and shelves, reconstitutes itself until it is exactly as it used to be before the catastrophe.

  I turn to him open-mouthed. Can this be real? Are you a magician?

  I’m a galandat, he says. I’m blessed with baraka. So’s the captain, by the way.

  The captain? What captain?

  Captain Connolly, for fuck’s sake. The Commanding Officer.

  Someone is shaking me by the shoulder. Wake up, Masood. The captain wants you. Right now.

  It’s Duggal. He looks tense. Come on, man, he says. Hurry up.

  Half-awake, I ask him what time it is. It’s seven in the morning, he replies.

  What is the matter? I ask as I struggle to put on my boots.

  I’ll tell you on the way, he says, already out of the door.

  I have to run to catch up with him, and by the time I do, the captain has arrived.

  How’s your Pashto? he asks me without any preliminaries.

  Very good … I begin, before he cuts me off.

  We’ve a situation here, he says tersely. There’s a woman in the field outside …

  A woman …?

  Or at least we think it’s a woman, but we can’t be sure because of her burqa. Here, come along …

  He doesn’t wait for me but begins to walk briskly toward the ECP.

  What I want you to do, he says over his shoulder, is translate my questions to her. Keep it simple. Tell me exactly what she says in reply. Got it?

  Yes, Sir, I say hurriedly, even as there’s a part of me that wonders if I’m still dreaming. It almost feels as if I no longer know who or where I am. I look up at the sky, which is cloudless in the early morning light. A flock of crows flies soundlessly past, heading for the mountains. Everything feels strange. Everything feels very, very strange. We hurry past Simonis leaning against a pile of sandbags with his sniper rifle trained on the field. The rifle’s scope gleams as he adjusts his position and shifts slightly to his right. I glance back, and he looks up, catching my eye. I realize he is aiming straight at me now. Then the captain distracts me by handing me a megaphone. There she is, he says, and points. I raise the megaphone to my mouth. He clears his throat, about to speak, when the sun breaks over the mountains. It floods into the field, blinding me. The captain steps back and shades his eyes. The field glows red, then white, then red again. I can’t see a thing, the captain says. I lower the megaphone and wait for my vision to clear.

  The field flares fire, then blood, then fire again.

  SECOND LIEUTENANT

  ONE.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four … I count off the meters silently as the rickety cart inches forward across the field toward us. Despite the early hour, there’s a considerable amount of dust suspended in the air. Beside me, the sharpshooter, Simonis, stretches out on his stomach on top of the Hescos and aims his sniper’s rifle at the shrouded figure in the cart. Without turning my head, I ask him:

  How far are we from the slopes, would you reckon?

  I’d say about nine hundred meters, Sir.

  And what would you say is the maximum possible range of a Taliban sniper?

  With one of their better bolt-action rifles, Sir, I’d say up to seven hundred to eight hundred meters—that’s on a good day without wind. But he’d have to be shooting with a Lee-Enfield or Mosin-Nagant with a telescopic sight, and those are pretty damn accurate.

  In that case, line up your sights on her, I tell him. I want you to fire a warning shot the moment she closes in on our one-hundred-meter line. That’s far enough from the slopes for their sniper’s range, but close enough to us to drill her if there’s something fishy going on.

  He pulls on a pair of green Nomex gloves while I crane over his shoulders and repeat my
instructions to LaShawn “Wonk” Gaines, who’s serving as his spotter. Got that, Wonk?

  Yes, Sir.

  Simonis rests his finger gently on the trigger and waits for me to clear him to engage. Moments earlier, as soon as I’d sent off Pfc. Renholder to fetch Connolly, I’d instructed Flint, Schott, and Ashworth, as the squad leaders of Second Platoon, to secure the perimeter. I also instructed Spc. Simonis to zero in on the target in the kill zone. Simonis mounted the Hescos with two sniper rifles. He eyed the target and selected his modified Remington hunting rifle over the M-24.

  Now he turns to me after looking through his sight and says: She’s nearly there.

  I raise my binoculars and watch the cart approach the one-hundred-meter marker. In her powder-blue burqa, its occupant looks like a mirage against the dun-colored ground.

  D’you see that jagged black stone to her right? I ask. It’s about ten meters from the marker at nine o’clock.

  Yes, Sir.

  Can you hit that?

  Sure thing.

  Then do it. Now.

  With a fluid motion, he shifts the Remington’s stock on his shoulder and lines up the reticle on his target. The gun’s already chambered. The muzzle rises and falls with each breath he takes. At the bottom of his third exhalation, he squeezes the trigger. I don’t need to look through my binoculars to see the stone explode.

  Hot damn! Gaines says softly. You don’t need me here, bro.

  There’s no wind about, Simonis says. Piece of cake.

  It hasn’t stopped her, I point out.

  We watch the cart wobble forward over a stretch of uneven ground.

  If she keeps movin’, she’s gonna reach the Claymores, Gaines mutters.

  Save us some trouble, I reply.

  Just look at her crawl, Gaines says. Danica Patrick she ain’t.

  Neither Simonis nor I reply. I’m too busy trying to sight another target for Simonis, but the ground looks devoid of defining features.

  What about that white stone to her left? Gaines suggests. At two o’clock.

  Simonis scans the field. ’Bout five meters from the marker? he asks.

  No, closer.

  Oblong pebble, speckled with black?

  That’s the one.

  I locate the stone through my binoculars: it’s barely the size of a pea.

  Go for it, I tell Simonis.

  He recycles the bolt and settles into his breathing, looking through the scope’s aperture and centering his sights on the target. Making a minute adjustment, he shifts slightly to his left and pauses before squeezing the trigger. I watch through my binoculars as the white pebble disintegrates in a puff of dust.

  Bull’s-eye, I tell him. Nice work.

  We watch the cart waver for a moment before it determinedly begins to advance again, the burqa-clad figure pushing against the ground with her hands to make it move forward.

  I turn to Simonis. What was your distance shooting score?

  288 out of 300, Sir.

  All right, Specialist. Here’s your chance to top that. I want you to aim just above her head, but close enough so she can feel the draft from the bullet through her burqa.

  Don’t hose her, Gaines warns.

  Simonis grins. He says: Do you have any money you’d like to lose?

  Why? Gaines asks.

  Watch, Simonis says.

  He recycles the bolt again and relaxes into position. I raise my binoculars. The cart appears to hit a snag in the ground because the wheels lock momentarily before moving again. Simonis waits for a moment and then pulls the trigger.

  The shot’s in the black. The cart lurches to a stop inches from the seventy-five-meter line. We wait for her to move again, but she remains stationary.

  Score, Simonis says below his breath.

  C’mon lady, Gaines whispers, one more meter and you’re dead meat on a hook …

  Simonis is still looking through his scope.

  She’s fingering something around her neck, he says. It looks like a pendant.

  Could be a good luck charm, I observe. She’s going to need it.

  Gaines says: She’s waving a white flag, Sir.

  Good. She appears to have gotten the message.

  She’s certainly come equipped with flag and all, Gaines says.

  He glances behind his shoulder.

  Cap’n’s here, Sir.

  I jump down from the Hesco and walk up to Connolly. The new interpreter’s with him; he’s discarded his regulation U.S. Army fatigues for the local outfit of baggy trousers, cotton tunic, cap, and sandals. I wonder why.

  The sun floods into the field at that moment. The interpreter raises his megaphone to his mouth and then lowers it again. Connolly takes a step back and shades his eyes.

  I look at the field but can’t see a thing: the sun’s pouring down from the mountaintops. It’s like staring into a golden haze.

  Perched on the Hesco above us, Simonis says: In the court of the crimson king.

  Connolly swivels his neck to look at him. What was that?

  The sun, Sir … Simonis explains.

  Connolly turns to me. Morning, Lieutenant, he says. Perimeter secured?

  Yes, Sir.

  He nods at the cart in the field. What d’you think? Suicide bomber?

  Nope. Too slow, Sir. Too prominent. Too unwieldy. With that getup, in broad daylight, she’s practically screaming for attention.

  All right. What else could she be?

  I’d vote for diversionary tactic.

  A distraction?

  Why not?

  You may be right, he says. Something doesn’t smell right about this. How far is she from the wire?

  We stopped her at the seventy-five-meter line, Sir.

  He makes eye contact with me. Too close, he says. I would’ve liked more distance between that cart and us. Don’t take your eyes off the game, Lieutenant Ellison. You should know the drill by now.

  I flush and say: Yes, Sir.

  A scorpion edges out from a chink between two sandbags and scuttles with its tail raised right before us. Connolly lifts his boot and slams it down.

  I hate these things, he says. He lifts his boot, and the scorpion slips into a crevice in the ground, apparently unscathed.

  I’ll be darned! Connolly says.

  They’re tough, Sir, Wonk Gaines pipes up.

  Like the whole fucking country, Connolly says.

  Sergeant Whalen comes up. Morning, Cap’n. Lieutenant Ellison.

  I shake his hand. Morning, First Sarn’t.

  Whalen’s eyes are bloodshot. He’s taken Nick Frobenius’s death hard.

  He squints at the field. So that’s our WMD? he says. What in God’s name is that thing?

  I say: On the face of it, a woman in a cart doing her morning rounds.

  Connolly says: What d’you think, First Sarn’t? Man or woman underneath the burqa?

  Whalen hesitates. You got me there, Sir.

  He glances to me. What’s your take, Lieutenant?

  I don’t think it matters, Sir. What does matter is that it’s introduced an element of danger and uncertainty into our situation. If there are insurgents on the slopes, they could be using her as a ploy—or for reconnaissance. The Taliban have been known to exploit our restrictive ROE by using women and children as distractions—or as human shields.

  Connolly says: Well, let’s find out either way, shall we?

  He glances at the interpreter. What’s your name again, son?

  The interpreter presses his right hand to his heart.

  Comandan Saab, I am called Masood.

  Masood what?

  Sir?

  What’s your full name?

  Farid Humayun Masood Attar, Sir, he says, and smiles, before adding helpfully: Attar, as in the famous poet who wrote The Conference of the Birds.

  I see, Connolly says and pauses, nonplussed. I’ll just call you Masood, if that’s all right.

  As you please, Comandan Saab.

  Okay, then, ask her wh
at she fucking wants.

  Masood steps forward smartly and raises the megaphone to his mouth. There’s an electric crackle as he switches it on.

  Starey më she, tsë ghwâre? he calls out. Hello, what do you want?

  The high-pitched voice carries back to us as clear as a bell.

  Salâmat osëy … she says, but I can’t understand the rest of her reply.

  Masood translates: She says she is here to bury her brother, who was killed in the battle yesterday. She is his sister. Her name is Nizam.

  Crap, Connolly says, and spits close to his boots. So they send their women to pick up their dead? The rats.

  He glances at me. What d’you make of the voice, Lieutenant? Woman or boy?

  Sounds like a woman to me. Young.

  First Sarn’t?

  I’ll second that, Sir, Whalen says.

  It’s a boy, Comandan Saab, Masood interjects, sounding sure of himself.

  We look at him together. How d’you know that? Connolly asks.

  The name Nizam is a man’s name, Comandan Saab.

  Connolly purses his lips. He’s not very clever, then, is he? he says, but he looks dissatisfied.

  He’s Pashtun, Masood says dismissively, and taps his head.

  A deep voice speaks up from behind us: it’s Doc Taylor.

  What’s your mother tongue, Masood? he asks.

  It’s Dari, Sir.

  That’s the Afghan version of Persian, isn’t it?

  Yes, Sir.

  And Nizam is a man’s name in Persian, am I not correct?

  Yes, Sir.

  Are there absolutely no exceptions?

  Masood hesitates. That I wouldn’t know, Sir.

  Connolly interrupts: What’s your point, Doc?

  Simply this, Sir. Nizam isn’t always a man’s name. The word means harmony, and refers to the order of pearls and other precious things—which might explain why the twelfth-century Persian sheikh’s daughter who inspired Ibn ’Arabi, the most famous Arab poet, was called Nizám. So there you have it. More or less.

  I didn’t know, Masood says, crestfallen.

  Whalen whistles softly. Ya’ll taking Intro to Arab Lit., Doc?

  I’ve been doing some reading of my own these past few months, Taylor says with a disarming smile.

  He steps forward and stands next to me.

  I thought you’d gone to man the medic tent, Sergeant, I remark pointedly.