It’ll be heavier still if you let your guard down and we’re attacked in the middle of the night, I respond. Remember what happened two days ago. You don’t want to end up as a casualty in a CQB you coulda prevented, soldier.
I … I suppose we just have a feelin’ she’s different, Sir.
How do you know that? I say sharply.
Nothing tangible, Sir.
Then park that feeling.
Yes, Sir.
We’re pretty much worn out, Sir, Pratt interjects quietly, and it’s prob’ly affectin’ our judgment. Sometimes it’s like I can’t feel my body at all.
Stand up and stretch when that happens, I say without sympathy.
An’ this waitin’ aroun’ is tellin’ on our nerves an’ all, he carries on, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. ’Specially if you got to do it from here. Ev’thing looks like a threat through a scope at night. It’s like havin’ tunnel vision.
I glare at him for a moment before walking off. Seconds later, I catch myself wondering why I’m so annoyed. As I pause in the shadow of the Hescos to tie a bootlace, I hear Ramirez saying: What’s up with the old man? He was gonna eat our faces in a minnit! Whoo … whoo … I’d give a hundred grand to know what’s buggin’ him.
If you had a hundred grand you wouldn’t be here, dude, Barela says.
I still can’t b’lieve she turned down my Philly cheesesteak, though, Ramirez says, abruptly changing tack. I mean, I used hot sauce an’ all.
These people are fickle, man, Barela says.
No, it ain’t that, Pratt says firmly. They jes’ don’ wan’ us here.
That’s not what the terp says, Ramirez insists.
Masood? Barela says. He’s all right.
I don’t know, man, I just don’t know, Ramirez continues. I don’t want to be close-minded or anything, but I don’t trust the Afs. I mean, think of the way the ANA fuckin’ left us high and dry during the firefight. That ain’t right, man. If I see one of those suckers again, he’s dead.
He’s not going to stick around long enough for you to get to him, Barela points out quite reasonably. Or even if you do, he’s gonna be yellin’ up a storm, calling on his hadji buddies for rescue.
It’s hard to yell when you got a barrel in your mouth, Ramirez says tersely. Besides, our Afs were Uzbek, and I don’t know if you can technically call them hadjis, or if that’s only reserved for the Taliban, who’re mostly Pashtun.
You’re probably right, Barela admits.
And the Pashtun wouldn’t run from a fight, Ramirez continues. That’s why they fuckin’ own the country. I mean, just thinkin’ about that fuckin’ sandstorm attack makes my neck go sore. They’ve been doing this crazy shit for so long, it’s prolly the only way they know to be.
An’ I agree, Pratt says. As I was sayin’ befo’ I was so rudely inn’erupted, the Pashtun feel diff’rently. This be their land, see, an’ the girl out there be communicatin’ that message to us loud an’ clear. I think that’s what’s gettin’ the Cap’n’s goat.
She’s a real insurgente, man, Barela says with admiration. I mean, she ain’t like the other squirters. She must have crawled her fuckin’ knees off to get here. She just don’t give up.
She give the place a face, Pratt observes. Before she come, this was a dump.
What can I say, you guys? Ramirez laughs. I got ninety-nine problems, and the bitch ain’t one, you know what I’m sayin’?
She ain’t no bitch, jerkoff, Pratt says quickly.
Whatever, dude, Ramirez says. I’m so tired of this place, I can’t wait to go home.
What you plan to do when you get back? Barela asks.
I’m gonna open a bodypaint shop.
Auto body an’ paint?
Naw, that’s boring. Bodypaint and tattoos. Like on chicks and stuff. I got the idea when I seen that pitcher of Demi Moore in Lawson’s hooch. She wasn’t wearin’ no clothes, but you wouldn’t know that from the way they done her up. So I thought to myself: that’s what I wanna do. And I’m gonna learn Japanese kanji to do the tattoos right. I’m done with guns and violence, man: I’m turnin’ to art.
So you not gonna ride the white pony again when you’re back in the barrio, Ram? Barela asks.
Naw, I’m done with all that.
They’re gonna miss you at the shooting gallery.
Like I tole you, I’m goin’ clean. That bitch don’t fly for me no more.
What ’bout you? Pratt asks Barela.
I’m gonna join the L.A.P.D., man, I need the adrenaline fix.
Who knows if we gonna be able to go back at all, Pratt says glumly. We been extended again and again.
Maybe that’s why Garcia tried to whack himself, Ramirez suggests.
Naw, Pratt replies. I heard it was girl trouble.
There’s a pregnant pause, and then Barela asks: Girlfriend?
Wife.
Bitch!
What about the Cap’n? Ramirez asks. What d’you guys think he’s gonna do when his time’s up?
From the way he’s been fuckin’ up lately, Barela says, gettin’ people killed and all, they’re prob’ly goin’ to kick him upstairs and make him into a general.
I miss Lieutenant Frobenius, man, Ramirez says. He was the coolest dude. Best damn officer I’ve ever served under.
We still got Ellison, though, Pratt says.
Ellison’s a prick, Ramirez says. It’s like he always got a stick up his ass.
That’s ’cos he new, Pratt says. They all be like that the first few months before they settle down.
He’s still a tightass. Like he’s wearin’ boots a size too small.
You gotta have patience, Barela says. That’s the first thing you learn in the barrio. That’s the way the Cap’n used to be, but he’s gettin’ old. He’s like, what, thirty or something? I mean, that’s way old! You start losin’ your facilities and ev’rything.
I grimace in the shadows. Thank you very much! I swear silently. I’m twenty-seven, you fuckheads!
They’re still talking about me in low voices when I decide that I’ve heard enough and move on. Next up on my beat is the firing position facing the LZ, on the other side of the base. Everheart, Scanlon, and Pietrafesa from Second Platoon are on watch. I’m still smarting from my last meeting, and am curt with my greetings.
How’re you doing, Everheart? I ask. And please don’t go quoting the Scripture at me when you answer.
No, Sir, he says hurriedly, rising to his feet. I won’t, Sir. I’m all right, Sir. It’s been a quiet night.
Quiet doesn’t always mean that nothing’s happening out there.
Pietrafesa’s looking up at the sky. He glances at me with a smile.
Sky reminds me of home, Sir.
We didn’t train you to look at the fucking sky, soldier.
He snaps to attention. No, Sir. I won’t look again, Sir.
I relent and gaze momentarily at the sky as well.
Home’s Hawaii, right? I ask. Same stars?
No, Sir, not actually. But I was looking at the Milky Way. It reminded me of soapsuds draping across the paintwork of a sharp black car in a wash. I used to be an attendant.
Hmm. I can see what you mean. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. You’re from a military family, aren’t you?
I am, Sir, he says. My dad fought in ’Nam, and my grandad was in Inchon.
They must be proud of you, right?
No, Sir, as a matter of fact.
Oh? Why not?
My dad has PTSD big-time, Sir. He didn’t want me to sign up. He was, like, don’t do it, Tim, if you know what’s good for you, and I was, like, Oh, I don’t know, Dad. So I signed up.
I see … That’s a bummer. I hesitate for a moment, nonplussed, before turning to Scanlon. And what about you? How’re you holding up?
I’m totally pissed off at myself, Sir. I lost my wedding band this evening. I’m going to catch it when I get back home.
Gold band?
Fake gold, Sir. Out of a Cracker Jack box
. Still and all, it’s got major sentimental value for Deedee, seeing that she got it for me, like, when she was nine. We’d been dating for a while before we got married.
Maybe we can help you out with a search party tomorrow. Tell Lieutenant Ellison I suggested that, will you?
I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.
As I walk away, I feel myself finally hit a wall of fatigue. Relieved, I hurry back to my hut. I’m already drowsy by the time I take off my boots, and I don’t bother with anything else as I slide under the blanket. I pass out even before my head hits the pillow.
0425.
I’m woken up by a call from Battalion. Lautenschlager is on the other end of the line. He sounds wide awake this early in the morning. I know how much he prides himself on his ability to function on an hour’s sleep. Blurry-eyed and still half-asleep, I try to focus on his words against the white noise of static on the line.
When I hang up some twenty minutes later, I sit still for a few moments, and then reach for my boots. As I put them on, Shorty trots over for his morning rubdown. I run a comb through his coat and feel myself relax even as he does. By the time I’m done combing him, my mind has cleared. We leave the hut together and are instantly enveloped by a thick gray mist.
I feel my way through the damp, cottony stuff and am quickly soaked with dew. I reach the Hescos and hoist myself up to look out past the concertina.
An entire layer of cloud has spooled down in pillars that reach to the ground. When the haze clears a little, I catch a glimpse of the ghostlike figure in the darkness of the field and feel a twinge of doubt. As I climb down from my perch, I think of Whalen’s words about war not making sense sometimes and wonder if he could be right in this particular instance. Then I dismiss the thought.
I make a pit stop at the mess tent to get some coffee. I cradle the Styrofoam cup as I make my way between the B-huts listening to the sounds of men stirring. Somewhere, a boyish tenor begins to sing U2’s “Beautiful Day.” A flock of tiny birds dips in and out of the mist trilling in high-pitched voices. The company’s pennant snaps in the breeze. The base is coming to life. It’s going to be an eventful day. I can already sense it.
0545.
A little before 0600, I summon the officers for a meeting.
Whalen’s first in, followed by Ellison, then Bradford and Tanner, and, finally, Petrak as the last entrant. I begin by telling them about the new officers who’ll be arriving today. Lieutenant Dan Lafayette will be the unit’s newly appointed Executive Officer, Lieutenant Stuart Sutherland will be Lieutenant Frobenius’s replacement as First Platoon’s leader, with Staff Sergeant Randy Mejia in for Staff Sergeant Espinosa, and Corporal Marty Holmstrom taking over the motor pool.
I pause for questions, then continue:
But that isn’t the only reason I called you here this bright and early. Following up on my promise to the First Sarn’t yesterday, I put in a call to Battalion to ask for more information on our dead insurgent, and Lieutenant-Colonel Lautenschlager got back to me this morning. We’ve learned two things. First, she spoke the truth about her brother not being allied with the Taliban. Turns out they come from one of the few Pashtun mountain tribes who hate the hadjis and were able to keep them at bay during their glory days. So that part of her story holds up. However, our local intelligence contacts could come up with nothing to support her story about whether she did indeed make the trip to Tarsândan on her own, as she claims, or was brought here by other parties. What we do know, as a result of the drone that’s been assessing the area, is that there are no—repeat, no—Anti-Afghan Forces visible on the slopes facing us. Based on that evidence, it would appear that the girl really is on her own.
There’s a rush of exhaled air around the circle.
So we can bring her in for a medical examination, Sir? Whalen asks.
Yes, we can. Have Doc set it up.
Suddenly Ellison leans forward: Is there anything to support her claims about the drone strike that took out her family?
Not exactly, I reply. There is a report of a Predator strike in one of the mountain valleys about six months ago, but we’ve no information that it struck a wedding party. As far as we’re concerned, we targeted, and successfully eliminated, a band of insurgents.
Who were our informants in the Predator attack? Whalen asks.
Locals in the Arghandab River Valley with tribal connections to the governor of Kandahar province. They’re part of our extended intelligence network run out of KAF.
You must mean our big black hole in the sky, Sir, Tanner wisecracks.
I’ll ask you for your opinion when I want it, Sergeant, I say curtly.
Wasn’t there a report some time ago about a running feud between the governor and the mountain tribes? Whalen asks.
There might have been. I don’t remember, and I don’t think it particularly matters. If there is a feud, it’s business as usual, because they’re always fighting each other. They’re all as crazy as fuck.
But it might be important in this case, Sir.
I clear my throat. What is this, First Sarn’t? Fucking CSI Kandahar?
I’m just asking, Sir.
Yeah? You going somewhere with your questions?
I’m trying to find out if the governor might have set us up to conveniently remove an important local rival. It’s been known to happen.
Bradford gives a low whistle. Ellison leans back and bites his lip.
In other words, we might have got played, Bradford says.
No, we didn’t get played, I say sharply. Our actions are determined by the intelligence we have on hand, not on wild fucking surmises—and that intelligence was provided by the governor who’s part of the present regime. The regime that we support, I might add.
My answer seems to satisfy no one. I notice Bradford avoiding my eyes. Then Tanner says dolefully: Will someone please tell me who the good guys are?
I look at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before leaning abruptly over my desk and letting them all have it. What is this, I explode, a pity party? What the hell is eating you guys? May I remind you that, Taliban or not Taliban, the fucker attacked us, and that’s the bottom line!
But don’t you think he might have attacked us precisely because his people got whacked, Sir? Ellison persists.
I don’t know, Lieutenant. I think that’s a pointless question.
I only ask because that’s what the girl alleged, Sir …
Suddenly, Sergeant Petrak asks: What’s the nearest U.S. base to her tribe?
We are, Ellison replies before I can.
His answer hangs heavily in the air. No one else says anything. The silence in the hut is awkward and prolonged.
Then Whalen says pensively, almost as if he’s speaking to himself: If the guy isn’t Taliban, does that mean we can give her back his body?
I fold my arms over my chest. What d’you mean?
Surely, now that we know she’s here on her own, Sir, there’s no doubting the genuineness of her claim. I mean, all she wants to do is to bury the damn body. Couldn’t we just send Battalion some photographs and be done with it?
I look at him with exasperation. Battalion isn’t calling the shots on this one, I reply. It goes much higher up the chain of command. Nor is the issue whether or not the guy’s Taliban. What matters is that he’s an insurgent who led an attack on a U.S. Army base. That’s why the regime wants to display the body: they want to send a clear message of potency to both their constituents and their opponents. They’re saying to the Taliban: You fuck with us and you end up like this poor bastard—and we won’t be making any more mistaken claims based on fraudulent photographs from this point on.
But the facts themselves in this case are fraudulent if he isn’t Taliban! Ellison protests.
It doesn’t fucking matter, I answer. Besides, for the regime to cancel at this stage would mean a loss of face. The details are irrelevant to them.
But are they irrelevant to us? Ellison exclaims. I mean, where’s our inte
grity? Who the fuck are we working for?
Lieutenant! I look at him in surprise.
With all due respect, Sir, he carries on, is the U.S. Army an independent entity, or are we simply handmaids to a government that everybody and their mother knows has compromised our mission from the get-go?
This guy attacked us! I reply heatedly. His people killed our people. I could hardly care less about what they do with his fucking corpse!
So we’re following the enemy’s playbook where that’s concerned, Sir?
I open my mouth and close it again. At length, all I can say is: I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you, Lieutenant.
Bradford clears his throat and eyes me uneasily.
Sorry, Sir, but I’m with the lieutenant on this, he says.
Let me repeat myself, I say coldly. He’s not our problem. He’s dead.
So we’re letting the regime’s SOP trump ours, Sir?
In this case, it doesn’t fucking matter, okay?
I’m not sure I understand why, Sir.
Petrak cuts in: I agree. I don’t understand either.
Then he addresses me directly: Why are we here, Sir?
Whalen speaks up in my stead. His voice is curiously flat.
He says: We’re here because we have a mission to carry out.
All right, Ellison says. What’s the mission?
To support the government in Kabul, I reply.
But we know they’re crooks! They stole the election. And they’re as fucked up as the Taliban!
Maybe, but if the Taliban return to power, you can be damn sure they’ll make the present bunch seem like a fucking school of philosophers.
So that’s the standard we’re using now, Sir? The Taliban?
We don’t make those judgments, Lieutenant, I say icily. They’re made for us. That’s why we have diplomats. Our job is to fight the enemy, clean up, and clear out. I thought that was pretty clear. Apparently, I was mistaken. We don’t do politics, and, beyond a certain point, we don’t get involved in these people’s lives. The boundaries of our actions are clearly defined.
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