The Watch

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  Ellison swivels his entire body in disagreement as he remarks: With all due respect, Sir, the boundaries of our actions are leading to our losing good men to save the asses of a bunch of mofos in Kabul who’re making out like they’re on Wall Street.

  I’m about to respond angrily, when Masood, the interpreter, bursts in.

  I look at him in surprise.

  Comandan Saab, he blurts out, Nizam has killed a lamb in your honor! She would like you to have it. Please come out to the field to accept it from her.

  I try to check myself, but it’s no use. What the fuck? I snap. You can’t just barge in like this!

  He seems to physically shrivel into himself, but before I can tell him to clear out, Ellison says calmly, as if there had been no interruption: If we can’t return the body, then what are we to do with the girl?

  What …? I say, still glaring at Masood.

  I was wondering if you had a plan concerning the girl, Sir.

  I turn away from the interpreter and force myself to answer the question calmly: Battalion’s received permission from Brigade to move her out of here. They’re gonna shift her to a sanatorium in Kandahar—

  At this point, there’s a wordless exclamation from Masood, but Whalen, to his credit, grasps him firmly by the arm and escorts him out of the hut. We hear him going ballistic at Masood, and before long he returns without the interpreter.

  What the hell’s the matter with him? I ask furiously. Has he totally lost it? What makes him think he has unfettered access to my office? And what was that crap about sheep anyway?

  I can explain, Sir, Petrak volunteers. The field is covered with sheep. They seem to have wandered down from the mountains—we’re keeping an eye out, but I didn’t know the girl had killed a lamb.

  What am I supposed to do with a fucking lamb? And how did she kill it? With her bare teeth?

  I don’t know, Sir.

  I glare at Whalen accusingly. I thought you’d checked her thoroughly.

  I thought I did too, Sir, he says.

  I’m glad she’s going to get medical attention, Ellison interjects quietly.

  You better be, given that after she’s evaluated at Kandahar, she’s headed for Bagram, where they’ll give her a thorough examination before sending her on to Landstuhl.

  To Germany!

  Damn right. We’re gonna make her a textbook example of trauma rehabilitation. She’s going to be fitted with the latest state-of-the-art prostheses. By the time they’re done with her, she’ll be able to compete in the fucking Olympics. What do you gents think of that?

  The murmur of surprise that goes around the circle is succeeded by approval. Even Whalen’s features relax. I savor the moment by drawing it out.

  Are we shipping her out on the same bird as her brother? Whalen asks.

  I’d assume so. Why? What does that matter?

  I was thinking of the stench, Sir.

  Oh, for Chrissake, the CH-47 is a pretty big bird! I reply. Besides, she won’t know where it’s from.

  We could have him towed behind the bird, Tanner jokes. He’s probably so bloated with gas by this time, he’ll float like a balloon.

  ’Cept he might get tangled in the rotors, and then they’d be left with bubble gum for their TV show, Bradford ripostes.

  All right, that’s enough, I say brusquely. Any more questions?

  You appear to have covered all the bases, Sir, Petrak says with admiration.

  You can thank the colonel. I had very little to do with it.

  All the same, Petrak says loyally, he wouldn’t have known about her if you hadn’t brought it to his notice, Sir.

  Well, I suppose there is that, I admit, running a caustic eye over my subordinates, before adding: Although there’s still one thing that I haven’t figured out.

  What’s that, Sir?

  Where am I gonna get the white robes and angel wings with which to dress up you namby-pambies before sending you out into the mountains to explain to the dead man’s tribe how sorry you are for what became of him.

  I interrupt the smattering of chagrined laughter by suggesting that we go and get some coffee and take a look at the field.

  And then we can have some breakfast before heading out to fetch her, I add.

  Whalen pauses in midstride and stares at me. We’re not all going, are we?

  Oh, I don’t see why not. After all the fuss you’ve made, don’t you guys want to give her a fucking parade?

  There’s still a thick fog outside, Sir, he says. We may have to wait a bit until it clears.

  The birds will be here at 1100, so we’re gonna need to have her ready to go before then, I reply. Shall we say 0900? And if we have to go out under cover of the fog, that’s fine.

  You’re in a good mood, Captain, Whalen says with a wan smile.

  Should I not be, First Sarn’t? I’m pleased with the resolution we’ve come up with for her. It’s good to belong to an organization that cares about the finer points.

  I turn to Ellison.

  You see, Lieutenant? Never jump to conclusions where the U.S. Army is concerned. We do have a sense of honor, we respect courage, and we do things right.

  He turns crimson. On behalf of the men, Sir, he says haltingly, may I give you our thanks?

  Don’t sweat it, Lieutenant, I say crisply. You’ll learn. What’s more, we’re going to get a whole lot of feel-good PR from this story. It’s just the kind of thing that gets written up—heroes with hearts, or something along those lines. Maybe I’ll suggest it to the colonel the next time we talk. Who knows?—we may even make it to the front page of Stars and Stripes. Or maybe we’ll get really lucky and they’ll put her on the cover of Time magazine like that gal who got her nose cut off.

  Ellison raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

  Whalen’s the last one to file out. He catches my eye and says in an undertone: Are you absolutely sure we should all go out to get her, Sir?

  I tense up. Yes, I am.

  May I disagree with that decision, Sir?

  Jesus Christ, not again, First Sarn’t! I whisper furiously. It’s obvious we’re gonna need to have a chat. See me as soon as we’ve dealt with her, do you understand?

  Yes, Sir, he says quietly, before lapsing into silence.

  0630.

  Sunrise.

  The mist shades to gold and then red.

  I warm my hands holding my second cup of coffee of the day and walk with the others toward the Hescos. The mountain peaks are crimson; the slopes long shadows of gray. Once again, I marvel, as I do almost every day, at the immensity of this landscape, and feel puny in comparison.

  We walk right up to the wire. What I see before me is truly surreal. In the middle of the field made black by the shadows cast by the mountains, a flock of sheep mills about in confusion, while the girl sits motionless in their midst. There’s something almost statuelike in her stillness. Unable to hold her gaze, I look away. Every feature of the landscape stands out in black and white. An electric current seems to run through the air. I’m about to steal a glance at her again, when a ray of sunlight falls on the dew-dappled ground and carves out a shape like a scimitar.

  I clear my throat and look sideways at Ellison, who’s gone very pale.

  I can’t wait to put up an observation post on the spur of that mountain, I remark conversationally. It’s our biggest frickin’ vulnerability in this place. It’ll be our first task once she’s outta here. Then we can stop worrying about shooters, and those razor-teeth slopes are gonna look a lot less intimidating. We’re gonna fix this problem once and for all.

  I hear you, Sir, he says.

  I turn toward the field once more and study it closely. Kinda funny there’s all these sheep and no one looking after them, don’t you think?

  He stiffens as he follows my gaze, but doesn’t reply. Clearly, it hadn’t occurred to him. His eyes don’t leave the field.

  Did we find out how she killed the lamb? I query him.

  She used a k
nife, Sir. Some of the men saw her do it.

  I aim a baleful glance at Whalen, but he’s staring somewhere else. There’s a moment’s awkward silence. Ellison stands ramrod straight beside me, looking glum.

  And what are those things covering some of the sheep? I ask him irritably.

  He raises his binoculars to his eyes. They look like blankets folded in half, Sir. Probably to protect them from the cold.

  Probably? You’re speculating, Lieutenant. I don’t like it when my officers can’t give me answers to simple questions. Do you follow me?

  Yes, Sir.

  I look through my binoculars as well. Do you know if we’ve checked them out?

  I don’t believe we have, Sir.

  Jesus. Fucking sheep in the killing zone. I hate imponderables.

  I could send a team out right now.

  No, let it be. There’s no point in spooking her. You can deal with it after we’ve brought her in.

  We’ll chase the whole damn flock back up the slopes, Sir, Petrak says smartly.

  Break the terp’s heart, Tanner says with a laugh, but stops short when I stare coldly at him.

  All right then, I tell the others. I’ve seen enough. We’ll assemble here at 0900, fog or no fog. First Sergeant Whalen: I want you to assemble a team from First and Second Platoons to be her escort. Call it her guard of honor, if you like. You can ask for volunteers.

  Whalen hesitates. So you really mean it, Sir?

  You bet I fucking mean it.

  I turn to Bradford. You better round up Masood. We’re gonna need him to translate.

  Yes, Sir.

  Great. Let’s go and get some breakfast. I can smell those scrambled eggs and hash browns all the way from here.

  0845.

  I tie Shorty’s leash to my bunk. He’s not used to being confined, and it seems to make him restless. To reassure him, I pet him and tell him I’ll set him free as soon as I get back.

  Good dog, I tell him. Good boy.

  He wags his tail uncertainly and whimpers. As I walk away, he strains to free himself. He starts barking as soon as I leave the hut.

  0905.

  I watch the men lining up by the Hescos. There’s Duggal, Lee, Jackson, Ramirez, and Pratt from First Platoon, and Everheart, Pietrafesa, Scanlon, Lawson, and Wonk Gaines from Second Platoon. With their zinc-covered noses and sun-blackened faces, they look intimidating, even to me. I shake my head. Don’t you guys ever sleep? I remark.

  I walk up to Scanlon. Don’t forget to talk to Lieutenant Ellison about your wedding band.

  I won’t, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

  I turn to Pratt. Glad to be doing this, soldier?

  Yessir, he says. Then his forehead furrows. But something don’t feel right. An’ I can’t figure out what that be. He reaches down to touch the desert floor. Snakeskin ground, he says. It’s givin’ me bad vibes.

  Maybe you’re worried because she’s armed, soldier, I say tongue-in-cheek. Don’t forget she has a knife.

  One of the men snickers, but shuts up as soon as I scowl at him.

  Masood runs up, panting. He glances at me apprehensively. I was wrong about her, Comandan Saab, he says in a stricken voice. She’s a parvaneh. A butterfly.

  You’re gonna have to learn not to talk out of turn, I tell him irritably.

  Doc arrives with his medic bag and a couple of blankets. He opens the bag and shows me extra dressings and gauze.

  I’m good to go, Sir, he says, snapping the bag shut.

  I turn to Schott and Ashworth. To Schott, I say: Once we bring her in, I want you to get her biometrics, okay? No ifs, ands, or buts, just get them—and I don’t care how you do it.

  I watch as soldiers climb up on the Hescos and set up machine gun positions to cover the field and the slopes. Turning to Ashworth, I ask: D’you have your men on overwatch positions?

  Yes, Sir.

  And you’ve got all approaches covered?

  Yes, Sir.

  Why all the fuss, Sir? Ellison asks quietly. I thought the drone gave us the all clear.

  Contingency planning, Lieutenant. When you’ve been here long enough, it becomes second nature.

  Behind us, the men arrayed along the Hescos in the overwatch position scan the field and the shadowy slopes. A weapons team from Second Platoon moves an M-240B machine gun from their fighting hole and places it on a tripod. One of the men slings belts of ammunition over his shoulders.

  I walk over to Simonis, who’s settling down on his perch on top of the Hescos. The mountains tower over us. With my gaze fixed on the slopes, I say: If you see anything happen out of the ordinary, take the shot. Don’t hesitate. That’s a standing order.

  Roger, Sir, he says tersely. Wilco.

  I watch him uncase his sniper’s rifle and run his eyes over the field and the mountains’ faces. Binoculars and another rifle, an M-24, lie next to him. He stretches out on a bed of sandbags, one leg crooked, eyes pressed to the rifle’s sight. He’s my ultimate lethal weapon, with a kill ratio of almost one hundred percent, and that reassures me.

  I climb down from the Hescos and walk back to where everyone’s waiting.

  A raven flies low overhead and circles the field twice before heading east toward the mountains.

  That’s frickin’ bad luck, someone mutters.

  Whalen turns to glare at the speaker.

  I address the men: Any questions?

  I wait for a moment, and then say with a tight smile: All right, then. Let’s go.

  We troop out past the concertina. Whalen takes point.

  I pause to absorb the breathless feeling I get whenever I step outside the wire.

  I turn to the men and say in a calm voice: Now remember, this is going to be a Zen operation. We’re not going to use any force on her. We’re going to respect her dignity and treat her with the honor she deserves.

  Her eyes stare watchfully at us as we advance, bulky in our body armor.

  I can see her bangles glinting in the sun.

  Our knees click like castanets as we march in unison.

  Scorpions scuttle out of our way.

  We’re almost there, when she turns suddenly and reaches for the dead lamb. Her knife flashes at the same time as I spot a movement on the slopes. Get down! I scream, even as everyone around me is hitting the ground. A cloud of dust rises from our falling bodies, and it distracts me momentarily from the shot that rings out. We hear the bullet whistle past, and then the girl’s falling backward with a bright red explosion where her heart used to be.

  In the pin-drop silence, a voice cuts through the air from behind us.

  It’s Simonis. He says: Score.

  I’m breathing in gasps. I feel helpless and disoriented.

  Masood’s the only one standing. I glance past him with disbelief at the slope where Shorty is darting between rocks. How the fuck did that dog get free?

  Masood lurches toward the cart. He moves jerkily, as if someone’s pulling his strings. When he reaches the girl, he falls to his knees. Her wide open eyes stare at him. She attempts to speak, but only blood wells out of her mouth. She’s pointing at the lamb, and he gently moves her outstretched arm out of the way. The knife slips out of her nerveless fingers. He frees the bright red blanket from the animal and discards it along with the plaited-wire harness that she’d cut. Apart from the portion of its fleece covered by the blanket, the rest of the lamb is drenched in blood. Picking it up, he rises to his feet and begins to walk shakily toward me. When he reaches me, he bends down and places it on the ground. His eyes brimming with tears, he says in the voice of a young boy: Why did you kill her, Comandan Saab? The lamb was her gift to you. We were to feast on it tonight. It is a part of our culture.

  I watch my hands reach slowly forward. They sink deep into the fleece of the lamb. It feels absurdly soft to the touch.

  Whome’er the State

  Appoints, must be obeyed in everything,

  Both small and great, just and unjust alike.

  I warrant such an
one in either case

  Would shine, as King or subject; such a man

  Would in the storm of battle stand his ground,

  A comrade leal and true; but Anarchy—

  What evils are not wrought by Anarchy!

  She ruins States, and overthrows the home,

  She dissipates and routs the embattled host;

  While discipline preserves the ordered ranks.

  Therefore we must maintain authority

  And yield no title to a woman’s will.

  Better, if needs be, men should cast us out

  Than hear it said, a woman proved his match.

  —SOPHOCLES, Antigone

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My dear friends Lana Cable and Eshi Motahar redefined the meaning of what it means to believe in the literary enterprise. Thank you above all for your integrity.

  The Watch owes its existence to the single-minded efforts of one person, my guardian angel, muse, and agent of dreams, Nicole Aragi, who shepherded it from its inception through its final stages with characteristic determination and panache.

  My grateful thanks to Becky Hardie, my lead editor at Chatto & Windus and Hogarth UK, to Lindsay Sagnette, my editor at Crown and Hogarth USA, and to Louise Dennys at Knopf Canada and Meredith Curnow at Random House and Hogarth Australia. Your collective faith in the book proved inspirational. Dearest Becky: how strange that the journey from Gabriel to Antigone should have led through Africa—for both of us. And Lindsay—Tsvetaeva was meant for reciting at Union Square at midnight, no?

  Thanks as well for their full-throated support to Molly Stern and Maya Mavjee at Crown and Hogarth USA, Clara Farmer and Parisa Ebrahimi at Chatto & Windus and Hogarth UK, and Anna Govender and Antonia Hayes at Random House Australia. In Canada, my humble thanks to Anne Collins at Knopf Random House Canada, Marion Garner, Amanda Betts, and Susan Traxel at Vintage Canada, Matthew Sibiga, and Maral Aguilera-Moradipour. In the UK, James Jones designed the cover, Katherine Ailes managed editorial details, Nicky Nevin guided the book through the production stages, and Kate Bland and Ruth Warburton handled publicity. In the US, Christine Kopprasch assisted, Chris Brand was jacket art director, Tal Goretsky designed the cover, Amy Boorstein and Mark Birkey managed production, Mary Anne Stewart copyedited the manuscript, and Dyana Messina, Rachel Meier, Annsley Rosner, Jay Sones, and David Drake attended to the marketing and publicity details.