The Mirage

by Matt Ruff

A truck rumbled by on the highway below. Bar Abbas lit a cigarette and began to read.

  The four Humvees were lined up in front of the Watergate Hotel. Three of them were what the Marines called “luxury models,” with bolted-on side and rear armor plating, bulletproof windows, and an armored turret surrounding the roof-mounted .50-caliber machine gun.

  Mustafa, Samir, and Amal were each assigned to one of the armored Humvees. Mustafa would ride in the lead vehicle with Lieutenant Fahd. Humvee number two was the unarmored model.

  Amal was assigned to Humvee number three with Salim, Zinat, Umm Husam, and a Sergeant Faris. Zinat offered to drive, but Sergeant Faris insisted on taking the wheel himself, and since Lionesses were not allowed to operate heavy weapons except in emergencies, that put Salim on the .50-caliber. “Ah well,” Zinat said, after Umm Husam claimed the other front seat, “at least we’ll have a nice view.” She tried to show Amal how the gunner’s sling would dangle Salim’s buttocks directly before their eyes, but Amal’s attention was focused on the turret armor, which struck her as inadequate. Salim’s head and upper torso would still be exposed, especially to a shooter firing from an elevated position.

  Samir was assigned to the fourth Humvee, which had a sign mounted between its taillights reading AMERICA, TAILGATE AND WE WILL KILL YOU.

  They had been issued helmets and flak jackets. Samir found the body armor constricting and pointless, so he stripped it off while he had a last smoke and then, when the order came to get into the vehicles, tried to leave it behind. The Marines were looking out for him, though, and one of his Humvee-mates, Private Dimashqi, patted him on the shoulder and handed the flak jacket back to him. “I know it’s a pain in the ass,” the private said, “but we really do want to keep you safe, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Samir said glumly.

  Colonel Yunus came out to see them off. He made eye contact with Mustafa and pressed his palms together in front of his chest. Mustafa smiled and returned the gesture, and the colonel nodded to Lieutenant Fahd.

  “OK, let’s roll,” the lieutenant said.

  Their air escort, a Shaitan missile-equipped helicopter gunship, was hovering over the Kennedy Arts Center. As the Humvee convoy rounded the Arabian embassy and entered the on-ramp for the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, the pilot dipped the chopper’s nose in acknowledgment and flew out over the Potomac ahead of them.

  Lieutenant Fahd, playing tour guide, explained that the bridge was named for the first American president to pay a state visit to the UAS. Teddy Roosevelt had spent little time in Arabia itself; instead he and Ibn Saud had gone down the East African coast for six weeks of big-game hunting in Kenya.

  The bridge passed over an island in the middle of the river. The island too was named for Roosevelt and prior to the invasion it had been a nature preserve. Unfortunately the forest cover had attracted insurgents, and after a pair of former Minutemen had been caught laying dynamite under the bridge piers, Army engineers had been dispatched to the island. They’d chopped down every tree and shrub within two hundred meters of the bridge and used flamethrowers on the rest. Looking ahead, Mustafa could see that similar measures had been employed on the Virginia shoreline—and not just on the foliage. Many of the high-rises in downtown Arlington were blackened husks, and those that hadn’t burned were heavily damaged by artillery and rocket fire. “Is that from the 2004 assault?”

  “Some of it,” Lieutenant Fahd said. “Some of it dates back to the initial invasion, and some is more recent—Arlington has always been a trouble spot. Despite how it looks, we do try our best to minimize collateral damage, but there are limits to how surgical you can be with high-explosive munitions in a built-up area like this.”

  The road circled north and west around the urban core. The Humvee gunners kept their weapons trained on the broken skyline and watched for snipers. Zinat, ogling Salim’s butt, gave Amal a nudge as his hips swiveled along with the turret. Amal ignored her. Like the gunners she was focused on the tall buildings, appalled not by the destruction but by the number of viable sniping perches that remained among the wreckage. Minimizing civilian casualties was all well and good, but if you were going to raze a city anyway, why not do a more thorough job?

  For the first kilometer no one attacked them. Then they drove past a housing subdivision that had been blasted flat during an encounter between the Virginia Sons of Liberty and the Seventh Marine Regiment. A gang of little kids were playing Patriots and Muslims in the rubble-strewn field, darting from cover to cover and shooting one another with rifles made from sticks.

  Lieutenant Fahd keyed his radio. “Hold fire, hold fire,” he said. “These are noncombatants.”

  The Humvee gunners held their fire. The kids, being kids, showed less restraint. When Salim snapped a mock salute at one mini-patriot in a newspaper tricorne, the boy threw a rock at him. The kid had a good arm; the rock struck the lip of the turret armor and bounced up, nearly catching Salim in the face. “You little shit!” Salim said—a sentiment echoed by Amal inside the Humvee. But Salim was laughing, and he kept the .50-caliber aimed safely skyward, even as the other kids started throwing rocks too.

  “What’s that phrase they’re chanting?” Mustafa asked.

  “ ‘Sand nigger,’ ” said Lieutenant Fahd. He added drily: “It’s a term of endearment. They are comparing us to the noble slaves who built this country.”

  Mustafa got the joke, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t wish to be a spoilsport, and he really did believe that the military had done the best it could here with the tools available. Nevertheless, as the convoy continued on its way, passing more and more scenes of devastation, the thought was inescapable: On the Day of Judgment, whatever other achievements might be credited to the Coalition, nation-building wouldn’t be one of them.

  The rising sun had burned off the fog and there was enough light inside the foxhole now that Bar Abbas could read without squinting. He’d paused to light a fresh cigarette and pour the last of his coffee when his cell phone vibrated again.

  He had two incoming text messages. One was from the secondary ambush team, confirming that they were in place, ready to finish off any Marines who managed to escape this kill zone.

  The other message was from a watcher along the route: SARACENS ON PIKE @ FALLS CHURCH. EXECUTING DIVERSION.

  “Excellent,” Bar Abbas said, and sent a text of his own: SARACENS INBOUND. ALL MAKE READY.

  Samir was trying to hypnotize himself.

  He’d recalled all that he had ever heard about how suicide bombers prepared themselves mentally—the ritual prayers and recitations of faith, the visions of heavenly reward waiting beyond the pearly gates—but none of it was any use to him. He didn’t know the words of the Nicene Creed and didn’t believe in Saint Peter. Maybe if he’d had a ball of hashish to eat, like one of Hassan Sabbah’s assassins—or better yet, a good stiff drink.

  He concentrated on the drone of the Humvee’s motor, hoping that combined with his exhaustion it would put him in a headspace where he could push two buttons without thinking. It worked too well: His head drooped until his chin touched his chest, and then the sound of an unmufflered motorcycle passing on the other side of the road made him jolt upright again, saying, “Where are we? Where are we? Did I miss it?”

  “Easy,” Private Dimashqi said, chuckling along with the other Marines. “We aren’t there yet.”

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “A minute or two at most. You didn’t miss anything, I promise you.”

  They were passing through another burned-out urban pocket. Samir pressed his face against his door window and tried to look back, to see if there were any billboards on the road shoulder behind them, but it was no use. Fretting, he dropped a hand to his thigh and felt for the cell phone in his pocket. As he touched it, an explosion thundered in the distance.

  “What was that?” Samir looked out the window again and saw black smoke rising to the north. “What the hell was that?”

  In the lead Humvee, Lieu
tenant Fahd was asking the same question in more measured tones. “Looks like a truck bomb,” the helicopter pilot radioed down. “Somewhere in McLean . . . Yeah, citizen’s band is reporting an insurgent attack on the main fire station.”

  The lieutenant hissed in disgust. “You see?” he said, looking over his shoulder at Mustafa. “This is what these fucking people are like. They kill their own first responders, and then they blame us when their neighborhoods go up in smoke.”

  The radio crackled. It was the helicopter again: “Insurgents are hitting the McLean police headquarters now. The attackers have a mortar and the cops are asking for help taking it out.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go,” Lieutenant Fahd said. “We’ll call if we need you.”

  Samir watched the helicopter fly away and understood. He hadn’t missed anything. The sign he’d been commanded to watch for was still ahead, but now that their escort had been lured off, he wouldn’t have long to wait. He abandoned his attempts at mesmerism and fell back on fatherhood, taking the snapshot from his other pocket and cupping it in his hands. Malik, he thought, Jibril, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the dad you deserved. But now I’ll do this thing, for you, and pray Idris keeps his part of the bargain.

  “Are those your sons?” Private Dimashqi said.

  Samir gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he said.

  “Handsome boys.” The private held out a snapshot of his own. “These are my daughters. That’s Faiza and Basilah, and the baby is Aisha.”

  “Adorable.” Shut up. Please shut up.

  “Yeah . . . I haven’t actually met Aisha yet. But my tour’s up in a month, so I’ll finally get to hold her . . .”

  OK, God, Samir thought. I get it. I’m a sinner and I’m going to hell. Well, to hell with you too. Pressing the photo of Malik and Jibril to his chest, he stared at the roadside in grim silence while Private Dimashqi prattled on about his daughters.

  This seemed to be the last of the devastated zones. They drove under a crumbling highway overpass, passed a sign that read LEAVING TYSONS CORNER, and entered a green suburb of mostly intact housing developments. There was still plenty of evidence that battles had been fought here—a roadside church missing its steeple; a pair of American tanks, sans turrets, sitting in a field overgrown with brambles—but no more scorched earth.

  “We’re close,” Lieutenant Fahd said, consulting the electronic map on his dashboard. “Another five kilometers.”

  A moment later, hearing approaching sirens, he called a halt a hundred meters from a road junction. A line of emergency vehicles—two fire engines, an ambulance, another fire engine—came racing along the crossroad, bound for McLean or some other trouble spot. The gunner on the lead Humvee tracked each vehicle in turn. After the last of them had passed by, the convoy continued to sit, while Lieutenant Fahd scanned the terrain ahead with a pair of binoculars.

  Beyond the junction, the land to the left of the pike rose up to form a wooded ridge. The land on the right was flat woods, the trees serving as a screen for a cluster of houses. The pike itself—four lanes, two on either side of a broad grassy median—ran straight and level for about a kilometer before turning sharply to the right.

  “Do you see something?” Mustafa asked.

  “No,” Lieutenant Fahd said. “Just a funny feeling . . .”

  While the lieutenant scanned the woods again, Samir stared at the billboard that stood at the southwest corner of the junction at the base of the ridge. The ad, which showed a bare-chested Oded Fehr caressing an Uzi while Natalie Hershlag pouted beneath silk sheets, was for an Israeli action film Samir knew he had seen—twice—but whose Arabic title he could not, just now, recall. Vandals had given Fehr a yarmulke and horns, and put a swastika on Hershlag’s forehead. These additions, like the ad itself, were weathered and faded, but the white cross spray-painted on the billboard’s lower right corner was fresh and unmistakable.

  “All right,” the lieutenant said, still uneasy, and regretting his decision to let the helicopter go. “Proceed.”

  As the convoy started forward, Samir slipped his hand into his pants pocket, struggling a bit because of the flak jacket, and also because of the numbness that flooded his body. In grasping the phone he pushed the first button without meaning to. Then dread paralyzed him.

  The lead Humvee rolled past the marked billboard. The second Humvee. The third. Samir closed his eyes.

  He forced them open again. He turned his left hand palm upward, looked down at the faces of his sons. Malik, he thought, Jibril. God help me.

  He pressed SEND.

  A final text message had alerted Bar Abbas to the convoy’s arrival at the junction. He picked up the remote-control box and pressed the test button. The green lamp flashed reassuringly. Then, as he lifted the safety catch on the detonator button and looked out at the kill zone, the red lamp came on.

  “Good for you, Samir,” Bar Abbas said. “I guess Idris and I were wrong about you.”

  He crouched to shield himself from the coming blast and the sound of music filled the foxhole. Bar Abbas had had Green Desert on the brain for several days now, so it was a moment before he realized that the tune wasn’t in his head. He looked down at the wooden planks that lined the foxhole’s floor. He’d assumed there was nothing beneath them but dirt, but apparently someone had hidden a CD player under there and queued up track 17 from Son of Cush, “Good Riddance (Enjoy the Virgins)”—a catchy, sarcastic ballad about a suicide bomber.

  The ballad was almost to the end of its first verse, counterpointed by the sound of the approaching Humvees, when Bar Abbas figured out it wasn’t a CD track he was listening to.

  It was a ringtone.

  On the morning of 11/9, Mustafa and Samir had rushed to Ground Zero along with every other cop, firefighter, and EMT in Baghdad. But because they were Halal and not true first responders, there was never any chance they’d be ordered into the towers, something that Samir had always been secretly grateful for—and secretly ashamed of. He sometimes wondered, if he had gotten such an order, whether he would have been able to obey it.

  The other thing he thought about, when he thought about that day, was the jumpers: the victims trapped on the upper floors who’d plummeted to their deaths, many not so much leaping as falling as they climbed out broken windows to escape the heat and smoke. But some of them really had jumped. Samir remembered one old man in particular, up in the Windows on the World restaurant, clasping his hands in prayer as he surrendered to gravity and God. There too, Samir wondered what he would have done, and what it would feel like to knowingly step into a hundred-story void.

  Now at last he had an answer. The first seconds after he pressed the SEND button were pure freefall, the Humvee seeming to roll straight down rather than forward. Now, Samir thought, as he waited to hit bottom. Now . . . Now . . . Now . . .

  Around the sixth or seventh Now he panicked and tried to tell the Humvee driver to stop, but the hiss of air that escaped his fear-constricted throat didn’t even qualify as a whisper. Now . . . Now . . . The Humvee hit a bump in the road and Samir opened his mouth again and screamed out “STOP!” but no one heard him, because the bomb had gone off.

  The blast was near the top of the ridge, and the main force of the explosion was directed straight up in the air, but the pressure wave that rolled down the ridge and across the pike was still powerful enough to rock the Humvees sideways on their suspensions. The exposed gunners got the worst of it, feeling, to a man, as if they’d been swatted with a brick wall. A shower of debris followed: dirt and mud, stones, tree branches. The gunner in the unarmored Humvee was knocked cold by a hunk of timber from the foxhole’s roof that glanced off the top of his helmet.

  “Stop!” Samir screamed, again, as debris continued to pelt the Humvees. “Stop!”

  “Go! Go!” Lieutenant Fahd commanded his driver. It was the first rule of the Red Zone: You don’t stop in the middle of an ambush. But the splintered trunk of a Douglas fir had fallen across the Humvee’s hood, and the startled
driver had thrown the engine into reverse, stalling it. While the driver wrestled with the starter, the lieutenant impatiently opened his door and got out to move the Christmas tree.

  The air had cleared enough now that the Marines could see the blast crater up on the ridge. Incredibly, men were moving along the edge of the crater and in the wreck of foliage that surrounded it. Because they had been lying flat, most of the militiamen had survived the blast, though those closest to the foxhole were bleeding from their ears and noses and staggering like drunks.

  The Humvee gunners, more than a little punch-drunk themselves, spent the first few seconds just gaping at the scene. Then Salim noticed the rifle rounds plinking off his turret armor and his training took over. “Chris-TIANS!” he shouted, bringing his gun up to fire. The gunners on the lead and rear Humvees followed his example.

  The Barad .50-caliber machine gun had an effective range of two kilometers and could destroy even lightly armored targets. At close range against unarmored personnel it was murderous, not so much shooting the targets as exploding them. With three such weapons aimed at the ridge, firing at anything that moved, the number of surviving militia fell rapidly.

  One of the last Minutemen standing tried to aim a rocket-propelled grenade launcher with one hand, his right arm having been shattered by blast debris. A machine gun cut him in half at the waist, and as his torso toppled backwards, his finger squeezed the trigger. The grenade flew up in a high parabola, arcing over the pike and landing in the woods on the far side, where it exploded harmlessly. But a Marine in the unarmored Humvee, scrambling up to take the place of the unconscious gunner, heard the explosion and assumed that a second wave of ambushers was attacking from the north. While his brothers continued to fire on the ridge, he swung his gun around and opened up on the woods—and the houses beyond. His first burst hit a propane tank, blasting the roof off a bungalow and sending a ball of fire into the air.

  Mustafa had gotten out of the Humvee to help Lieutenant Fahd with the tree. When the lieutenant saw that Mustafa had left his helmet in the vehicle, he was furious. “Idiot!” he shouted. “You want to get shot in the h—”