The Valley

by John Renehan

  FAIRVIEW HIGH

  CLASS OF 2001

  Pistone’s high school yearbook. Black found it surprising that he would have hauled it all the way up here.

  Glory days?

  Surprising and kind of sad. He set the yearbook down and milled among discs and magazines, none of which seemed of interest. He stacked everything neatly on the bunk after inspecting each item, until he got to the very bottom of the stack.

  There was a book.

  He picked it up. It was a thick paperback whose title wasn’t familiar to him. He turned it over in his hands. It had seen some use.

  He took a last look in the footlocker to confirm there was nothing else in there he hadn’t seen, and began fanning through the pages of the book. Poetry.

  At some point about halfway through, the feel of the pages shifted as they ran past and it became clear that it had been heavily read in one part.

  He flipped it back over to find the crease in the spine and began fanning pages again, carefully this time, to find the spot. When he turned the book back over he saw that the inner edge of the page in question was cracking loose from the glue in the spine. He looked at the text.

  “Son of a bitch,” he told the empty room.

  He commenced reading.

  When he finished the section, he went to the beginning of the book and started reading about the author of the poems. It was a half hour before he realized he was still kneeling on the concrete floor. He rose and moved to the chair, sitting hunched over, turning pages.

  He sat like that another half hour, then closed the book and sat up. He stared at the wall.

  After several minutes, he rose and crossed the room. The door to Pistone’s hootch had a hasp on the inside.

  He locked it as best he could using the remains of the padlock Corelli had cut on the first night. It wasn’t much.

  He went back to the book and took it to the bunk, where he commenced rereading the dog-eared portion.

  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure-dome decree

  He didn’t leave the room when day came a couple hours later. Nor had he slept when the knock came at the door that evening.

  22

  He paused at the hasp a long moment before lifting the broken padlock out of it and pulling the door open.

  Corporal Shannon. Cradling a machine gun.

  Black froze.

  Shannon scowled down on him from towering heights.

  “Word from Sergeant Merrick, Lieutenant.”

  Black could see Shannon looking past him at Pistone’s room, at the unmade bunk with the yearbook and assorted contents of Pistone’s footlocker spread across it. He registered distaste before looking back to Black.

  “He says if you want to help find him, now’s the time.”

  “Find who?”

  “If you’re coming,” Shannon said, ignoring him, “you’ll want to bring a pack for the night.”

  “Coming where?”

  “To find out what happened to Danny.”

  Watch out.

  Black didn’t hesitate.

  “Let me get my stuff.”

  “Be at the bottom of Oswalt’s stairwell in twenty minutes,” Shannon directed, and turned to go.

  Black opened his mouth to speak.

  “Yeah, I know you know where the roof is at,” Shannon said, striding away.

  Black stood in the doorway and watched him go. As soon as Shannon disappeared around the corner he set out walking briskly in the opposite direction.

  —

  It took only a minute to locate Caine. A soldier in the CP said he was at the gym, a makeshift little weight room that he and Black had passed on his first night’s tour.

  He could hear muted drums pounding as he approached. He cracked the door open and the sound sharpened to full assault, distorted guitars thrashing against the singer’s distorted growls. This music he recognized as Death Metal. He’d heard other soldiers listening to it back on Omaha and elsewhere. He would rather have tolerated the Wizard’s portentous gong rock.

  The place was a windowless, sweaty dump, featuring a rusted, mismatched scrap set of the sort of weightlifting gear that found its way up dangerous valleys in Afghanistan and got passed around from unit to unit once there. The stuff looked like it had been reclaimed from Dumpsters and had almost certainly been in Afghanistan longer than any American currently serving there.

  Caine was there with three soldiers in camouflage pants and tan undershirts. The uniform of the quick power lift—drop your coat, press iron, return to duty.

  The soldiers gave Black only momentary notice as he poked his head around the door. Caine looked at him questioningly.

  Black stared back at the sergeant with what he hoped was a nonsuspicious look of significance. He closed the door and headed back the other way, weaving through the outpost’s innards and emerging into the darkened backyard.

  There was a junior sergeant and two soldiers inside the Taj Mahal when he got there. Damn.

  “Beat it,” he declared without hesitation, realizing that in all likelihood he was about to be laughed at.

  To his surprise all three rose and exited.

  “Sir,” said the young sergeant, nodding once as he passed.

  This, Black recalled, was the nice thing about freshly minted sergeants. They still remembered what it was to be lowly soldiers who wouldn’t dream of giving attitude to an officer, or anyone else for that matter. The hop-to-it instincts were still there.

  Black nodded back and watched them go, switching out the lights as soon as they were gone. Caine arrived a minute later.

  “Goddamn it, sir,” he said irritably, standing in the meager light from the open door. “I thought I told you.”

  He checked behind him and stepped inside the shadowy container, leaving the door open.

  “Yeah, I know, you don’t want to ‘associate’ with me right now,” Black said. “This is important.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” Caine shot back in a hoarse whisper. “What are you trying to do to yourself here?”

  “What?”

  “I thought you said you would cool it and stop snooping around for two seconds.”

  Black was taken aback. He answered testily.

  “Well, I’ve been sitting in my quarters all day long doing nothing, all right? This is important.”

  “What’s important?”

  “Merrick wants me to go outside the wire with him.”

  This brought Caine up short.

  “Where outside the wire?” he asked slowly.

  He didn’t tell him.

  “He said we’re trying to find Danny.”

  Caine pursed his lips. He exhaled slowly and shook his head.

  “Sir, don’t go with him,” he said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Sir, I know you probably feel responsible for helping find Danny, but I’m telling you, just don’t go with him.”

  “Why not?” Black insisted. “Tell me something I can use!”

  “Damn it, sir!” burst out Caine. “Would you just trust me for one damn minute!”

  Black felt his blood pressure rising.

  Don’t.

  “This goes all the way back to the beginning!” he blurted out. “Doesn’t it?”

  Caine shook his head again.

  “Sir,” he said, “I thought I told you to leave that alone.”

  “What?” Black demanded. “Leave what alone? I didn’t say anything about the beginning before. What are you talking about?”

  “Just don’t go out there, L.T.”

  Black peered at the sergeant, trying to read him in the half-light.

  “I’m starting to think,” he said, “that all of you are full of shit.”

  He squeezed th
rough the door and disappeared.

  “Sir!” he heard Caine call after him, his voice almost pleading.

  Black stomped all the way back to his room and jerked the door open. He shoved an extra set of socks and underclothes into a small assault pack. He gathered his body armor and weapons and was ready to go a minute later.

  He stood in the middle of the room, motionless.

  Just do it.

  He checked his watch. He was to meet Shannon in five minutes.

  “Oh, damn,” he said aloud, shaking his head at himself in disgust.

  He tossed his rifle onto the bunk and picked up Pistone’s private journal from the side table.

  He opened it. A diary, as expected. He went to the end and ran backward through the blank pages until he reached the most recent entries. He read them back for two pages.

  “Oh, damn,” he said again.

  He set the book down with a trembling hand. His watch now told him he had three minutes.

  He stared at the wall, silent seconds passing.

  “Screw it,” he said to no one.

  He gathered his rifle off the bunk and pushed his way out the door, leaving the book lying open-faced on the endtable, its second-to-last page showing.

  29 October—

  Something is up I am still sure of it. I know SFC Merrick’s involved but beyond that I know nothing, except how people have been around here.

  2 November—

  Danny has been acting so shady since the thing. When I asked him about SFC Merrick I thought he was going to jump out of his skin.

  A 15-6 investigator is coming next week, probably about whatever all

  —

  Shannon was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, patrol gear piled on his huge frame, rifle hanging by his side, scowling at Black in the dim glow of the chem lights. He turned wordlessly and headed off down the corridor, past the stairwell. Black followed. He hadn’t been this way before.

  There were no chem lights here. Shannon switched on a red-lens flashlight affixed to the front of his gear. Its weak glow revealed a windowless stone passageway.

  At a corner he cut right, then stopped at a door. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Black followed him inside.

  A closet, several feet long. A mop and a thin collection of cleaning supplies huddled in the red light. There was a second door at the far end of the room.

  Shannon closed and locked the first door behind them and crossed to the other. This one was unlocked. He switched out his flashlight and opened the door. Black smelled fresh air. They stepped through and were outside.

  They stood at one of the corners in the structure, in a very narrow channel between the exterior of the house and the large stone wall which ran around the property. The space was about six feet wide, tops.

  Black looked up and saw tree branches in the moonlight. This corner of the outpost abutted the woodline.

  There was a short ladder standing against the wall. Shannon latched the door behind them and gestured to it with his chin.

  “Friendlies on the other side,” he said in a low voice.

  Black nodded and slung his rifle. The ladder was just tall enough for him to reach up and sling a leg over the top of the wall. He straddled it briefly, his helmet brushing against pine sprigs.

  He swung his leg over toward the outside and shifted his weight to the edge, dropping down and landing heavily on the ground under the weight of all his gear. He bent his knees as he hit. His gloved fingertips touched dirt.

  He saw boots. As he straightened he saw Merrick’s tall figure looming over him. In the limited light, Black could make out his usual look of disdain.

  Black looked around them. Moonshadows slanted through the trees. They had exited the outpost directly into the forest. From where they stood he couldn’t see any of the guard posts on the roof, and he assumed they could not see him or Merrick either.

  Beyond Merrick stood three other figures. Black squinted. Two were soldiers he did not recognize.

  The third was Brydon. He did not look any happier to see Black than Merrick had.

  He heard Shannon slide off the wall and land heavily behind him. He appeared to be it. It was a very small patrol group, smaller than regulations would normally allow. Black had no intention of asking why.

  Merrick stepped around him and the others, unslinging his rifle and trudging wordlessly into the forest. The others followed suit, spacing themselves into a staggered line behind him.

  The forest floor sloped upward and away to their right. It was littered with pine needles. To the left it fell away steeply.

  They skirted the mountainside, moving gently uphill as they went. They were running roughly parallel to the path they’d taken two mornings before as they left for Darreh Sin, though that route already sat far below and was quickly being left behind.

  Black had fallen in at the back end of the patrol. After about fifteen minutes he stepped up his pace and began passing the other soldiers.

  Brydon kept his eyes on the ground as he passed by. Shannon said nothing but kept his eyes on Black.

  He arrived at the front and fell in next to Merrick, just as they crossed an opening in the trees that revealed a spectacular moonlit view of the open Valley falling away to their left.

  “So do I get to know where we’re going?” he asked quietly.

  Merrick looked at him.

  “To the O.P.”

  O.P. stood for observation post. Outposts like Vega would often establish a smaller satellite station, manned by a few soldiers, on tactically important ground. These were especially valuable for keeping watch on enemy movements in difficult or mountainous terrain where you otherwise might not see your foe before he was right on top of you.

  Black hadn’t been told anything about there being an observation post associated with COP Vega. There was nothing like that on his maps.

  “The O.P.?”

  “Yeah, the O.P.”

  “What O.P.?”

  “O.P. Traynor.”

  23

  It was situated high near the mountaintop where the ground lay close to vertical, among a steep tumble of boulders and thick trees just below the long summit ridge. From its location were wraparound views down two dark faces of the mountain, the Valley and the river curving around its base. Black assumed he could have seen Darreh Sin somewhere beneath them, had he known where to look.

  It had taken them a couple hours to get there. Trudging the final steps along an exposed and slippery path high against a steep gravel-strewn slope, Black felt more than anything like he were entering a treehouse.

  In among the wooded cover there looked to be at least three or four separate levels to O.P. Traynor. Separate structures, really, one suspended near or above the other amidst rocks and trees set into a slope that ran nearly straight up at that point.

  Each level was tiny and constructed mostly of plywood and sandbags. Each was offset laterally from the next, so that none of them touched its neighbor. Some weren’t even fully enclosed, resting somewhere between an open-air room and a platform in the trees. A series of homemade steps and ladders ran up and down between them all, with sandbagged fighting positions scattered throughout.

  Even in the cool of the night, at that elevation it had been a slog to reach the place. Black didn’t care to think about the effort it must have taken to haul all that wood up there. It must have been some crazy good location to justify putting so much effort into building what was by definition a temporary post.

  A short series of steps led from the gravelly surface up into the trees. A wooden platform adjoined a storage enclosure. M.R.E. cases and water bottle pallets sat stacked inside.

  Merrick passed this by and headed up the next set of steps. Black and the others followed.

  At the next level an open deck adjoined a small woo
den structure that appeared to be the post’s communications and command center. On the outside was hand-painted RADIO SHACK. Soldier humor.

  A skinny, toothy-grinned soldier in camouflage trousers and tan T-shirt ambled out of the shack with his hands in his pockets. He surveyed the patrol.

  “Sar’nt,” he said, nodding to Merrick.

  He had hillbilly stamped on him front and back. Even his short-cropped chestnut hair managed to seem messy.

  His eyes fell to Black’s rank and name tape. His eyebrows went up.

  “Sir,” he grinned.

  He gave the What’s-up? chin flip to the rest of the patrol.

  “Boys.”

  “Lieutenant Black,” Merrick explained, thumbing in his direction.

  “Hooah, sir,” the soldier said, appraising him. “Special guest. Haven’t seen an officer up here in a bit. Besides L.T. Pistone, I mean.”

  Merrick turned to Shannon and Brydon and the rest.

  “Chill out,” he said. “I need to talk to the lieutenant.”

  Soldiers as a rule don’t wait to be told twice when instructed to take a break. You don’t know when it’s gonna end or when the next one’s gonna come, so you may as well get to it. They disappeared immediately up the next set of steps, leading further up into the trees and the higher levels.

  The toothy soldier fell in behind Shannon and the others.

  “Why yes, now that you ask,” he said in a mock-sophisticated voice to no one in particular. “Don’t mind if I doooo.”

  “Drink some fucking water,” Merrick said to the retreating group.

  Brydon broke off wordlessly from the rest and went into the radio shack instead.

  “Hey, Doc,” came a familiar voice from inside.

  It was the first time Black had heard anyone address Brydon with the customary moniker for an Army medic.

  “What’s up, Billy?” came another voice, also familiar.

  Black watched the joes trudge up the steps and disappear into what looked like a cave entrance in the mountainside, or at least a sheltered space beneath two large boulders. Merrick waited until they’d gone.