The Road Ahead

by Adrian Bonenberger

  He passed out again.

  There was a fluorescent light in his eyes, and then it was gone. A face blocked it and then became clear.

  “Hey, sir,” Manuel said. He tried to sit up.

  It was Upton.

  “Take it easy, Manny.”

  “Goddamn stupid thing I did.”

  “You did good work,” said the Captain. “Gripper told us about it.”

  “He all right?” Manny’s voice rose.

  “He’ll be okay. We already flew him out.” The Captain became quiet. He then muttered, “That woman and her baby should pull through too. They were trying to get to a hospital when they rushed your checkpoint.” Manny wanted Upton to leave, but he wouldn’t. “You should be real proud, Manny.”

  “That’s okay, sir.”

  “Real proud, regardless of that.”

  “Yeah, regardless.” Manuel looked away.

  “I’m sorry I can’t get it for you,” said Upton. “This whole business can be unfair, you know.”

  “I know you’d give it to me if you could. It’s just a ribbon.”

  “You saved that woman.”

  “If we hadn’t been there she wouldn’t have needed saving.”

  “I can write a letter and try to explain things to the promotion board.”

  “Don’t worry about it, sir, it won’t help.”

  Upton was quiet for a while. He knew the truth of it. “They’ve got you scheduled to fly out in the morning,” he said. “You should be happy.”

  “What time is it?” asked Manny.

  “Just after midnight.”

  They sat together quietly for a bit and then Upton patted Manny on the shoulder. He walked out of the aid station and along the clean strip of road that crossed the Dam. He took the stairs back down to his room on the twelfth floor by the turbines.

  Manuel sat propped up in his bed. The light was on and the room was very calm. His uniform and equipment sat in the corner, and they were still wet from the rain. Dangling on the front of his body armor was the other grenade.

  He pushed himself out of bed. His head throbbed. The cool night air felt good against his naked back and fresh burns. His hospital gown flapped behind him. He shuffled stiffly over to his equipment and reached down for the grenade. The burns on his arms cracked like snakeskin, seeping at the joints. He walked toward the door bracing himself against the objects in the room as he went; the grenade held in his one hand.

  Outside was quiet. The Humvees were parked on the road that crossed the Dam. Manuel could see very little, but he felt the immensity of the sloping wall to his one side and Lake Qadisiyah to the other, the spaces equally vast but one empty and the other full.

  For what he was about to do, he wanted to be sitting. With difficulty, he lowered himself to the ground, pressing his back to the abutment that flanked the road. He’d begun to sweat. He thought it might be from the pain, but in truth he was afraid again. He held the grenade in his one hand. All he had wanted was his ribbon.

  He pulled the pin and gripped the grenade’s long smooth spoon. No going back now. He stared down the road. No one was around and he tossed it. It bounced toward one of the Humvees, rolled next to its tire and stopped. Manuel turned his head away. There was a hollow crump and the noise of a quick steel spray like a handful of pennies thrown into water.

  Then everything was quiet again. Manuel took the pin, which he still grasped in his hand and plunged its sharp end into his scalp. He touched his head quickly. The new wetness mixed with his burnt skin. Then as quick as he could, he threw the pin down the side of the Dam. The Humvee had been blown up on its side, and flames climbed up its chassis. Through the flame light, a guard ran down the road and a siren went off, signaling a rocket attack.

  Upton emerged on top of the Dam. His stare immediately fixed on Manuel who was half naked and bleeding outside of the aid station. He walked up to the burning Humvee and looked down onto the road where the blast had burned a wide mark like the smudge of an old eraser. Upton picked up the grenade’s twisted spoon. He ran to the edge of the Dam and tossed it into the water before anyone would find that piece of evidence.

  The guard ran up to him, panicked, casting his head about wildly. Upton grabbed him by the arm. “We got wounded from that rocket,” and he pointed toward Manuel.

  The guard ran over. “Where you hit?” he asked.

  “Just take me inside,” he said.

  He lifted Manuel up under the armpits, his naked ass exposed to everything.

  Upton stood on the road awkwardly, watching.

  OPERATION SLUT

  by Lauren Kay Halloran

  The most unsettling feeling was a purse where her rifle should be. She fingered the beaded strap. It cut across her chest the same way as the sling of her M4. But the rifle gave her strength. This purse was dainty, inane. If she was to play this role, though, she needed the costume. She brushed her palm across the embroidered fabric. The texture reminded her of her body armor. She felt naked without the armor, though her reflection told her otherwise.

  Camille didn’t consider herself beautiful. Her skin was too pale—a crisp white canvas against which a smattering of freckles stood out profoundly. She hadn’t inherited her mother’s striking blue eyes, or the brown of her father’s, but something in between: an unremarkable murky grey. Her nose was too thin and pointy, as though it belonged on a Disney princess, but without the other sharp features to match. She was too tall. Her lanky form had served her well as a long-distance runner, though not well enough to earn a college scholarship. Instead she joined the Air Force. Six years and she could get any job, the recruiter told her, plus education benefits.

  She hadn’t anticipated enjoying the military—certainly not to the degree that she would volunteer for a yearlong deployment to Afghanistan. That year had transformed Camille’s body. She could see the effects in the mirror propped against the closet door. She was hard now. Her long sinewy muscles had tightened, and they rippled beneath the skin of her calves, thighs, and shoulders. Even her face was hard; her jaw in a perpetual clench, her eyes set deeper and rimmed with faint lines, which, rather than aging her, gave her an intense, purposeful glare. Pulling on black high heels, Camille could feel the deployment’s effects as well. They lingered in the stiffness of her joints, still settling from the metal-plated pressure of the bulletproof vest that hugged Camille’s slender torso in the wrong places.

  Stepping back she noticed, not for the first time, that there was something else, too, something in her manner. She’d always been told she carried herself well; what she lacked in beauty she made up for in poise. Darrel had called her graceful. “Like a gazelle,” he’d said, which made her laugh. Now that quality was amplified, as if she had emerged from the cocoon of body armor fully blossomed.

  Camille scrutinized her appearance. The mirror showed a polished figure she didn’t recognize. The black leather miniskirt curved impressively over her newly toned ass. On top she wore a blouse in a silky bright blue to enliven her eyes, with a keyhole revealing just a hint of cleavage. She’d chosen the outfit carefully. Fashion had never been her strong suit. Her look was frumpy at best, which made for a natural transition to military fatigues after high school. Five years in the Air Force—the most recent one spent in Afghanistan wearing nothing but a uniform—spoiled whatever meager sense of style she had. Chicness was key to what came next.

  Camille hadn’t yet returned to work. The military gave her two weeks of post-deployment “reconstitution time” to relax and decompress. She was plenty relaxed, so she used the time to plan. A quick consultation with Cosmopolitan in the grocery checkout line told her that her wardrobe was outdated, her makeup supply grievously inadequate. Later, a Google search for “how to look hot” delivered 1.6 billion results. It made her slightly nauseous that billions of people were so image-conscious, and more so that she was suddenly among them. She watched YouTube videos by peppy teenagers who called themselves “fashion bloggers” and studied photos of
It Girls who’d become “it” in the year she’d been gone, apparently, because their names were unfamiliar. Now it was Friday night.

  Time to commence Operation Slut.

  The day before she deployed, she was in Darrel’s bed, his old springy mattress creaking with every movement. The sun slanted through the blinds, warming angular streaks on Camille’s bare back. It smelled like Old Spice and felt like spring. She wanted to fold herself into him, to stay there forever, to ignore the boxes that flanked the bed, labeled in Camille’s loopy handwriting: “Kitchen,” “Closet: 1, 2, and 3” a Camille-height stack of “Books.” She’d assured her conservative Christian parents—and herself—it was the practical thing to do; no sense paying rent for a year she wasn’t there, and why get a storage unit when Darrel offered his spare room? She was afraid, though. Afraid to deploy, and afraid to leave. Afraid of what would or wouldn’t remain when she came home.

  Darrel felt her stiffen. The mattress creaked. He rolled over and took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “I love you,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  And she believed him.

  The internet-ordained fashion gurus warned against showing too much skin, and tonight, the first night of the operation, Camille chose to highlight her legs for the simple, selfish reason that they were Darrel’s favorite feature. Looking in the mirror, though, she was second-guessing herself. She could still sense his touch, her bare skin cold where his hands had been, like he’d branded her then pulled away. She shook her head to dislodge the memories, then turned to her wine glass for assistance. The malbec was so rich she could only take small sips. Half a glass and she was already tipsy—the aftermath of a year of forced sobriety. She replaced the goblet on the edge of the dresser and watched a red drop slide down the glass and onto the cheap particle board. She didn’t bother wiping it up. With the exception of a purple price sticker on the corner of the mirror and Camille’s makeup and blouse, the wine was the only color in the room. Everything else—the carpet, furniture, drapes, bedding, moving boxes, even the abstract geometric artwork—sulked in shades of white or brown. It looked more like a hospital than a short-term apartment. Camille hated it, but, she had to acknowledge, it was fitting. Anonymous, indiscriminate and sterile.

  The jealousy started slowly, seeping into static-filled conversations on the morale phone. Leading questions about the guy-girl ratio. How she spent her down time, and who with. Sergeant Briggs was just a Ping-Pong partner, she assured him. Yes, she’d been hit on, but it was harmless; just guys being guys. She could take care of herself.

  She didn’t tell Darrel that part of her loved the attention. She had ever since joining the military. Growing up she’d been the Smart One, the Athletic One, the One-Who-Could-Always-Make-You-Laugh-With-Her-Uncanny-Joan-Rivers-Impression. She was known for things like cross country meet results, an affinity for public speaking, a name on the National Honor Society plaque. She wasn’t prom queen material, and that fact never bothered her. Then came basic training. People regarded her differently than the male trainees, with a kind of intrigue, a cautious respect that quickly turned to awe when they learned that not only was she wearing the same uniform as the men, but she could perform at their level. She was charming but rough around the edges, both delicate and firm—traits more attributed to personality than gender, but when packaged in a scrawny blonde girl their effect was compelling.

  Camille was a member of a vast minority, and the position carried risk, but also power. For the first time in her life, the military made her desirable. She didn’t like the way the starched Air Force blues clung to her modest curves, but she noticed men admiring her—men who, she was sure, wouldn’t otherwise offer a passing glance. The odds were in her favor, and the Airman dorms were an incestuous dating pool. Still, Camille only dipped her toes. She enjoyed the detached pleasure of admiring looks. She liked knowing the options were there. But her job kept her busy, and she was comfortable in her default setting as one of the guys.

  Her suitemate was astounded. “I don’t know how you control yourself! So many hot guys in uniform! There’s like one for every night of the year!”

  Camille shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really think of them that way.”

  “Camille.” The girl’s pretty face turned serious. “Are you a virgin?”

  Camille laughed. “No, I’m not a virgin. I’ve had boyfriends. I just like relationships. And monogamy, I guess.”

  “I get it,” her friend said. “You don’t have the slut gene.”

  Even after she moved to Nellis Air Force Base outside Vegas, the epicenter of debauchery, Camille ignored it all in favor of work, and then Darrel.

  She took a last generous swig from her wineglass, then dabbed on another layer of face powder to hide the alcohol flush creeping up her neck. She couldn’t deny she looked good. Decidedly un-military. Her lips were painted in a pale pout. Rimmed with dark shadow, her eyes betrayed a sultriness she didn’t feel. Her hair, always her best camouflage, cascaded over her shoulders in thick blonde layers. They were barely visible in her slicked-back military bun, but she was thankful now that she’d splurged on the face-framing highlights. She didn’t look like herself. It was perfect.

  In Afghanistan, as expected, gender disparity was more pronounced. Femaleness had to be wielded carefully. With the Afghans, it could shut down conversations among more traditional company, or spur interactions based solely on fascination. Among fellow soldiers it was easy to be labeled a bitch, a whore—Desert Queens, they were called—or the title Camille feared most: just a girl.

  After a few weeks in country, Camille thought she’d mastered the balance. Her job performance earned the respect of her team. She would never act on or even acknowledge the attention, but she appreciated the way heads turned when she entered the military dining hall, or how, when she walked into an Afghan tribal meeting, the solitary headscarf in a sea of buzz cuts, the local men’s eyes widened and they turned to whisper to each other. When she dropped off her clothes at the base laundromat, the Afghan employee always smiled and bowed graciously in a way he never did for her male counterparts. Jogging the gravel path that marked the FOB perimeter in her Air Force gym shorts, Camille felt the stares on her exposed skin, and she relished them. This reaction seemed wrong. Military briefings and her inner feminist told her she should be offended. But in the midst of the long, stressful days; the dust that clung to her arms and legs and hair and lodged between her teeth; the guns and baggy camouflage and clunky boots; these moments made her feel like a woman.

  She never admitted this to Darrel. And she didn’t tell him about the times she didn’t feel like a woman, but like a frightened child. Such as the days she was on ECP, manning the base entry control point. Nothing ever happened. Usually she was bored. They played poker, and the guys passed around wads of dip—she tried it once and made them laugh when she spit it out, a blob of black goo landing on her boot. Then a car would approach and Camille’s heart would pound under her helmet. She’d raise her rifle and look through the sights. The guys beside her muttered things like, “Come on, motherfucker, just try something,” or “I’m gonna blow your haji head off,” but Camille prayed the car would slow down. It always did. The Afghan guards did a search at ECP 1 and the car wove through the HESCO barriers to ECP 2. The passengers got out. If there was a female, Camille patted her down, running her hands as gently as possible along the woman’s ribs, under her breasts, across her thighs. She never made eye contact. As the car drove away, she held her breath, waiting for the explosion that meant they’d fucked up.

  In the vehicle maintenance yard, the job was mostly routine. Daily convoys meant constant upkeep, and the Humvees were prone to breakdowns. Camille liked doing something she was used to, something she was good at. She liked the feel of grease on her hands and warm sand under her back, the way her muscles remembered the precise movements of each tool. Then occasionally a vehicle came in after an attack. They weren’t always fixable, bu
t they always sat there for a few days, at least. The crew gathered to admire the jagged holes in the engine block, the twisted metal that looked like it had been through a cheese grater. Camille’s nose tingled with the smell of burned rubber and a substance her brain told her was charred flesh. She never cried in public. She saved her tears for the mildew-stained curtain of the shower stall or the blue paisley pillowcase she’d had Darrel ship from the box labeled “Bedding.”

  Camille didn’t have much purpose outside the wire, except to talk to local women, but she volunteered for missions whenever she could. Getting off the tiny FOB was always refreshing in a backward way she didn’t understand, as if in moving toward danger she could justify her paranoia and thereby assuage it. While the guys chatted over comms, she stared out the Humvee window, scouring the pockmarked ground for anything suspicious that could hide an IED. If she focused hard enough, her hands stopped shaking. At tribal meetings she’d scan the men from under her headscarf. An arm moved to scratch beneath a vest. Prayer beads rolled between fingers. Lips muttered indecipherable phrases. Outside, a passing vehicle rattled the thin window, and Camille felt certain something was about blow up.

  Some mornings she’d wake before her alarm and stare at the plywood ceiling, listening to the melody of the FOB—crunching gravel, the rumble of Humvee engines and the whir of helicopter rotor blades, layers of harsh, grunted conversation—and try to remember what home sounded like. Nights were beautiful and terrifying. It wasn’t darkness like Camille was used to in American suburbia. This was a “blackout FOB” with no outdoor lighting to mark a potential target. Generator power in the nearby city flickered off not long after the sun set, leaving just the moon marking where the black mountains met the black sky. And the stars. Camille had never seen so many stars. She gushed their beauty to Darrel—“It’s like you can see galaxies!”—but she didn’t tell him that, despite the stars, the darkness was consuming. Almost suffocating. Outside at night on the safety of the FOB she felt more vulnerable than she did in the hostile valley beyond the gate. She hugged her rifle, her trigger finger twitching at every movement, every noise. It took only a week to decide to never leave her room at night. She padlocked the flimsy plywood door and pushed her footlocker in front as a barricade. She cut the top off a liter water bottle in case she needed to pee.