by B. K. Dell
Rider stood up slowly and walked to a spot directly in front of Caleb and his locked and loaded 9mm. Rider said nothing, but scowled at him with a blistering hatred. Had there been no threat involved, Rider would have reflexively told Caleb to shove off, but he couldn’t allow anyone to conclude that it was fear that made him refuse. “Come closer,” Caleb requested. Rider, who did not break eye contact once, moved closer. Only an arm’s length away, Caleb turned the gun around and presented the grip to Rider. “Point this at my chest.”
“No,” Rider said.
“C’mon, no BSing,” Caleb said lightly as he forced the weapon into Rider’s hand. He wrapped Rider’s fingers around the grip with his hand on top – just as SSgt Folsom had once forced a knife into Caleb’s hand. He guided its barrel to the center of his chest, point blank, and said, “Squeeze the trigger.”
“Don’t,” called out one of the men. Rider turned to roll his eyes at him, irritated by the real fear in the person’s plea. He looked back to Caleb and smirked. Caleb’s hand was on top of his, holding the gun close. Rider shook Caleb’s hand off. He looked at the gun, then ejected the clip. He was surprised to discover that the gun was indeed loaded. His eyes narrowed. He drew the slide back and ejected the bullet from the chamber. Caleb did not follow it with his eyes, but heard the small thud as it landed. They all heard it. The hooch had never been so quiet. Rider slid the magazine back in and chambered another bullet. Now certain that the gun was loaded, he placed it back point blank on Caleb’s chest.
Everyone waited to see what Rider would do. Brit grabbed the reporter to casually escort him out. “No, I’m staying,” said Michael Ponce.
“No, you’re not,” said Brit.
Michael Ponce showed signs of resisting. He managed to snap one photo off just to show his dedication as a journalist. But before he could take another, the autofocus of his camera quickly adjusted to Brit’s angry face that had stepped into the frame. Upon seeing Brit’s expression, Michael Ponce thought better of it and allowed himself to be removed from the tent.
Rider scoffed and asked, “Okay, what is your point?”
“My point is that our actions are determined by who we are, and we have no control over who we are. We just live with the cards we are dealt.”
“Not true,” said Rider.
“Then shoot me.”
“I choose not to.”
“It’s not a choice; you are forced not to because that is not who you are. It is only a choice if both options are possible. But, the option that involves you shooting a fellow Marine, even a gay one, to prove some inane philosophical point is an impossibility.”
“You think so?” Rider said with a gruff rumble in his voice.
“It’s not who you are,” said Caleb.
“Caleb,” Jackson’s words were slow and measured, “this is stupid.” Jackson knew what Caleb was doing – he was painting what he had learned about Trey Tucker onto Ridley Holt, but Jackson also knew that it wasn’t a fit. Trey was the homophobic tough guy who stood up for Caleb in the end, but Rider was just the homophobic tough guy. Trey’s reason for joining was tattooed on his arm – Old Glory. Rider’s reason for joining was tattooed on his arm – a running tally of his kills. Trey was the man who wanted to do something courageous and noble. Rider was the man who would brag about being a boiling kettle of undiluted testosterone. “Rider,” Jackson said, “You don’t want to play along with this clown. Why don’t you go ahead and give me the gun?”
“Forget it, Brooks; he started this,” said Rider.
“Don’t worry about me, Jackson. It is impossible for him to shoot me,” reassured Caleb.
“No,” said Rider, scowling at Caleb. “It isn’t.”
Jackson, understanding his philosophical point a little bit, decided that it might calm the situation to pretend that this was merely a conversation, at the end of which the gun gets put away just like any other visual aid. He said, “People do sometimes choose to shoot other people, Caleb. Marines have even chosen to murder other Marines.”
“It was possible for them, but it’s impossible for Rider,” Caleb said as he grabbed hold of Rider’s hands and pulled the gun from his chest up to the center of his forehead. “I am as safe with Rider’s gun to my head is I would be if he was behind ten feet of steel, or if the gun was not loaded, or if gunpowder had never even been invented.”
Jackson didn’t think so. Jackson was remembering the sound of Rider’s laughter and the glint in his eye when he talked about Lt Gen Mattis declaring that some people are fun to shoot. Jackson was imagining the fury, like fireworks, popping in Rider’s mind. He didn’t want Caleb to end up another notch on Rider’s arm. “You’re right,” he said, trying to get Caleb to stop antagonizing Rider and speak to him instead. “Rider wouldn’t kill you. He has sworn to support the Constitution.”
“Rider could kill you, if it was in self-defense,” offered Teflon, not helping the situation.
“That is a different decision,” said Caleb. “Killing to save his life, or yours, or even mine, is a choice possible to Rider. Killing a Marine for no reason is not.”
“It is possible,” said Rider, simply.
“Show me.”
“I could do it.”
“Do.”
Rider hesitated; he hesitated for so long that it became a refusal to answer. Rider remained quiet for so long that people had even forgotten there was something to respond to. His face seemed to be made out of stone. The room remained deathly quiet and every man watching the scene unfold slowly began to realize that what had started as some pedantic point, had now become something else completely. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, neither one had blinked for a long time. The slightest tremor ran through Rider’s arm – everyone saw it – giving the only indication that there in fact might have been, in Rider’s mind, two very real options to consider.
There was a choice for Rider to deliberate. Caleb had provoked him, dared him, used him as a prop. Caleb had told him that he could not do it. Slowly, people began to realize that Caleb had been trying to hurt and humiliate Rider, and that putting the gun aimed back at him into Rider’s hand was the very method he was using to do that.
Another tremor ran through Rider’s arm and the gun in his hand shook, tapping out a fast code against Caleb’s forehead. Caleb leaned into it. Watching Rider’s face, Caleb could see his nostrils flaring. Rider’s anger grew as he watched Caleb’s smug expression. The thought occurred to him that Caleb had meant the whole thing to be a sick mind game, and perhaps a battle of wits was the only contest which Caleb could ever win – but only if Rider let him.
Caleb upped the ante. He began to throw out taunts. In the sing-song tone of a playground chant, he mocked, “Trigger Happy Holt. Trigger Happy Holt.” Then, when Caleb could tell that Rider was at the peak of his anger, he said, one word at a time, “Bring…it…on.”
A curious grin came over Rider’s face. It wasn’t the typical workings of a healthy mind, but the agitated mind of an addict. This was the whipped up state in which an alcoholic could betray his own mother for a glass of whisky. Rational thought and instincts of self-preservation became muted in Rider’s mind and a ravenous hunger beat in his chest like a second – and more powerful – heart.
Again Caleb taunted, “Bring it on.”
The muscles in Riders thick forearms began to tighten and his hand began to squeeze.
“Incoming!” someone yelled from just outside the tent. All of the men instantly scrambled for their gas masks. In the commotion, Rider quickly discarded the gun and Jackson managed to snatch it.
A moment passed in complete silence. Finally Brit asked, “Is this a bloody drill, or what?”
No one had an answer. Michael Ponce rushed into the tent followed by a few stray Marines, shouting “False alarm. False alarm. Someone was just trying to prank you guys.”
“What?” Teflon shouted indignantly. “Who was it?”
“We don’t know,” said Michael Ponce. �
��No one saw who yelled it.”
***
That night Teflon came to Caleb’s cot.
“PFC Hertz,” he said softly. When Caleb turned around to face him, he put up both hands and added, “Hey, I don’t want to shoot you or anything.”
“That’s good,” Caleb said with a grin.
“Hey, um,” Teflon looked apprehensive. “I don’t know if this is something that you do. I could totally pay you for it. I don’t have much money, but I am sure we could work something out.” He reached into his pocket and produced a photo of a two month old baby girl. “My wife sent me this photo…” his sentence trailed off as he handed the photo to Caleb.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Our Anniversary’s coming up and I don’t know what to get her. I feel so bad because I wasn’t there to see our daughter born.” Teflon stopped. He knew that he could get through saying it without his eyes tearing up, but Caleb had just handed the photo back. He stared at the photo for a long time in silence. His eyes had that standard issue glaze that contained both ecstasy and suffering, military grade. He said, off-topic, almost to himself, “How can I love somebody so much from just a photograph?”
“I’d love to,” said Caleb.
Teflon looked up from the photo, he had been staring so intently at his newborn daughter that he had forgotten that their conversation had been left unfinished. “You will, really?” He smiled. “You know I do a little bit of art, kind of, but nothing like you.”
“It’s no problem; I will get started right away.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Caleb shook his head. “Maybe someday we will think of something you can trade me for it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fifteen clicks to the west of the city of Almoud was an insurgent compound high in the mountains. Major Nash formed a team of men to infiltrate the enemy’s bunker. This was Caleb’s first mission where he was guaranteed engagement with the enemy.
It was extremely hot. All the bodies in the back of the 7-ton truck just made it feel even hotter. The more they would sweat, the more orange sand would stick to their faces. Caleb counted the men around him, Eleven Marines and one homosexual, he said to himself in the way that SSgt Folsom and Sgt Ward used to ridicule him. Jackson must have been thinking similar thoughts because he turned to Caleb, smiled, and said in a voice that sounded like SSgt Folsom, “Twelve Marines and one embed!” This made Caleb feel good. He was glad to have Michael Ponce around – finally someone who was more of an outsider than himself.
The men had given Michael Ponce the nickname Blitz. They did this because the embeds were required to wear blue Kevlar vests that said PRESS on them. The blue vest led to jokes about blue helmets. Blue helmets, of course, led to jokes about the UN. The UN led to jokes about Hans Blix. Hans Blix became just Blix, then Blix became Blitz. Michael Ponce was happy because as little as the Marines seemed to want him around, he knew he was in danger of getting stuck with a really lame, wimpy or mocking nickname. But Blitz was cool. Jackson wanted to call him Reporter Smurf, but it never stuck.
Sometimes the best nicknames are the least obvious. It was for this reason that Caleb was yet to have a nickname. All the potential candidates were just too obvious.
Caleb looked a little nervous in the back of the truck, so Jackson leaned over to him and said, “I think I figured something out.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather’s nickname. Did he stay in after the war?”
“Twenty-four years in the service.”
“So that means he was serving in the fifties?”
“Uh-huh,” Caleb waited for Jackson’s point.
“Who were the biggest celebrities in the world during the fifties?”
“I don’t know.”
“Martin and Lewis,” said Jackson. “Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.”
“Okay.”
“Well, Dean Martin was known for…” Jackson waited for Caleb to finish his sentence for him, but Caleb didn’t. “His singing and drinking!”
“Okay,” Caleb still looked dubious.
“Dean Martin’s nickname was Dino. They probably called your father Dino for a while, but because he was an Infantry Weapons Officer, it was only a matter of time before it became something like Dino-mite or Dynamite, then TNT.”
Caleb nodded his head slowly. “Well, it’s the best theory I’ve heard so far,” he said patronizingly.
“It’s just a theory,” Jackson retorted, slightly crestfallen.
“No, no, it’s great,” said Caleb sarcastically. “You’re a genius.”
Jackson fidgeted. “Ain’t that a kick in the head?” he mumbled. He checked the magazine on his rifle, although he already had three times. “Are you nervous?” he asked Caleb, anxious to change the subject.
Caleb gave Jackson a wry look, as if he had asked a silly question. “Of course,” he said. He could feel another bead of sweat slide down the side of his now caked orange face, but he ignored it. He said to Jackson, “I have a saying that I have always repeated when I get…nervous. It was something that my mom used to say to me. Do you want to hear it?”
This time, Jackson gave Caleb the same wry look, as if he had asked a silly question. “Of course,” he said.
“She used to tell me, ‘The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.’ I don’t know what in the world it means, but I have always found it comforting.”
Jackson smirked happily. He said sincerely, “It’s beautiful.” Then he added, “Thank you.” He leaned in to tell Caleb something but was interrupted by singing.
“Ameeeeriiiica…Ameeeriiiiica…” Teflon started singing the drawn out beginning of the “America” song from Team America, World Police. Soon all the Marines joined in. Not many knew the words past the chorus, but they were happy repeating the chorus over and over.
When that song finally fizzled out, Teflon picked a new one. He sang, “As for this country I adore, I’d gladly give my life to her. And for the one who…” his voice deflated when he saw the blank faces around him. “I guess you guys don’t know Mark Reed, huh?” He chuckled and tried desperately to think of a song that they all would know.
Brit jumped in and sang loudly, “Flintstones! Meet the Flintstones!”
Every single recruit joined in.
When the song reached its climax, everyone gave it their all, but when they came to the last words, “…have a gay ol’ time,” few people actually reached, “ol’ time.” Most stopped at the word “gay” and turned to Caleb. Some laughed. Others repeated, “A gay ol’ time? A gay ol’ time!”
Teflon shook Caleb affectionately by the shoulders. He said, “Fred Flintstone! Fred Flintstone!”
This was followed by several calls throughout the truck, “No. Barney!”
“Pebbles! Pebbles!”
Just as it looked like the name Pebbles would catch on, Michael Ponce shouted, “Bam Bam!”
“Bam Bam!” Jackson shouted.
“Bam Bam!” The men laughed.
Jackson just smiled. He said, “And that’s how nicknames get started.”
That was the last sound that anyone made. A silence descended on them as they neared the target and the weight of the mission took hold.
War became serious business once more.
When they reached their destination, they could see the enemy bunker built into the side of the mountain. They positioned themselves behind a ridge half a kilometer away. Immediately they could see muzzle flare from the enemy’s guns. A volley of RPGs began to explode on the berm directly in front of them. Hot rocks and sand rained down on their necks and into their collars.
Brit called in the coordinates for air support and in no time at all, two F16s were making gun runs on the bunker.
A wave of terrorists ran out from their positions, wanting no part in contending with the aerial assault, and charged toward the Marines on the ground. They fired a merciless barrage of AK-47 rounds as they closed in on the Americans.
&n
bsp; Caleb quickly found out that the zone of hypersensitivity that was fabled to happen in combat was actually true. His thoughts flowed through his brain at an excited velocity and focus. He could hear the shifting sands and he could have sworn that he could hear the enemy breathe. He imagined that the heart beats he heard in his head were those of the attacking force. There were too many beats to be just one heart. He watched as a terrorist turned toward his direction and raised his AK-47. His movements looked to Caleb like they were being played in slow motion.
Caleb placed his sight right over the man’s head. His mind was granted a mysterious clarity. He had never killed a man before. He had wondered what it would feel like. His racing thoughts turned unexpectedly to Stacy. He remembered the words that had first announced his betrayal, “Don’t you just want to stick it to those bigots?” The bigots he had been referring to were actually the men on America’s side. He thought about Stacy’s trendy friends in uptown Dallas, for whom activism was vanity and protests were social functions. Hadn’t Stacy himself invited Caleb to a CAIR function just last year? Caleb could never wrap his mind around how a faction of people that are against homosexual rights, against women’s rights, granted no freedom of speech, and sought to establish an iron fisted theocracy over the entire globe, could be the new darling of America’s political left. “It seems like the trick to getting more affection from your crowd is to attack America,” Caleb told Stacy once.
Caleb’s heart truly broke for every decent American Muslim who felt even the slightest backlash after 9/11. Caleb knew better than anyone what it was like to be judged not for the person that you are, but the group that you belong to – and not even the majority of that group, just the fringe idiots who make the most noise. Caleb was scared to death of the people who watched those planes fly into those buildings and turned around to say, “We hate all Muslims.” But Caleb was equally frightened by the people who, even as the images were still repeating on cable news, turned around to announce, “We love all Muslims,” and promptly took up the mantle for the Muslim cause. The difference was: Caleb had actually met people in the second group. If the first group existed, he was yet to see the evidence.