The convoy in the distance had reached the edge of the little village by the firebase, maybe eight hundred meters away. The lead vehicle, as Paul watched, disappeared in a huge puff of brown and black, with fire at its center. Half a second later, the bang reached Paul.
Paul felt that instant electric shock through his whole body and a sickness in his heart. Maybe a game was being played by higher and Najibullah, but the pawns died in earnest.
The sound of gunfire rang out in the distance; the fun was about to start again. A mushroom cloud, hundreds of meters high, graced the scene that was unfolding in front of him.
Paul sent out an immediate ping to the colonel on his halo. Score another mark against his buddy, the Bomb Maker. Score another hit against Paul’s heart.
Paul’s heart had a special affinity with the world of his first assignment, Ottawa 6. He had arrived on the world over two local years ago and reported in to his first unit, Detachment 2, H Co. 2-18th Infantry, Armored.
Paul found out in a hurry that he had had Lady Luck on his side when he got his orders back at Sill: Det 2 was so small it hadn’t had a new soldier in over four local years. Of course, that had its drawbacks, as Paul was the lowest-ranking soldier there and was likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.
What that meant in practice was that Paul mopped a lot of floors, had charge of quarters every other weekend, and pulled a lot of suit maintenance. But Paul really didn’t mind: he was having a fantastic time on beautiful Ottawa, living a garrison soldier’s dream.
It turned out that Ottawa 6 was a peaceful world with only a vestigial dissident presence. The dissidents that existed there pretty much limited themselves to putting up mean-spirited posters and holding an occasional rally to protest “Old Earth’s overreach and imperialism.”
It was pretty bland stuff, in other words, and definitely not worthy of an appearance by suited soldiers. Ottawa 6’s entire garrison consisted of the 135 soldiers in H Company, of whom sixteen suited infantrymen were in Det 2, located in the city of Hope—population forty-three thousand and the capital city of Ottawa.
Ottawa was a starkly beautiful world, and Hope was in one of its prettiest spots. The snow-capped First Landing Mountains were off to the east of the city, which sat on the shores of the mildly saline Great Pacific Ocean. In between the Great Pacific and the mountains was a seemingly endless coniferous forest, which was populated with small, seemingly harmless scuttling creatures and occasional human logging outposts of one to two hundred souls.
One of Ottawa’s primary exports was first-class Purplewood timber, much in demand throughout the Hyades cluster and further. In fact, the FSS Merton R. Johnson’s cargo hold had been partially loaded with timber for transport when it dropped off Paul and a few others.
Paul thought darkly that the lumber was more important than the ships’ merely flesh-and-blood pax. He was probably right, too.
But what appealed most to Paul about Ottawa was a girl named Darlene, a native-born Ottawan he had met on a weekend trip to the beach. Darlene was about one meter sixty in height, red haired, with a cute freckled complexion. She consumed most of his waking thoughts, and he spent as much time with her as he could.
His style was seriously crimped when his unit went out on maneuvers with other H Co. members. Sometimes they were out for weeks. True, he stayed in touch with her during off-duty hours (it was frowned upon, Paul had learned, for a Suit trooper to halo with his girl while on an ambush), but nothing beat coming back in from the boonies and seeing his girl in the flesh.
They would go down to the beach and swim or rent a ground-car and take a trip to the mountains. Darlene was curious about his suit, of course; one time he snuck her into the armory, so she could see it.
He had been caught giving Darlene her unauthorized tour, and Sergeant First Whitehead had not been amused. Needless to say, he hadn’t seen Darlene for a couple of weeks after that, but he had seen a lot of the mop bucket.
Paul, though—being young, dumb, and full of come—hadn’t been much fazed. And Darlene had been impressed. Paul really couldn’t see why old Whitehead had been so pissed. Security, schmeckurity. However, he hadn’t pulled that stunt twice.
The force guys were popular with the locals, so there were no restrictions in town for them. Paul didn’t think about it, but they were probably popular because of their large disposable income and small numbers. Forces grunts definitely hadn’t had the run of the town in a place like Lawton, back on Old Earth. Hope was, in Paul’s limited opinion, much better. So he lived it up.
One cloud on the horizon, however, had to do with the fact that he was a first termer, and Darlene and all the locals knew that first termers got the option of returning to Earth when their tour was up. Every time the subject came up, Darlene would get a little pouty, and they would change the subject.
Also, with his enlistment coming to the end of the third year, Sergeant First Whitehead was asking what he planned to do, too. He explained to Paul that if he reupped, he might stay on Ottawa, but then again, maybe he wouldn’t.
That really wasn’t what Paul wanted to hear. He was getting more and more serious about Darlene, and he thought she was serious, too. So he decided to ask her to go on a weekend trip with him to the mountains; they had a favorite camping spot there, by a jewellike lake.
First, though, he made a trip into town and picked a little something up at a store.
Paul had been gone from Earth for what seemed like forever to his young mind; things had faded for him. The old tearing feeling of homesickness had faded as well. He looked at his situation and decided maybe he didn’t want to go back.
He thought of that long-ago day when Father had gotten the letter from Uncle Jack, and how torn up Father had been. Paul tried not to imagine how devastated he would be if he heard that Paul had made a similar choice, to make his permanent home in the stars.
He had to find out what Darlene had to say on this trip to the mountains. His whole body strained to hear her answer to what he meant to propose.
It turned out Paul would have to wait a little longer for Darlene’s answer than he thought, however. The Friday before the long-awaited trip, Sergeant First Whitehead walked up to him for a little chat while Paul was mopping the ground-car maintenance shed.
“Trooper Thompson, did you polish the flush knobs in the latrine this morning?”
Oh shit. He had forgotten all about that. Paul had been lost with his head in the clouds, thinking about the big trip tomorrow. He stood at parade rest and had to tell the truth.
“No, Sergeant First Whitehead.” Paul knew better by now than to make excuses.
“Really?” Whitehead said, looking at Paul like he was a near-cig butt on the grass in front of the barracks building. He continued, in a directive tone, “Attention to detail, Thompson, you lack it. Devotion to duty, you need some more of that, too. I’ve got just the thing to sharpen your senses: you have charge of quarters again this weekend, and when I come in on Monday, the latrines had better be spotless, or you’ll have the duty until your enlistment runs out!” Whitehead looked down on him, turned on his heel, and left before Paul could say a thing.
Of course, Paul knew that saying anything would just get him deeper into shit. If looks could kill, however, Whitehead would have dropped dead right there in his immaculate cams as he walked away.
Paul was infuriated. That pip-squeak rotten motherfucker, he thought. Fucking me over like that for some chickenshit lame-ass latrine knobs. Un-fucking-real.
A light bulb went off in Paul’s head. He made a decision, right then and there, about reenlisting. No fuckin’ way. Not with chickenshit assholes like Whitehead running the show. No way, no how.
Darlene would be pissed, too, he figured, but not at him. He would just have to wait another week to see if she would marry him. His decision was made; he would stay on Ottawa 6. But he wouldn’t be staying there in the fuckin’ force.
Paul would later reflect that it was amazing how o
ften life’s most important changes frequently turned on ephemeral moments, often quite trivial, but life altering in retrospect.
He visualized wiping his ass with his enlistment papers.
Second Company was back up in the Belt again, at Kas Warnoz. Another month had passed on the June-bug, and Paul was on his improvised toilet in the boonies, wiping his butt.
One of the big things Paul missed about being back in some form of civilization was the flush toilet. It was an amazing invention, really. A person sat in a lemony-fresh room, preferably white. In that room was an honest-to-God Plastone throne where a person could sit for hours, emptying his bowels.
A clean bathroom was luxury beyond belief. It sure beat the ritual Paul was enduring now, squatting over a hole and hurriedly getting the business done. It didn’t do to have one’s pants around one’s ankles too long out here in the field. Kinda tough to run like that in case the call to arms came up.
So Paul finished in a hurry, cleaned himself, and had his pants buttoned up in a matter of a minute. He reached for his rifle and walked back over to the advisor’s niche on the side of the hill at Kas Warnoz. An icon appeared on his halo—it was Bashir.
“My friend Thompson, peace be upon you! Would you like to dine with me tonight?” Bashir asked in his flowery tones.
Paul groaned inwardly. He had attended many meals with Bashir and his men, and nearly every one had had some type of unpleasant surprise, cuisine, or revelation. Tonight, no doubt, would be no different. But Paul put on his game face and answered, “Bashir, my good friend, upon you peace as well. I would be delighted.”
“Friend Paul, when can you come? We have an excellent sheep tonight—the smell of its cooking sets my mouth to water!” Bashir enthused. No doubt one of the village women was preparing the meal, and Bashir’s subordinates would serve it in the mud hut across from the firebase.
“I will come with Z-man when the sun is two fingers above the mountain. We will dine well, my friend. Good-bye until then.” Paul signed off and heard Z groan. Of course Z-man had caught the gist of the conversation, and he hated Pashto food.
Ha-ha, thought Paul, misery loves company. “Hey, Z, you ready for some fine eats? Maybe they have lamb’s tongue again—just for you!” Paul laughed. The memory of that meal had him chuckling every time he thought of it.
Z-man didn’t think it was funny. “Aw shit, sir, what I wouldn’t do for some of my mama’s cookin’. This sheep shit sucks.”
“Well, Z, it’s what’s happening, so deal with it. You know that when a Pashtun is feeding you, he won’t shoot at you; it goes against their code.” The Juneau Pashtuns had brought their code of honor with them, Pasthunwali. One of its tenets was that a guest had a protected status.
And Paul would rather eat sheep fat and rice than piss off Bashir. So a couple of months ago, Paul had given Z-man a direct order that he was to eat their counterparts’ food—no bitching allowed.
Paul looked at the mountains to the west and held up his hand to the sun. It was a hand’s width above the ridge, so he still had some time. When he had time, he usually plopped down and had a near-cig. So that’s exactly what he did, the Fortunate smoke curling from his mouth and away in the slight breeze. The genetically engineered noncarcinogenic tobacco was a comfort and godsend to Paul and many others.
About forty-five minutes later, or three-quarters of his hand, Paul and Z were walking toward Bashir’s hooch. Both soldiers were kitted up, and their ground-car with stowed suits aboard was buttoned up, and the autodefenses were set. The autodefense on the ground-car was linked directly to Paul’s halo. If anyone approached within one hundred meters of the ground-car, Paul would get a ping on his halo. If Paul thought the threat was legit, he would direct the M-241 in the turret on top of the car to shoot the threat. It was that easy, and the security gave Paul a warm and fuzzy feeling.
Pashtuns had sticky fingers, but an autocontrolled 241 was a bit much even for them. So Paul could walk away from his equipment with a smile on his face—not that he had a lot to smile about, cruising over to Bashir’s. Hopefully, he thought, that fuck Najibullah wouldn’t be there, too.
Paul and Z walked along the base of the ruddy hill that was Firebase Kas Warnoz. There was a goat trail there that was easy to follow. On their left side was an irrigation ditch that was about four meters wide and about one and a half meters deep.
They had to cross a rickety bridge over the ditch to get to Bashir’s place. Paul always thought it would really suck to fall into its sluggish and unhealthy-appearing water. Z-man and he crossed over without incident, however, and approached Bashir’s shack. Sure enough, Paul could smell roast sheep and raw sewage, the typical reek of a Juneau village. He wondered if he would ever get used to the smell. Probably not, he reflected. They crossed through an opening in a low wall and went to a small doorway in the side of the house.
Bashir’s hooch was a typical Juneau house, in that it was two-story and located in the middle of a walled courtyard. The hooch itself was constructed of packed mud and straw, with tiny windows that looked an awful lot like firing slits and a log roof.
Once inside, Paul and Z had to make a tight right turn and climb a narrow set of stairs. The interior had been built to discomfit armed men, and Paul and Z experienced a number of clunks and bangs going up the steps.
Bashir’s men awaited them at the top of the steps, of course. Paul and Z were led into the low, smoky chamber where Bashir and his leadership were arrayed on pillows, seated in a circle. A place was open next to Bashir, and another place was open for Z-man.
Paul and Z sat down to eat and chat. Paul laid his rifle out carefully behind his pillow and removed his battle harness.
Bashir spoke. “My friends, welcome to our feast. Eat, relax, and enjoy yourselves.” Pashtuns were, Paul reflected, good hosts.
Everyone proceeded to tuck into the delights spread before them: a spicy cauliflower dish, bits of lamb’s flesh in the ubiquitous gelatinous fat, sprigs of some type of vegetable Paul couldn’t identify, and a heaping, steamy plate of rice with naan bread.
Even though Paul knew the food would contribute to his months-long case of dysentery, he munched away. Boys brought in cups of chai tea and carried away dirty dishes. Paul kept his eye on Z-man, making sure he at least nibbled on the food. Everyone tucked in. Finally sated, the men sat back upon their pillows, and the stories and jokes started.
Bashir began, “Oh, boys, let me tell you of a fight thirty years ago against suited soldiers of the force.” He looked at Paul and smiled. “Of course, now we have those same soldiers on our side, and good men they are, too!” Second Company’s soldiers laughed.
Paul had heard these types of stories before. They had ceased making him uncomfortable. It was a rule in counterinsurgencies that one day’s friend would be your enemy the next, and no one understood that like a Pashtun, a people who collectively were born and bred to war.
Bashir continued, “Oh, boys, and then I was wounded, and I thought I would die. I thought I would never see my father again, and I was so sad.” Paul thought of his father and sympathized with Bashir, down in his gut. He is a good storyteller, thought Paul.
But as with every Pashtun story, there was a twist. “Oh, boys, they carried me over the mountains, our good Dusheman Kush Mountains, where I thought I would freeze and die. I tell you, boys, I couldn’t feel my penis anymore; it was so cold!” There was some chuckling at Bashir’s words.
Bashir smiled himself and continued, “Oh, boys, I thought my penis had been frozen and would no longer work; it was terrible. I was so sad. Finally, we went down to the flatlands of Juneau, where we knew doctors who would save us.” Bashir paused.
“And my poor frozen penis—I thought my hopes for children had come to an end.” Bashir’s face was sad, tragic.
But then, with a shit-eating grin, he spoke again. “But then, let me tell you, boys, I saw a young boy with a bottom like a peach, and my penis—oh, it worked very well!” The crowd erupted i
n laughter; Paul laughed along with them.
Shit, and up to that moment, Paul had thought that at least one Pashtun, Bashir, wasn’t a pederast. After all, Bashir didn’t put up with the sexual antics in his company that plagued the other outfits in the battalion. Also, Bashir had three wives! Obviously, Paul’s impression was wrong. Bashir, it turned out, liked little boys just fine.
More stories came; each one dirtier than the last. Paul and Z sat and listened, and they laughed so hard they thought they would die. Finally, Bashir posed a question to Paul.
“My friend, I know that you are a long way from home, yes?” Bashir looked right into Paul’s eyes; Bashir’s eyes were black and liquid. Paul answered in the affirmative.
“Tell me, my friend, how is it that you amuse yourself? I know of no boys who pleasure you. Do you use your hand?” With that, Bashir made a gesture in the air, like a hand wrapped around his member, stroking back and forth.
Paul looked right at him and spoke. “No, no, my friend, it is forbidden by my God to do such a thing.” Paul wasn’t sure where this was going, but he knew that with Pashtuns, who took religion very seriously, a mention of God might stop this line of thought.
Bashir looked thoughtful. Then he brightened. “Ah, my friend, I have a solution for you! Second Platoon has a mule they use for pleasure!” Bashir made an expansive gesture. “You may have use of their mule!”
With that, everyone laughed uproariously. Paul thought Z-man was going to cry.
The hell of it was Paul thought Bashir was probably dead serious. He definitely knew that the Juneau soldier seated next to him, Asam, was serious. Asam kept placing his hand on Paul’s inner thigh. His attentions were starting to become an annoyance; Paul’s tastes did not run to men.
Later, with a politely turned-down and disappointed Asam taking his leave, Paul and Bashir talked of serious matters: war and the problems associated therein. Finally Bashir showed some of his weariness.
“Paul, my friend, I am tired of war. For thirty years, I have fought; my heart is sick. Over and over again, I see good boys die.” Anguished, he asked of Paul, “How do I leave this place, this Juneau? How do I save my men?” Bashir fell silent; he leaned back on his cushions, looking as sad and defeated as Paul had ever seen him.
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