Warlord: Dervish

by Tony Monchinski

  “I hate this dust,” Tucker snarled. “Black man ain’t supposed to deal wit’ dis shit.”

  Big Meech nodded.

  “See, even Meech know what a nigger talkin’ ‘bout. Everywhere this man’s army has sent my black ass—dust! Springtime in Yongson? Nigga’ up five in the mornin’—everythin’ covered in yella’ dust. Goddamn Mongolian sand, fuckin’ yella’ wind…”

  Jason tuned Tucker out as the other man launched into his harangue about the sand in Korea. He’d heard it before. They all had.

  He looked down upon the dirty, sand swept street and felt grimy. The end of each day wound up with him back in Choo-ville, filthy, sand-encrusted, streaks of dirt on his face where the sweat had streaked a path.

  The sand was everywhere, in everything.

  When you breathed, you inhaled it. It stung your eyes. On the days when the dust and winds were real heavy, Jason figured the guys back in Virginia weren’t seeing much more than static from their precious aerostat.

  He considered the sand coating the Hescos and the M240B. The first time he’d seen a sand storm he’d stared at it, open mouthed. It hung over the city, a draped blanket, sweeping everything under in its path. The way it started, a gust of wind would come through. Individual grains of sand, almost too small for the eye to see, started to vibrate. Some would jump up, and when they landed, they’d loose more particles of dust and sand. Granular material would start popping off the ground and travel in suspension and before you knew it, you’d have a billowing cloud bearing down on you.

  It’s been awhile, Jason thought, since they’d had a sand storm. He studied the grime on the back of his gloved hand. Which particle would start it? Which grain of sand would start to thrum and then leap up, setting in motion something that couldn’t be stopped, something that just had to be allowed to run its course?

  There was never any way to tell.

  “…yeah, ya feel me? Let me tell you, Meech, ain’t nothin’ like dem bitches in Itaewon. Hey, Espada.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know what Confucius say?”

  “What’s that, Tucker?”

  “Confucius say…” Tucker assumed a horrible Chinese accent “…man with penis in peanut butter jar be fuckin’ nuts.”

  “‘Be’ fuckin nuts, huh?” Espada sounded amused despite the heat. “That what Confucius would have said?”

  “Nah,” said the Gift. “Confucius say—let me tell you what Confucius say—Confucius say, man with hole in pocket feel cocky all day. Like Tuck.”

  “‘aight, Giff. Why’nt you come over here and put jo hand in my pocket, see what dere?”

  Espada was laughing and Meech started laughing too.

  “That nigger ain’t funny.” Tucker berated them. He turned to Meech. “What chew laughin’ at? You even understan’ what he say? Here, listen this…” Tucker addressed Espada “…Confucius say, Kotex not best thing in the world, but next to best thing.”

  “You’re wrong, Tucker,” Mook exhaled. “You just ain’t right.”

  Jason looked up from the back of his gloved hand to the road.

  “Heads up.”

  A white, compact car had pulled to a stop ahead, beyond the Jersey barriers. The car looked like it had been dipped in the mud and dust. Its chasis hung low to the ground.

  “Ah, shit,” Tucker raised his M-4. “Shit about to get real…”

  “Gift, Meech.” Mook nodded his head towards the car.

  “Got it.” The Gift started ahead, the barrel of his rifle level at his waist, their interpreter next to him. Tucker yelled out, “Giff, don’t go getting’ yo’ ass blown up.”

  Jason shifted his shoulder, snug against the stock of the M-240B, watching the car.

  “Jay, you get ready to light they raghead asses up.”

  “Tucker,” Mook warned, “Shut up.”

  The Gift and Meech had covered half of the space between their barrier and the car, which continued to idle.

  “I can’t see shit,” noted Espada. The sun was behind them, glinting off the windshield of the vehicle. Even with their sunglasses it was impossible to make out the interior of the car.

  The sand around Jason was calm.

  The day the kid checked out, the road had been still too. Like this. The snow had stopped falling. He was nine years old.

  The Gift and Meech were past the Jersey barriers now. The Gift was calling out to the car, holding one hand up, Meech translating.

  Uncle Ritchie stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at him in the snow. Jason was riding in the back of the Humvee, behind the driver. Tucker was up on the fifty, his legs next to Jason’s head. The kid was in the vehicle ahead of theirs.

  A white-sleeved arm was sticking out of the driver’s window of the white car, gesturing as the person inside spoke with Meech and The Gift.

  The Humvee in front was passing a pile of scrap when the IED blew. The flash—the heat—the smoke. Jason’s Humvee shook. Yeah, Aspen wouldn’t recognize him anymore.

  The Gift held up a hand with one finger extended, like he was saying give me a minute. He turned away from Meech and the car and started walking back towards the barrier.

  Tucker had sent a stream of fire into the fields, looking for a target, but there were no targets. No one was firing on them.

  The tires on the compact squealed and the car lurched forward, Meech screaming at the driver. The Gift turned and side-stepped out of the way, his hands up, palms out, arms moving up and down, shouting “Kef! Kef!”

  Rudy’s Humvee was demolished, soldiers blown out of it. A body prostrate in the road. A rag-dolled corpse. “Corpsman up!” The driver sat on the side of the road, burnt and blind, his chest protector smoking. Men gathered around the wreck. “Corpsman up!”

  “Sarge?” Tucker asked Mook.

  “Jay—warning shot in front of that motherfucker!”

  Jason had looked for Rudy’s Italian horn. Someone held up a hand encased in a glove. Who’s was it? Let me tell ya, Jay, the breath plumed out of Uncle Ritchie.

  “Jay!” Mook roared. The car had nosed around the Jersey barriers and was barreling towards them.

  The sand around him wasn’t moving. Jason’s hand was shaking on the grip of the machine gun. The kid, Rudy…six hundred rounds a minute…Aspen on the couch, her legs drawn up under her…the heat and the stink…Uncle Ritchie and the snow; nineteen months in—it was all swirling through his head.

  Mook was screaming at him.

  “Jason!”

  He depressed the trigger on the M240B and the machine gun came to life. A line of dust and sand kicked up off the ground, walking its way down the road and up the hood of the speeding car. Shell casings streamed from the pig, brass showering down off the Hescos. The windshield of the car disintegrated and the hood flew up, steam billowing from the engine block. A front tire exploded and the car careened sideways, offering Jason a broadside. Mook was still screaming at him, his cries drowned out by the machine gun fire. Jason strafed the vehicle in a Z-pattern, holes pocking the door panels, blowing out the rear tire.

  He let up on the trigger.

  “—fucking Christ!” Mook stopped screaming at him and stalked off towards the stalled, smoking car.

  Jason looked at his gloved hand on the trigger grip. It was steady, still as the sands around him.

  “You juiced they shit!” Tucker called approvingly to Jason, trotting off behind Mook and Espada.

  Jason had scoured the dirt and sand on the side of the road, looking for the kid’s charm. Palehorse Three, this is Sabretooth One. The Humvee Rudy had been in looked like it’d been peeled open with a can opener, a bunch of soldiers gathered around it. Palehorse Three. We’ve got mass cas here. Repeat. Mass cas. The kid was still alive, still inside the Humvee. Need immediate evac, break.

  Jason retrieved his M-4 and climbed down off the Hescos. A crowd of civilians were gathered across the street, talking and pointing. Mook and Tucker had circled the car. The barrels of their ass
ault rifles were lowered. Espada was inside the car. The Gift stood up from behind a Jersey barrier, unharmed.

  Jason reached the car.

  “Day-em, Jay,” Tucker’s voice had lowered an octave but was no less exultant. “You lit them the fuck up…” Two adults had been seated in the front and three in the back. The driver’s headless body leaned against the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter dripped from the ceiling. “…you juiced they shit, Jay.”

  Mook was on the radio.

  “Ahhh, fuck…” The Gift sighed. The dead woman in the passenger seat clutched an infant.

  Noise rose from the gathering crowd.

  Jason stood transfixed, staring into the car. A little girl was in the backseat, drenched in red. Her arm hung from her shoulder by a strip of meat. She was crying.

  “…we got wounded here, Mook!” Espada was in back with the girl.

  “It haint your fault, Jay.” Tucker stood next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Jason couldn’t feel it.

  “Meech,” The Gift demanded, “what’s he saying?” An old man was bleeding out in the back amid the stuffing from the cushions. Rudy’s arm and legs had been blown off. A far away look was in the old man’s eyes and his lips were moving. He was saying something. Rudy had been talking too. No one had been able to understand the kid.

  “…she’s just a fucking little girl,” Espada was crying, tying off a tourniquet beneath the girl’s shoulder, his hands and arms slick.

  Jason had leaned into the twisted metal of the Humvee to talk to Rudy, to tell the kid he couldn’t find his charm. Rudy was melted into what was left of his seat, his torso scorched black, his ACUs and equipment cooked to him. The stink coming off him…

  “Come on, Meech,” The Gift demanded, “What’s he saying?”

  The terp was talking to the old man bleeding in the back seat.

  “…bou-bous,” repeated Meech, “the bou-bou—how do you say? Monster? The bou-bou monster…”

  “That kid is suffering.” Jason looked from the little girl in the car to the crowd across the street. Young men were shaking their fingers and yelling, accusing.

  “Motherfucker should have stopped.” Tucker delivered his verdict.

  “What’s he saying, Meech?”

  “…ghosts in the sand…”

  Rudy’s face had been seared black but his mouth was moving, trying to say something. I don’t know what he wants, the medic looked helpless.

  “The bou-bou monster,” repeated Meech. “Ghosts in the sand.” The terp gestured with an open hand, flustered, confused, overcome by the madness. “Nonsense.”

  There was a glove on Jason’s shoulder.

  “…shoulda’ stopped…”

  Jason followed the glove up an arm and the arm to a face.

  “…haint your fault, Jay…”

  Tucker.

  The old man was staring at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. The little girl was crying.

  He’s trying to say something, the medic in the Humvee sounded frustrated.

  Jason shrugged Tucker’s hand off his shoulder. He leaned into the ravaged car—Rudy’s mouth was moving but no one other than Jason had understood what he’d been saying

  —splaying his free hand, pushing Espada back, away.

  Sometimes, the kid’s burnt, bloodied mouth moved, sometimes you just got to let go

  Jason fired his M-4 once into the girl’s head, then stepped out of the car.

  Espada stared back at him in disbelief, deafened from the rifle’s report.

  They were all looking at him. Espada in the car. Mook on the radio. The Gift and Meech and Tucker. The crowd. The old man’s head lolled to the side against the remains of a head rest, mouth open, eyes vacant.

  “Okay.” Jason flipped the selector on his M-4 to three-round burst and fired into the crowd. There were screams. Bodies fell and people ran. Mook tackled him, bearing him to the ground.

  “Jason! Jesus Christ—what the fuck!”

  Private Jason Aaron hadn’t been feeling well for a long time. He lay on his back in the street amid the dirt and the sand. Mook and the Gift were holding him down. The crowd screamed at them and Meech screamed back. Espada cried, his hands clasped over his ears, and Tucker considered the contents of the car, nodding his head approvingly. Well above them, in the limpid blue sky, the aerostat hung over the city.

  Interference Seen in Redtide Inquiry

  By Deirdre Fowler

  Washington—Officials at the United States Embassy in Iraq have told prosecutors that they believe State Department officials attempted to block any serious investigation into last spring’s shooting incident in which Redtide security guards were accused of murdering thirty seven Iraqi civilians, according to court testimony made public on Thursday….

  .…Redtide became a multimillion-dollar contractor as the United States escalated its wars in Afghanistan, Iran, and openly renewed its operations in Iraq, providing protection for State Department officials and covert work for the Central Intelligence Agency. The contractor is also suspected of operating in Bahrain, Egypt, Libya and the occupied territories.

  Its critics have accused the company of maintaining inappropriate ties to the intelligence and diplomatic agencies with which it worked….

  In a statement released to the press shortly after the closing bell on Wall Street Friday afternoon, Redtide denied any attempted….

  No Rain

  “Jason.”

  With the hood removed, the light was blinding.

  He snapped his eyes shut and turned his head from the glare. He tried to twist his body but found it secured to a chair. His feet scrabbled against the floor, seeking a purchase from which he could turn his seat, but his legs were bound to the chair. And the chair was bolted to the floor.

  “Remain still now, Jason…”

  A hand clasped the side of his face none too delicately, a smack, the vise-like grip jerking his head to the side, exposing his neck.

  “Way—wait—wait!”

  He blinked against the light, attempting to catch sight of his assailant. A sting in his neck and Jason cried out involuntarily. The hand withdrew from his face as a shadow stepped away to stand near the table.

  A feint tingling sensation remained in his neck.

  “What did you—” Jason stammered, his throat dry, his voice hoarse, “—what did you just do to me?” He had no idea where he was or how long he had been there.

  “Tsk..tsk..tsk…”

  The voice did not emanate from the shadowy figure, which remained silent. Jason squinted against the unrelenting light, finding that if he kept his head turned and his right eye mostly shut, he could make out some details. The room, what little he could see of it, appeared bare save for his chair and the table. The walls looked concrete and the floor was solid. It was cool, almost cold.

  He no longer felt anything in his neck.

  “Where am I? What—what are you doing to me?”

  “Are you feeling anything yet?” The voice came from the other side of the table, a man’s voice. It carried an accent Jason couldn’t place. Something faintly European. He craned his neck and squinted further, trying to discern his interlocutor, the severity of the light prohibiting it.

  “Allow me to repeat, and know I do not enjoy repeating myself. Are you feeling anything yet, Jason?”

  “You know my name…”

  “Of course we know your name.” It was as if the voice came from the light.

  “Where am I? What is this place? What did he do to me? My neck…”

  “Any answers I divulge,” the voice asserted, “will only prompt more questions,” the man sounded like he had recited this before, to others, “and you are not in a position to demand answers.”

  “What the…?”

  “Let us try this, shall we? I am going to turn off the light.” Jason felt a rush of relief at the mere promise. “I want you to close your eyes and count to ten. It will help your eyes adjust. You will do that.”

  �
�What—”

  “It was not a question, Jason.”

  “Okay, yes!”

  “Very well.”

  The light extinguished. Stars danced in Jason’s eyes.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Against his better judgment, he did so.

  “Let us count together.” The man began. “One.”

  Jason didn’t know where he was or who these men were. But he knew this wasn’t good. They had him tied to a chair for Christ’s sake.

  “Two.”

  It was definitely cold in the room.

  “Three.”

  He could hear the breathing of one of the men in the room—he assumed it was the man who had jabbed him with the needle—the breathing moving away from him.

  “Four.”

  How did he get here? Where was here?

  “Five.”

  Gotta think back. What was the last thing he remembered?

  “Six.”

  A hot morning with Mook and Tucker and the Gift. There was a kid…

  “Seven.”

  …there was the kid, Rudy, his torso in the vehicle, his limbs in the dirt.

  Don’t think about that.

  “Eight.”

  A kid hawking bootlegs. Mook wanted a horror movie. Come back tomorrow.

  “Nine.”

  A kid in the car, a little girl.

  “Ten.”

  She’d been crying, shot to shit. Her arm hung by a string.

  Don’t think about that either.

  He was told to open his eyes and Jason did so.

  Though it did not appear wide, the room was deep. Dim lights in the ceiling illuminated the chamber. The table was placed two yards from where Jason was secured. One man was seated behind the table while another stood next to it. Past the table, on the far side of the room behind the two figures, there was a windowless door. Jason had no idea how far back behind him the room stretched.

  “You can see now, yes?”

  Jason looked at his captors. The seated man’s accent was rich. He was older, his hair short and neat, going white. His skin was deeply tanned and lined. His jaw was prominent and rigid. He did not look pleasant. The standing man appeared even less so. He was a giant, six and a half feet tall, barrel-chested in his black t-shirt. His arms were crossed over his chest and one ham-sized hand gripped an elbow. The man’s shaven head bore a scar that ran from the top of his scalp to just above an eye. His black mustache looked incongruous, lending him a circus strongman’s appearance.