by Ron Lealos
Washington had remained relatively silent during the search. Both of us could sense we were closer to slaughter here than back at the refinery. At the moment, these men weren’t being directed by a Mullah. One insulting move or word could be our entrance to paradise, no matter what their orders.
After a few minutes, the Taliban with one good foot jabbed the barrel of his AK into my back, then Washington’s, prodding us to the truck.
“Ouch,” Washington said, turning to face the gimp. “That hurts. You want me to rip off that dummy foot and beat you to death with it?”
I thought Washington understood the danger. Wrong. I was beginning to feel he was suicidal as well as brave and intelligent. Maybe I was misguided about the last one, too.
“Stow it, Washington,” I said. “You’ll live. But not if you keep jacking your lips around these men.”
“There it is,” Washington said as we continued to walk to the 6x6. “You whiteys are obsessed with two black male body parts. Dicks and lips. I knew you couldn’t last the day without bringin’ both a’ them up.”
“Not guilty, Washington,” I said. “It’s you with the dick lip fascinations. I haven’t been sayin’ much. You’re the Chatty Cathy. If you don’t shut your fat lips now, you won’t be able to recite the ‘I had a dream’ speech like I been expectin’. Get in the truck.”
“Fat lips? You can’t stop yourself, honkey.”
We went to our designated seats. The limping hadji even helped me close the door, while the fingerless man stared at Washington like he was a new species. Not many black men in this valley.
The Toyotas were moved, and Washington drove through, leaving the hadji roadblock with a wave and a “see ya next year in Paris, Abdul” salute.
Within a few hours and another blockade, we were back at the Tora Bora base. Dunne had assured us we had a free pass through the gate and no MPs would hassle us on our return as long as we used the password “Libido,” perfect for Washington. It worked.
Washington parked the most valuable truck on base in the CIA compound and returned to his barracks to be debriefed in the morning. He hadn’t stopped lecturing the entire way back, trying to convince me of the superior heritage of black culture and the “tiny dick” syndrome that afflicted the white race and adversely impacted so many of the ruling-class decisions. I was impatient to evaluate the damage Finnen had wrought and rushed the goodbyes, leaving it with “We’ll finish this tomorrow. Or not.”
Smells like smack,” Dunne said from his station at the computer. “I’ll have to assign someone to guard the truck who can keep his yap shut while he’s standing by millions in dope, dreaming of a villa in the Caribbean.” He gave me the only glance since I entered the tent. “Tell me all about it.”
For once, Finnen wasn’t in the corner, crushing Bud cans and protecting the stash like a junky. I went to the fridge, having a rare hankering for the taste of beer. No moral stance, I had just never gotten used to it except when the purpose was to get wasted. I’d have one later, maybe.
Finnen’s absence was cause for suspicion, and I couldn’t take my mind off his probable schmoozing of Khkulay to give anything but the barest recap to Dunne. Finnen was a dog of war, and his sniffing needed to be stopped.
I had stowed my H & K against the canvas wall and stripped to a dull gray t-shirt and my camo pants, unlacing my boots and letting fresh air reunite with toes that smelled like wet burlap. The Hush Puppy and Ka-Bar were on the ground next to me.
It didn’t take more than one glance to see the only things that changed were the position of a few pins in the map and the number of flies caught in the spider web in the ceiling corner. Dunne’s passion for order and sameness overcame any desire for an upgrade to his environment. I scratched the ever-present but intensifying itch around my balls.
“So we left Wahidi, or whatever his name was, with your custom-made gift and di di’ed for the base,” I said, summing up the mission. “The last thing out of the refinery was ‘boom.’”
Dunne had granted me the courtesy of at least two glances away from his laptop during my five-minute speech and only a couple questions. Now, he honored me with another fleeting look.
“Short on detail,” Dunne said. “But we can fully debrief later. For now, get some sleep. You and Washington will be heading south first thing in the morning. You’ve got a rendezvous tomorrow night at the pipeline.”
“Doesn’t Washington get the pleasure of unburdening himself to you, too?”
“Not now. You can both fill me in when you get back. There are some fine points we need to address before you leave. Be here at 0530. I’ve already told Washington’s commander. Have a nice night.” All this was said to the computer screen.
“Have you seen Finnen?”
“No. I haven’t seen Finnen. I assigned him to guard detail just to get him out of here.” Dunne’s eyes blinked like a strobe light. “Had him keep the perimeter clear and gave him a lunch break myself. I heard he used it sniffin’ around the women’s barracks.”
Fuck. No telling what the degenerate Irish man was up to. But, by the way Dunne responded with a forced frown that threatened to explode in a loud guffaw, I knew he was lying. Must be covering for Finnen’s shenanigans.
I picked up my weapons and shirt, with no intention of showering or eating before going on an elf hunt. Not bothering to say “Allah, Allah Akbar,” I walked out of the tent. Dunne wouldn’t have heard me anyway, lost as he always was in the ether world.
The women’s barracks. A row of tents, walkways swept clean. Sandbags protected the walls. Big numbers sewn in black with a white background on each of the canvas quarters. Orderly, like all the barracks, with the exception of the more relaxed atmosphere inside the Company sector. I half-expected potted plants to be growing in cute harmony with the dust, providing colorful contrast to the faded green, and clothes lines filled with bras and panties. But this would make the females stand out even more in the modern Army, distinctions they were trying to blur. Most wanted to be considered as mean as the male Rangers, but the differences in strength, size, and hormones would always make it impossible except in Super Hero comic books. I approached the first female grunt I saw.
“I’m looking for an Afghan woman who was brought here last night,” I said. “Do you know where I might find her?”
The soldier was taller than my six-foot height. She wore a green cloth hat with the bill perfectly pointed and probably starched. Her fatigues were loose, not giving any hint of body type other than the width of her shoulders. They were linebacker sized. No makeup and bushy eyebrows, she was not a candidate for a Cosmopolitan cover. She had that uncanny female ability to searchingly look deep into my retinas and convey the wonders of the universe. And to make me aware there was no place to hide. I felt like dropping to my knees and confessing.
“Aren’t you a long way from home, spook?” she asked.
No escape. It was always as if I had an “S” tattooed on my forehead. Usually, it served me. The sheep parted like I was the Pope. No one risked asking too many questions in a war zone. I always went to the front of the line. CIA operatives were ghouls and phantoms, ready, after any provocation, to wreak punishment, a reputation we cherished. But that was in the land of men. I almost stammered.
“Just some Company business,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”
It wasn’t just this instance; women had always intimidated me. Back in The World, my older sisters had treated me like I wasn’t in on anything, whispering, giggling, and pointing. There was the constant “Trevor did . . .” or “Sean said . . .” What I never understood was how the boy’s behaviors were wrong, but they obviously were by the volume of my sisters’ shrieks. I was teased and ridiculed, especially when my parents were out of ear shot. Then it became worse. They got the “curse” and tits, and I was no longer worthy of breathing the same estrogen-charged air. Then, real boyfriends came into their lives, and I was told to “ride your teeny balls out of the room and disappear.
” But that wasn’t all.
My mother ruled with kindness and seemed to know my every thought, especially the bad ones, according to her Catholic eyes. She missed nothing. A witch in an apron, she could detect the smallest fib or even the thought I might be about to tell one. I adored her, even if she scared me. Too much love was a burden I didn’t know if I could handle. All of this was fodder for one of the base psychiatrists who were now part of Operation Enduring Freedom. But most of it felt like a bunch of sissy lame nonsense when I was surrounded by so many with real issues. Nevertheless, my mission now was to extract the intel I needed from this Amazon and find Khkulay without running back to the compound and hiding under my cot, sucking my thumb.
The woman in front of me stared like mom.
“Would that business be social,” she asked. “or business business?”
I wouldn’t be able to withstand the torture much longer. I looked down and watched a green Indian garden lizard crawl under the nearest tent.
“Purely social,” I said. “I left my Hush Puppy behind.”
Everyone knew about the features of a silenced .22. And what the barrel pushed against a head meant. The Rangers preferred more firepower, while the Hush Puppy was infamous as the spook weapon of choice.
My smile didn’t work. She frowned.
“No dogs here for you to practice on,” she said.
I grinned with just enough malice to let her question.
“Darn,” I said. “I’m getting kind of rusty. Haven’t been out since last night.”
Programmed. No matter how frightened, training took control. Don’t let anyone intimidate. Keep the mystery burning. She took a small unconscious step back and straightened, making her even taller.
“I like cats better,” she said. “Not all the leg humping and slobbering.” She moved forward. “You don’t sacrifice cats, do you?”
“Only on Sundays,” I said. My stupid grin was tiring my dimpled cheeks. Just a small-town boy talking to a woman about murdering animals. Happens every day in Millard.
She had a big nose that hooked downward a fraction at the tip and a hint of a mustache. Now, her nostrils flared.
“You spooks are disgusting,” she said. “For the life of me, I don’t understand why on Earth you are allowed to shit in our nest. Been out waterboarding?”
This was going well. One simple question, and now the situation had deteriorated to a Congressional hearing on torture methods. Time for a veto. I stopped the silly grin.
“Take it up with your Senator, ma’am,” I said. “Or you could visit our little chamber of horrors and see for yourself what fun it is on the dark side. Have you seen the girl?”
Now she was ramrod military straight.
“Captain Meredith to you,” she said. Conditioning. She was falling back on the old Army officer routine. I should be honored to be in her presence, not an insubordinate low life non-com scum, even if I was from the CIA. She seemed to be getting ready to spit.
Trying to calculate the odds of running into her, the Captain Meredith who Dunne had dispatched me to for Khkulay’s safe keeping, I struggled to regroup. Meredith wasn’t around yesterday, and I had made the hand off to a Sergeant with fiery red fingernails. Even if this woman standing stiff and tall in front of me wasn’t wearing a nametag or stripes, I should have guessed by her bearing she might have been the Captain Meredith. It was all about Khkulay and her well-being.
Infatuation. Not with the Captain or Khkulay, but the thought interrupted, and I knew this fascination was a disease my immune system hadn’t built antibodies against. The syndrome nearly always resulted in misjudgments and embarrassment. Like the time back at university when I fell for a blond-haired beautiful classmate in Political Science 305, Comparison of Geo-Political Trends in the Muslim World. I believed our relationship was torrid, even though we had only met a few times in the library for study group and one late-night walk back to her dorm afterward. She had been passionate about the ongoing crisis in Palestine and said things like, “The absolute tyranny of the Israeli cabal has caused emotional castration for Palestinian males.” What I heard was, “Let’s sneak into my dorm room and fuck.”
When I answered yes, it was to that fantasy; it wasn’t a response to “Do you agree with my hypothesis?” In my lameness, I put my arm around her waist, believing I was starting the foreplay all women craved. She gave a little yelp and pulled away, knocking my books out of my other hand as she twisted. “That is exactly the type of behavior the Islamic world finds appalling and the reason Muslim women wear the hijab,” she said loud enough for passing students to hear. “They do not want to be preyed upon and disrespected by men.” Giggles from the audience. She stomped away, leaving my cheeks on fire and me chasing papers made airborne by the wind blowing across the Quad.
This evening’s mission should have been simple. Find Khkulay. Make sure everything was fine and she was adjusting to another reality with a minimum of shock. No one would be dying. Or tortured. This was tougher than sneaking alone into a dark cave in the middle of Taliban country.
Unfortunately, Captain Meredith was still at attention in front of me, working up enough contempt for a real dressing down, something expertly taught at OCS. But it was my turn.
“O-O-7 here,” I said.
Cool. She didn’t blink.
“I’ve always heard about Company arrogance and insolence,” she said “If I could, I’d have you put in the blockade.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I gave her a limp-wristed half-ass salute. “And if the Intelligence Committee hadn’t voted to limit CIA interrogation methods, I’d have your ass on an operating table with the cattle prods out. There’d only be one question. Where’s the girl?”
As always in my interactions with women, things were going well. At least I hadn’t put my arm around her and steered her toward the nearest vacant cot. She began to shake her head back and forth.
“Fucking spooks,” she said.
It was amazing how many times “fucking” came before “spooks.” As if we were really getting any. I was ready for a do-over.
“Let’s start again,” I said. “Pretend we’re just two lonely people in a war zone who meet under the stars on a warm evening cocooned by the gentle breeze and searching for that special person we’ve always known was out there waiting for us. I whisper softly in your ear.” I bent slightly toward her, feigning intimacy. “Where’s the fucking girl?”
No slap. That would be too feminine. Meredith just turned and walked away, leaving me with a humph to consider. Another notch on my belt.
Now, who to offend next? I wondered.
Not much foot traffic. The scent of perfume. Boom boxes played softly as I strolled down the paths between quarters, headed for the tent near where I’d left Khkulay. Good place to start; I should have planned this strategy earlier before the battle with Meredith.
Murmurs and laughter. No beer-driven guffaws. Even some candles. The women probably were engaged in séances or absorbed in the latest Danielle Steele epic. Filing cuticles and folding fresh laundry while they updated each other on the latest base gossip. What the fuck did I know? It was no longer the Man’s Army, and I had no point of reference other than two sisters who ignored me whenever they could. No women in my training group at Langley or Camp Perry. This place was as foreign as a mosque. And I was uncomfortable.
A few female soldiers passed, avoiding eye contact. It wasn’t that men weren’t allowed in this sector; it was more that male grunts would rather be somewhere else, slugging down beer and swapping stories about stupid or dead hadjis unless one of the tents held a sure thing. No time and no place for romance.
Finally, a cheery-faced woman with a bath towel over her shoulder gave me directions without even whispering “fuckin’ spook.” Maybe I had shape-shifted.
Outside the tent labeled 12W, I wondered about the protocol. Was I supposed to knock on one of the metal support poles? Scratch on the canvas? Clear my throat loudly a few times? Barge in
and startle women in bras and panties? Send them a text message saying I was outside and would like a word?
Standing with arms tight to my sides in the dim light of the overheads, I felt absurd. I was a trained assassin. A college graduate with, oh, three or four close physical relationships with women behind me. (No use lying to myself. Make that two, counting the one I paid for on a drunken Saturday night I don’t even remember. Anyway, Finnen told me I did the deed, so I gotta count it.) A man highly skilled at the twelve ways to conduct an unarmed kill in two seconds, and a practitioner versed in making instant life-changing decisions. In this moment, I was childishly frozen to the dirt, the internal conflict threatening to cause me to weep or spew the last meal of shit on a shingle.
“Fed Ex,” I said loudly.
After shaking the tent flap, I stepped back and waited for a signature. Or for someone to rescue me from hell.
The angel appeared in rumpled fatigues and freshly applied ruby lipstick. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a rubber band. Margolis was printed on her sewn nametag, and the ID was slanted thirty degrees above parallel, riding the crest of an awesome tit. Behind her, a lamp covered with a dark-red shade sat on an ammo box provided back lighting to her tanned features. A small cleft in her chin was the only blemish on a smooth face. She smiled, displaying straight white teeth, the orthodontics well above military competence.
“Tooth fairy,” she said. Perfect.
The smile vanished. She stepped back with a little gasp.
Time to reconsider. The shape-shifting hadn’t worked its magic this time. It could be the short growth of an unshaven jaw, not the “S” imprinted on my forehead. And the not quite strack fatigues. Or just my aura. I raised both hands so she could see I wasn’t holding any weapons.
“Be cool, and nobody will get hurt,” I said. I laughed. It was a line I loved to use just before the garrote tightened around a target’s neck. This soldier didn’t know that, but from the look of her now wide eyes, she suspected.