by Ron Lealos
Margolis jumped, moving farther away.
“Don’t take me seriously,” I said. “It’s just my infantile attempt at gallows humor.”
Behind the soldier and sitting on her cot, the woman with the red fingernails from yesterday was watching. She began to giggle.
“Oh, don’t let him bother you, Amber,” she said. “He’s harmless.”
Sure. I was a non-toxic blend of wit and good cheer. Except when I wasn’t.
I stepped past the flap and moved inside the tent.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I’m looking for Khkulay. Do you know where she is? The way I’m treated around here, it seems the intel is ‘Top Secret.’”
The first soldier had moved closer to her H & K. The one with the bright colored finger tips stood and walked toward me.
“That girl’s a doll,” the second woman said. “She’s somethin’ else. So fresh and innocent.” She put her clenched fists on her hips. “And what might be your intentions toward her, spook?”
This female grunt came from a somewhat different mold. Broad at the beam, she barely made the woman’s Army height minimum of four-foot-ten. She certainly was pushing the supposed weight maximum of 121 pounds, but I didn’t think there were too many scales around. Her eyes were spread far apart, and her brows had been trimmed to a fine line. Curly hair in a buzzed Afro, this woman wouldn’t take shit from me or no man. Still, I tried to loosen things up.
“Well, thought I’d take her for a candlelit dinner at Chez Mess Hall,” I said. “I’ve booked a table by the window. I prefer the Prix Fixe menu. Or the chef’s recommendation.”
“And I ’spose you forgot the flowers?”
“Sorry. The florist was closed. I returned too late from protecting the free world.”
“Figures.”
“I’ll make it up to her with a bottle of the best Pinot Noir.”
“So, what you really want, spook?”
“Just a brief conversation. That’s all. You know, make sure she’s adjusting.”
“You come walkin’ in here like some horny teenager. I can see whats you wants.”
“I assure you, I have the highest regards for Khkulay and am only concerned for her well-being.”
“Yaa. That’s exacly what Leroy said ’bout me. I was three months pregnant ’fore he snuck out the door.” She turned and pointed to a photo of a girl in braids and a high-collared white blouse sitting on the ammo can. “That’s what becum’a that night. Laqeesha.” She smiled and then looked back. “Ain’t she the cutest little thang.”
I grinned what I thought would be confirmation of her opinion.
“Don’t you be smilin’ at me, spook. That strategy’s workin’ ’bout as well as what we’re doin’ here. You better come up with a better plan.”
Short of going back for my assault rifle and a few grenades, it was seemingly impossible to pry out information from anyone around here. I’d had an easier time with targets when all I had to do was pull out a pair of pliers. No time for surrender, I forged ahead. Maybe honesty would work. It did with mom. I cleared my throat and shrunk my body.
“I apologize,” I said. “It seems crossing to the women’s side of the barracks makes me lose track of who I am. I start sweating and forgetting there are real people here who care about the plight of humanity and the destiny of our great nation. My mother used to say, ‘Son, there are times when a soft voice spoken with a pure heart is louder than the harshest cry.’ She always treated us and Dad in the same gentle way. I’m proud to be her son and am sorry if I have let her and you down.”
There. Mom, Dad, and apple pie. Mixed with doses of humility, contriteness, and submission. Oughta work.
“Now that’s the biggest crocka shit I heard since Rufus told me he wasn’t married and never been ta jail,” she said. “Why don’t you slink back inta the hole you crawled outta, spook?”
Re-deployment. I turned to leave. I’d just been handed my head unlike any bad guy had been able to do since I’d arrived in this rock pile. And there was nobody I could waste to vent my frustration.
As I opened the tent flap, I almost ran into Khkulay. She was obviously returning from the shower. Her long black hair was still wet and hung straight below her shoulders. A pair of oversized fatigues had replaced the robe. Even in the dimness, muted light from the overheads reflected off those glacial blue eyes. Someone had painted her fingernails pink. When she saw me, a faint blush appeared on her cheeks, making her look fourteen. She smiled and quickly moved past, tying a scarf over her hair. She walked to the back of the tent and didn’t turn around until she had adjusted the head dress to cover all her hair except the strands on her forehead.
“Salam Aleikum, Khkulay,” I said. Peace be with you.
“Wa Aleikum as salam, Mr. Morgan,” she said. And peace be with you, too. She sat on the furthest cot and folded her hands in her lap.
I took a few small steps into the tent, knowing full well the gatekeepers wouldn’t let me get closer.
“Are you being treated well?” I asked.
“Of course,” Khkulay said. “Did you expect I would be flogged?” She laughed.
“Have you had enough to eat?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I especially liked the fresh fruits. We don’t get that many here.”
“And you have a comfortable place to sleep?”
“Yes. It is much softer than the floor.”
“Did Mr. Finnen visit?”
“Yes. For a short time. He said he had duties to attend to. We had a nice talk. He is a good man.”
Fuckin’ Irish imp. Dunne was right. He must have snuck away unseen like the spook he was; it wasn’t a false rumor.
The other two women in the tent were grinning, listening to my loser attempt at small talk. Their eyes went back and forth between Khkulay and me like they were watching a video game. I was the carrion feed for those two vultures.
What I wanted to do was extract Khkulay from the perimeter secured by the two harpies, but I believed she wouldn’t be relaxed alone with a man other than her husband for quite some time.
The woman with the red fingernails went to her cot and yawned.
“Lights out in a few minutes, spook,” she said. “I do hate ta miss your skill in lady killin’. You’re almost makin’ me swoon. Toddle on.” She waved a limp wrist.
“Spook?” Khkulay said. “Why do you call him spook? What does that word mean?”
“You better ask him,” the curly-haired woman said, nodding in my direction. “What you gots to say for yourself, spook?”
Unraveled by women again. There was no way I could tell Khkulay the truth. That I was paid to sneak up on her countrymen and put a knife into their spines or crush their balls until they gave me the names of anyone, even people they didn’t know or had never heard of. I looked at my boots.
“Accounting,” I said. “My job is to make sure everything and everyone is paid on time and all the columns are balanced.” I wiped my hand across my brow and shush-ed like it was exhausting work and I carried the burden of so many. “It’s an important part of how things get done around here. Some people resent my position, and they’ve taken to calling those of us in the accounting department spooks, because they think money just supernaturally appears in our hands. The word spook is similar to ghost. It’s like some of the fine women around here are called dykes. Named for the famous little Dutch boy who saved his city from flooding by sticking his finger in the dike. These ladies are the kind who stick their fingers in places most women don’t want to go, solving lots of individual issues and lending a gentle touch. American military personnel enjoy giving things and people nicknames.”
I turned my head to the two other women who were now sitting close on their cots, mouths open wide in awe of my learned and articulate explanation. “Don’t you ladies agree?”
“Who you be callin’ dyke, spook? I ain’t no dyke. Laqeesha’s my proof. Amber sure ain’t neither. She runs from her own voice.”
The other soldier, Amber, hadn’t said a word since she told me she was the tooth fairy. She had been staring for the last few minutes, inspecting me like I was on the morgue table. She continued her postmortem in silence.
Diversion. Get them away from the real concern. Focused on their sexuality rather than my job description. It almost worked.
“I still don’t understand,” Khkulay said. But she didn’t look confused.
“Listen up, girl,” the red finger-nailed soldier said, facing Khkulay. “Don’t you be lettin’ no man tell you lies. You got plenty a time for that. They all can’t stop theyselves.” She turned back to me. “As for you, spook, get yo’self on outta here. You been doin’ too much insultin’. Ain’t no bulldaggers in this tent.”
I started to leave, opening the flap by reaching behind with my left hand.
“It was great getting to see you again, Khkulay,” I said. “I’ll check in tomorrow or as soon as I get can get away from keeping all the numbers in the right place. I’m glad these ladies are taking such good care of you.” I looked at Amber, obviously the less aggressive of the two soldiers. “And I trust you two will fill in Khkulay with all the correct information on my MOS and the heavy responsibilities of the accounting branch. Anything else might be considered a violation of US Criminal Code 18.” Treason. I smiled and waved. “Good night, ladies.”
Walking back to the compound, I marveled at the way I could make women nearly black out with my charm. What I really wanted to do was put Finnen under six feet of shamrock, but I’d done too much of that lately. We’d just have a heart to heart.
The next time I saw Finnen was at the morning’s pre-skag-delivery planning session. Washington and Dunne were there, and I didn’t want to conduct an interrogation of him with those two in earshot. If only the elf were going with me on the trek to drop off the smack, I could have arranged an accident. Not fatal. Only have him listed as another casualty of Enduring Freedom with a ticket back to The World. Finnen was staying on base, helping Dunne sift through intel on the mission and tracking its tentacles through whatever covert operation was in play. That meant every coffee break would find Finnen sniveling around in the women’s sector until Dunne’s promise to ship her to Kabul and on to the United States was met.
The tent seemed to be carved in marble and unable to change in any way. I could only imagine what Dunne’s house outside Reston, Virginia, was like. If a coaster was moved, he’d notice and put it back in its rightful place with a stern warning to whoever had offended his sense of order. This morning, his fingers were frantic on the laptop keyboard, and the view hadn’t altered by even a pin placement, but Washington’s presence added something to the atmosphere. He stood in the corner, claiming his ass would be “numb as a whitey’s nuts” from hours bouncing in the 6x6 and he needed to give his “cheeks some fresh air” while he could. I watched Finnen fidget at his station next to the fridge. He looked back and forth between the beer stash and his watch, obviously using all his will power to keep from popping a can at 0530.
“How did it go for you yesterday?” I asked Finnen.
He looked up from the fridge.
“Boring as watching clover grow,” he said. “My orders were to keep any busybodies from gettin’ within ten meters of the tent without an invite. Nobody did.”
“How was lunch?”
“Ahhh, Morgan,” Finnen said, smiling. ”Could ya be more oblique, matey? I’ve already heard how impressive you were with your looks and charm. The lasses are wet dreamin’ about ya. Pinin’ away, breathlessly awaiting another visit from yourself.”
In the clandestine world, there was no way to keep secrets when it came to the battlefield of the sexes, even if it was platonic. While it was crucial to find out what the Taliban’s next move might be to stay alive and plan accordingly, what most of the personnel on the base wanted to know was who was fucking who. Or about to. Or wanted to. Or even fantasized about. The base was probably filled with titters about the “dumbass spook” that got his “pecker in a ringer” in pursuit of “raghead pussy.” That would be from the men. The women would be whispering, “Last night, there was this yummy spook who tried to put a move on the cute Afghan girl staying in that tent with the pink geraniums outside. She’s so vulnerable. It was just adorable the way he tried to win her heart. He was soooo . . . sweet. Acted like Billy in the fifth grade, sweatin’ and stammerin’ and sayin’ silly things. Did everything but bring a box of See’s chocolates. I sure hope she gives the relationship a chance to grow and he’s all for commitment. From what I hear, he didn’t get close to first base.” And all I was trying to do was be a big brother.
“By the by,” Finnen said. “Did she give you a taste of the chocolates I bought for her?”
No beaming leprechaun smile from me.
“Just remember,” I said. “She’s vulnerable.” I almost gagged on the word and knew it was a mistake as soon as it left my lips. The word I can’t repeat is never used by assassins unless in reference to a target’s position—rarely then, either. Too much baggage with the V-word, and Finnen would jump on it like a rusting beer can.
“It’s about empowerment,” Finnen said. “Giving her the freedom for self-actualization so she can discover a meaningful relationship without the boundaries of male dominance. Connecting with her inner goddess and redefining the self.”
Washington slapped his thigh.
“Ain’t heard none’a that shit since I was datin’ Ms. Frigid,” he said. “Like ta’ talked me inta the grave ’fore she gave it up.”
Dunne hadn’t stopped his keyboarding.
“Fellas,” he said. “Can we get down to business? You can get closure later.”
My face was turning the color of Laqeesha’s mom’s fingernails.
“Yes,” I said, glancing at Finnen. “Later.”
“A little background on the day’s operation,” Dunne said. It would be the Cliff’s Notes version. Dunne was a man of only few words when he typed. “The trans-Afghanistan pipeline is part of a broader geo-strategic program put in place by the United States in partnership with the petroleum and natural gas industries. The intent is to supply the West’s need for oil and enhance the quality of life in the countries crossed by the pipeline. Helped by Saudi Prince Abdullah, first Unocal, together with a consortium of other multi-nationals, began talks with Afghan and Turkmenistan government officials and war lords. In 1995, the Unocal syndicate was granted the rights to build the line with the assistance of the current President of Afghanistan, Hamid Karzai, and the then-president Rabbani. Pre-1995, the United States had supported the Taliban in their war with the Russians. When that conflict ended, and the Taliban took control of Afghanistan, the contract with Unocal was no longer valid. But the goal remained and a new group, led by Amoco, later to be acquired by British Petroleum, resurfaced the project. Since Afghanistan was not recognized by the Clinton administration and the UN, negotiations stalled. With the election of President Bush, and our campaign against terrorism, the oil companies and governments feel the necessary protection provided by Coalition forces allows the beginning of the pipeline. For security reasons, the 1,780 kilometers of pipes will be buried three meters underground and cross Afghanistan and into the Baluchistan area of Pakistan. At the moment, an Argentinean company, Bridas, is spearheading the construction, through a new company called CentGas, with the covert help of US and British commercial interests and the protection of US military forces. Most of the construction is being done by a division of a German company, Wintershall. They have a significant stake in the expense and profit.”
Ten times more than I’d ever heard Dunne speak, even in other briefings or over a rare beer. He appeared exhausted and pushed away from the computer screen.
“What’s that got to do with a plot to buy Afghan white from the Taliban?” Finnen asked. “Sounds like business as usual to me.”
“I’m getting there,” Dunne said. “I don’t think you have much pressing in your daybook, Finn
en. Just give me a second to check for messages.” He moved forward to his laptop.
Finnen couldn’t control himself. He reached for a Bud and snapped open the top, licking the bubbles from the sides. “Aaaahhh,” he groaned. “Irish honey.”
The smile had never left Washington’s face. He was a newby in Spookville, getting a taste of the Earth-changing discussions that took place within the inner sanctum.
“Breakfast?” Washington asked, watching Finnen chug the beer.
“It’s a staple of the Irish and spooks,” Finnen said. “Beer will always have a place as its own essential food group in our diet. It feeds the demand for maudlin conversation and the singin’ of ‘Danny Boy.’” Finnen began to hum along to his own inner voice.
“At least I don’t have a detail as critical as staring at a canvas tent on your dance card today, Finnen,” Dunne said. “You’ll be in the bag by noon.”
“Well before that, if the sweet nectar has its way with me,” Finnen said, opening another.
Thoughts of Finnen using his often-bragged-of magnetism on Khkulay made my skin itch with hate. I couldn’t fathom why the skirts didn’t terrorize him like they did me. His lilting voice and sonnets got him fumbling with panties quicker than I could unsheathe my Ka-Bar. He talked of female conquest like it came easier than shooting dogs. I couldn’t let it happen with Khkulay. He was a player, and I hadn’t even been drafted. Even if I had come to love Finnen as a brother, the way only comrades-in-arms in wartime did (something unspoken and never to leave my lips), Finnen and me were on opposing sides in this battle. I watched him throw an empty at the trash can.
“I love you like a brother, Finnen,” I said. “Nobody, with the exception of maybe Washington, who’s still on a yet-to-be-determined basis, would I rather have in a firefight beside me. But I don’t want to hear later you stumbled into the women’s barracks today after I leave. Khkulay needs time to adjust and rest. Not be dogged by an Irish drunk.”