by Ron Lealos
“I know you were only at Gardez for a few wake-ups, but ever heard of Abernathy?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ that over. There was talk of a Captain who was losin’ more men than anyone else. The grunts nicknamed him Captain Auschwitz. If you went out, you didn’t return. I think it was Abernathy.” Washington shook his right hand and put it on his thigh, steering with the fingers of his left. “There was some vague link with Kabul and the Afghan National Army. Captain Auschwitz was said to have spent time there training officers before he was deployed to Gardez. Liaisoned with Generals Khan and Dostum. The more I think about it, the more sure I am Abernathy is Captain Auschwitz. Never met the man, but his name was whispered. You know, in case you might get sent to his squad and fall victim to the spell. Nobody wanted the duty or to bring on attention from the evil spirits. Kinda like with spooks.”
Better to be talking than lost in my own ugly fantasies. I moved the Hush Puppy at my waist an inch. It was jabbing me in the side.
“I heard you sigh when Klaus described the mystery man,” I said. “What was that about?”
“You know the reputation of spooks,” Washington said. “If it don’t smell fishy, it’s not them. The complexities escape ordinary grunts like me. But it sure seemed like he was talkin’ about Dunne. If you were gonna describe him, what would be the first things you’d say?”
“Exactly what Klaus did. There’re lots of other men here who fit the bill, but not many running around in civvies who’d have access to the pipeline hangars.”
“So, what do ya think it means?”
“Could be we’re gonna have to find out. We’ll have to watch our backs if the Company is conducting the symphony. I always thought it was a possibility and Dunne is only playing dumb. Wouldn’t be the first time assets were sent to the field with misinformation. I can’t grasp what is to be gained from selling dope so the Taliban can buy guns. And having Klaus and Werner execute American soldiers.”
“You’re makin’ my skull throb. Too many gy-rations for me.”
“You’ve been initiated now, Washington,” I said. “Once you’re in the cult, no escape.”
“Should I be honored? Or shittin’ in my camos?”
“Both.”
“Gonna be kinda hard to get back to my squad now. They’re civilized.”
“No worries there. Dunne already has you on temporary detail to him. Easy enough to make it permanent. Besides, you’ve heard too much.”
“Fuck all, Morgan. Don’t know if I want to make a career move like that. Shootin’ off toes isn’t part of my job experience. Or ambition.”
“A classic, Washington. That one will become part of spook lore for sure. Recounted for decades at the annual Company wienie roasts.”
“Didn’t do it to make the Hall of Infamy. Those were two bad dudes.”
“Drug runners and murderers, not to mention supplying the cash to fund terrorists. The kind of enemy I like to introduce to Ms. Hush Puppy. You’ll get used to it. Not enjoy it, unless you’re a sociopath. I gotta remind myself every day we’re fightin’ the good fight, even if I can’t see through the mirrors.”
“I’m square with that. Been thinkin’ about it. It’s not much different from using a .50 cal machine gun on a bunker of al-Qaeda. Dead’s dead. They won’t remember the pain.”
“It’s a fine line we tread. I came over to help lower the chances there’ll be another 9/11. What I’ve learned is how to get information, like I’m Google on Dexedrine carrying a silenced pistol. And to kill. Not the bodies stuffed with foam back at Camp Perry. Real people. Most, thank God, are surely guilty. But the ones that haunt are the maybe innocents. And the women and kids. I won’t do it anymore, no matter what Dunne or Langley order. No more fire fights in villages or huts where there’s civilians around. Those krauts deserved to die, no question. Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. I’d do it again. What it does mean is that I’m committed to making Kansas a safer place.”
“You Republican?”
I slapped him on the arm.
“If I tell you, I gotta kill ya.”
“You worship Dick Cheney? Sounded just like one a his speeches. Or maybe it was the O’Reilly factor.”
“Blue blood democrat.”
“I knew you had a brain, not just a blind believer.”
“Don’t forget a conscience. If I didn’t, I’d just be another serial killer.”
“No more preachin’. I gotta get to where you are on my own if I’m gonna have any sleep for the rest of my life.” Washington put two hands back on the wheel after he rubbed his jaw. “What we gonna do about Abernathy?”
“Our job is to bring back the intel. Doesn’t mean we have to tell all. People like Dunne and higher are making the decisions. This one could be special, since Dunne says he’s gotta dance around Langley while he’s makin’ sure he’s not shittin’ in one a their dirty nests. For now, we just ride along and try to keep our scalps.”
“All fine by me, unless I conclude I’d rather be doin’ easy stuff like huntin’ down Taliban and al-Qaeda and blowin ’em up. I’m just a simple soldier, not inclined toward all the scheming. Makes my head explode.”
“You no longer have a choice, Washington. Not that I’ll put a bullet between your eyes in the dark if you try to run. Since we’ve gotten to be such great buddies, that’ll be Finnen’s job. You’re already part of the secret sect, and you know too much. No threats. Just the facts.”
“And if I was to make an appointment with that Anderson Cooper CNN dude who’s always lookin’ for something beyond the normal carnage? Fill him in on how the spooks aren’t exactly followin’ the Geneva Convention or even the prohibitions of Section 18 of the US code.”
“Since we’ve been denyin’ it for over fifty years, why would your story make cable TV in the day of Gitmo? We’d just have to drag out all the proof of how mentally unstable you are.”
“What proof?”
“Well, the Company writers do fiction really well. I’m sure they could invent your history, and it would be really sad. They’re experts at legends. It’d make it really tough for you to get a job when you rotate out.”
“You’d do that?”
“Not me. I’m only called for pest control.”
Washington chuckled, the laugh showing sparkling white teeth in the dim light of the dashboard.
“Ya know, Morgan,” he said. “A guy’s gotta like you. You don’t fuck around with small talk. You’re true to your convictions. Tell it like it is, even if it’s bullshit. Don’t see you bein’ the life of anyone’s party, though. You’re too ugly.”
“I find that comment intrusive and offensive,” I said. “And you think you’re Denzel?”
“Naw, nothin’ like that girlie boy.”
Ahead, the lights of the first road block. Washington began to slow the 6x6 and we cruised to a stop. Lots of H & Ks pointed in our direction. There’d been a shift change since we came through earlier and no one was familiar. The sentries didn’t have the luxury of a gate; they’d just pulled Humvees across the road. And a tank. Two soldiers walked to the truck, signaling us to get out. Until they were sure we were friendlies, there was a need to keep their rifles trained at our heads. It was too dark and there had been too much bloodshed to take risks.
“Papers,” the first soldier said.
“And a fine evening to you too,” Washington said. “Do you know the way to the beach?”
“Stand over there,” the soldier said, pointing with the H & K barrel to the side of the road.
“Sure,” Washington said, stepping toward the ditch. “My girlfriend and me were just out for a midnight swim. Must a taken a wrong turn at Kandahar.”
I handed over the documents from the glove box. The second soldier took them and examined the papers using a flashlight. Nobody but Washington smiled.
“You guys in any need of dope?” he asked. “We got a shit load in back. If you play nicey-nice, we’ll share.”
They hadn’t really inspect
ed me, but they would know soon enough. Washington had yet to refine the look, so he was just another jive ass breakin’ their balls.
There was only one important piece of paper in the envelope. It was on top and displayed the logo of the CIA, an eagle, looking constipated and roosting on a bunch of pointed spikes. It was a free pass anywhere in the world ruled by America. The soldier handed the envelope back.
“Fuckin’ spooks,” he said. He turned to the soldiers behind the Humvees, still pointing their weapons at our heads. “Let ’em through.” The two grunts walked away.
“Say, is this the way to San Jose?” Washington asked. “Ya’ll forgot ta give me directions.”
“Get in the truck,” I said. “Before they decide that pass must be as phony as you.”
“You just wanna get back and see the girl. Finnen might already have his hand in the jelly by the time you ever get a lick.”
“I really don’t want to shoot you. Maybe I’ll just leave you here with your buddies. You can hitchhike.”
The sun was rising by the time we made it to Jalalabad. Washington drove the entire trip. Once he got going, his mouth ran as fast as the 6x6 engine’s injectors. I tried to ignore him and concentrate on Dunne and the next steps, battling thoughts of Khkulay and Finnen like they were traitors.
A terminal case of the dry heaves. Run over by a Humvee. Too many hours hugging a latrine slit hole. The death of his best friend Bud. Who could tell what made Finnen look like he’d been ridden hard and put away dry. In the chair, he held his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, and moaned. Dunne’s tent smelled like someone had drained a brewery while spewing. And it all came from Finnen’s corner. He shook his head and started his mantra again.
“I before E except in Budweiser.” He gulped for air. “I before D except in Budweiser.” Another gulp. “Keep goin’. You’ll get it lad. I before E except in Budweiser.”
Surprisingly, Dunne was at the map, not embedded in his laptop.
“Shut up, Finnen,” he said. “And you owe me for the beer. It had to have been two cases.” Dunne turned and faced Finnen, pointing at the waste basket that used to be next to the fridge. It was impossible to tell now, buried as it was, in a pile of empty Bud cans. “And clean up that mess. It’s the maid’s day off.”
Finnen groaned more and looked down, his pupils hidden somewhere behind the red.
“At least my bladder’s still workin’,” he said. “My feet are warm and dry.”
Another spectacle for Washington to enjoy. After hours in the driver’s seat, he chose again to stand close to the door flap as if fairies were about to invade and he wanted to be first out.
“I certainly appreciate the professionalism I’ve observed around here,” Washington said. “Makes me feel confident the world is secure from the terrorist threat.”
“Could ya please stop yellin’,” Finnen said, rubbing his temples. “My head feels like someone hit me with a full can of beer right between these very eyes.”
“Did it yourself a few minutes ago,” Dunne said. “It was an empty. You fell over anyway.”
“As I was sayin’,” Washington said, “I’m honored to be part of an organization that sets the standard for truth and personal hygiene.”
“What’s that god-awful smell?” Finnen asked, sniffing like he was a bird dog.
“Check your blouse, Finnen,” Dunne said.
Finnen looked down and gasped.
“Jaysus,” he said. “Now that’s a waste of God’s own.” It looked like he was about to start lapping at his shirt as he held it in front of his face.
“Don’t you even think about it,” Dunne said. “I’m about to have you court martialed for showing up in this condition. You don’t need to add disgusting behavior to the list.”
“First, I didn’t just show up, I never left. Second,” Finnen held up three fingers, “the Company doesn’t do court martials.”
From my assigned chair, I wasn’t enjoying the display. At least it appeared Finnen’s night involved more important activities than smoothing his way into Khkulay’s hijab. I cleared my throat.
“If everyone is ready,” I said, “it’s time to convene the meeting.”
We didn’t have any rules. There was a certain hierarchy Finnen despised and I followed. Dunne was our minder, but it wasn’t the same as the officer-to-enlisted man protocol of the Army. Dunne liked to stress the need for “team play.” Finnen liked to push the boundaries. But Dunne still called the shots, knowing full well he couldn’t squash our creative talents by coming down too hard.
Dunne sat back at his computer, this time not disappearing into the blinking cursor. He looked at Washington.
“From the little bit Morgan’s told me,” Dunne said, “I think you could be a valuable member of the team.”
Washington scratched his butt.
“As long as you’re not pitchin’ and me catchin’,” Washington said.
Dunne didn’t smile.
“No matter what they say out there,” Dunne said, waving his hand to encompass the universe, “we don’t play in that league. Unless we do.” He dropped his hand and sat straighter in his chair. “So you think Abernathy could be mixed up in this story?”
Washington put his hands in his pockets and leaned against a tent pole, still looking like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fill any position on this team.
“Seems so,” Washington said. “I can’t be certain, but, with your powers, you could find out. Maybe look in some chicken guts or ask the Oujia board.”
“In this country, we use goats,” Dunne said. “Rest assured, I’ll know more by the time you get back from morning chow.”
No one was paying me any attention. It seemed like I was a prisoner in the asylum. It always did in Afghanistan. I crossed my legs and tried to look solemn, even though I could see Finnen faced toward the corner, standing up, wavering, and reaching for his fly. It was a brief window to get in a few words before the explosion.
“I think we should visit Abernathy,” I said. “Of course, that would be after you’ve confirmed what Washington and I suspect is true. The dicey part is that he’s a US Army officer. We might have to use different techniques.”
Finnen had thought better of it and was sitting back down, mumbling, “Not another waste. Can’t be givin’ it away.”
Dunne was focused on me while I spoke; then, he turned toward Finnen.
“Good try, but the diversion didn’t work, Morgan.” Dunne said. “If Finnen would’a unzipped his pants, I’d have nailed his dick to the tent pole with my Ka-Bar.” He looked back at me. “He’s in no shape for anything but rehab. It’ll be you and Washington. I’m gonna give Finnen a day to dry out, even if I have to tie him to the chair.”
In some ways, we were a brotherhood. I hated to use the description but knew it to be accurate. Finnen had been in-country longer than the combined time of Dunne, Washington, and me. Often, he’d been my cut-out and done everything possible in a supportive role to make sure I returned uninjured with mission accomplished. Much of his last year had been spent holed up in the Jalalabad safe house with no beer and no one to talk to. Time spent here was a vacation, and Dunne wasn’t going to piss on it. Or waste Finnen’s merciless talents for strategizing. The Company shrinks had suggested the Firm become more warm and friendly to its assets before they all began to rave and write their memoirs.
The siren’s call of the laptop was too much for Dunne, and he couldn’t resist the “You’ve Got Mail” tease that sounded without the words. He reached for his mouse. “We already know the Generals Khan and Dostum both have villas in Tuscany,” Dunne said while he looked at the screen and hit a few keys. He was an expert multi-tasker. “As well as castles here. Off shore bank accounts totaling in the hundreds of millions. Mistresses, Mercedes, Rolexes, all the trappings not easily affordable on a general’s salary. The Company has been more focused on any links to the Taliban or al-Qaeda. No one gives a shit about money. Seems like everybody’s got more tha
n they can spend. Or you and I will ever see unless we steal from the drug runners. It’s what they do with it to support terrorism.”
Something earth-shaking must have been delivered to his inbox. He sat forward and read the message, leaning back after a few seconds and sighing. “As long as they support what we’re doing here, there’s no pressure to have them removed. They know life can be precarious if they change sides and act accordingly. But this drug, oil, and Taliban scenario is pushing the envelope. They must be getting greedy.”
Dunne was morphing. In the last few days, more words had come from his mouth than even my Aunt Jane used—the same woman who wouldn’t stop talking even if her bra came unsnapped. Now, Dunne needed to rest his lungs. And stop the eye twitch. He watched the rippling of the tent roof and put his hands behind his head.
“Go eat,” he said. “The oatmeal is particularly tender this morning. I’ll have things more thought out when you get back.” He bobbed his head at Finnen. “Take him with you. Throw him in the shower first thing or you won’t enjoy breakfast.”
I stood and went to help the staggering Finnen.
“We need to make a decision about Khkulay,” I said. “She can’t stay here forever.”
“Right now,” Dunne said, “we’ve got a conspiracy on our plate. One that could be the source of the bullets that fly at your head. And we haven’t even spoken in depth about the German end of things. When there’s closure, we’ll take care of Khkulay. For now, she can stay where she is.”
“Ooh, ooh,” Washington said. “Loves that ‘closure’ shit. You boys talk like you do astral projections. Wanna read my chart?”
“I told you before,” Dunne said, “we use entrails.” He motioned toward the tent flap. “Off you go.”
Finnen wasn’t nearly as heavy as I anticipated, even with a few gallons of Bud in his belly and on his shirt. Draped over my shoulder, the biggest weight was carrying the stink. It was like back in grade school when most of the fifth grade got food poisoning from bad sloppy joes, and we were all lined up to toss our chocolate chip cookies at the same time in the restroom. Most of us couldn’t wait, and we slid around in puke before our turn came for the toilet stall. Finnen rested his head on my shoulder, mumbling, “Oh, the yuck of the Irish.”