"Corporal Z is tied up with the site count," said one of the guards. When out of earshot of higher ranks, this was how privates referred to Corporal Zaehringer, finding the true pronunciation a misery to their lips. It didn't help that they were now in a country chockful of unpronounceable names. Zaehringer was just another linguistic muj.
A moment later, a Toyota Hilux pulled up and parked next to the gun range, which doubled as the brigade commander's golf range when not being used to blow away targets. Visitors were perplexed by what appeared to be duplicate range markers. Some distance behind a banner that said 50 would be another one for 50. Seventy-five and 100 were repeated the same way. When they discovered that some signs indicated yards while the others indicated meters, they understood right away. Yards for the driving range, meters for target practice.
"You blowing away insurgents or Saddam Hussein?" more than one visitor had quipped. Among golfers, 'Saddam Hussein' was the current equivalent of 'going from bunker to bunker'.
"Get Zaehringer out here," said Gates. "I've got something to show him."
The guards shifted uncomfortably and began arguing about which one of them should abandon his post. Finally, they both stuck their heads through the door and shouted.
"Corporal She-hanger! You've got visitors!"
A moment later a flustered man with a face that squatted on his chin appeared. The armory custodian grinned, then toned the expression down to an even smile.
"Hello Gates…Haji…I'm afraid—"
"I'd like you to come over and see what's in my truck," said Gates.
"I know what's in your truck," said Zaehringer, glancing at the two grinning guards. They, too, knew what was in the back of the Hilux.
"I don't think so. This time, it begins with an 'H'."
The guards' jaws slacked, and one of them whispered, "Heineken…"
Zaehringer's tongue rippled his compressed lips. "Aw, shit, Gates…"
"In Igloos. Cold as the tit in your mother's grave."
"My mother's still alive, Gates."
"All right, mate, as cold as your mother's tit when the meter's empty—"
"Cut it out."
"You want to eyeball the merchandise?"
"Not now," Zaehringer said with obvious reluctance. "I've got crap all over the floor. And…you've heard…"
"Al-Zarqawi, yeah."
"There's going to be a crush. As for what's available—"
"I blagged up on ammo in the Green Zone."
Zaehringer twisted a wry grin out of his chin. It was semi-forbidden to hand out guns and ammunition to mercenaries. As with all such swishy rules, it was treated as fully-allowed.
"What I'm thinking of is something in the line of night vision. Maybe some radios."
"Night vision! When are you planning on going out? Not tonight…"
"It be reet," said Gates. "Just a little wag."
"Sorry, I don't speak Cockney."
"Cockney! Don't be a wazzock. I'm from Hutton Cranswick, East Riding. Home of Hutton Cranswick United."
Ghaith thought this interesting…and wondered if it was true.
"Don't blow a switch…uh, mate." Zaehringer thought for a moment, then nodded. "Show me the suds."
The driver of the Hilux, a small man, had gotten out and was standing by the tailgate. Ghaith's inner soldier twitched. When it came to Gurkhas, deadly things came in small packages. Gates nodded to him as they approached and he threw back a canvas cover, uncovering four crates. Ghaith laughed when he saw what was stenciled on them.
"What does it mean?" Zaehringer asked, squinting at the Arabic.
"I believe it means 'Cow Manure Pellets," said Gates, turning to Ghaith. "That right?"
"Your language skills are impeccable," Ghaith answered.
"Wish they were. I had a terp put it on for me." He lowered his voice so that the corporal would not hear. "Sarah."
He nodded again at the Nepalese and picked up a crowbar. With a snort of disparagement, the merc pried open the top of the nearest crate with his fingers.
"Tough buggers," Gates muttered.
Reaching into the crate, the Gurkha pulled out a 28-quart Igloo. When he pressed the release button and slid open the top, a thick mist rose from the ice. Zaehringer leaned forward for a closer look and gasped. He was looking at pure gold. Alcohol was not allowed inside Camp Rusty. Which meant it was everywhere.
But Heineken?
He shifted a glance left and right. "All right, put it back in the crate—"
The corporal was interrupted by the creak and moan that was putting everyone on edge.
"Godzilla," said Ghaith.
"Yeah…does sort of sound like a farting dinosaur, doesn't it. OK, bring the crates inside. Hurry! I've already got three 1408's over my head for speeding on post. This could earn me an Article 15."
Zaehringer called over the guards, who knew what was up and eagerly hefted a crate each. Gates and the Gurkha took the other two.
"The kists are yours," said Gates in a grandiose tone as they entered the squat concrete building and hustled past the ranked gun racks. Several E1's glanced up from the floor, where they were counting out dozens upon dozens of NVD's and accessories.
"Get back to matching those ID tags," the corporal snapped.
His command didn't work. The soldiers stared at the crates as they went past them. It was as if they had X-ray vision.
In the back room they rested the crates on the armorer's work table. Zaehringer unlocked a large cabinet under the table and slid it open. Seeing Ghaith eying bottles of gin and whiskey, the corporal said, "You don't see this. None of you see this. Quick, put it inside. All of it. Those crates will fit. I mean…if 'kist' means 'Igloo'."
"It does, now," said Gates, leaning down to slide his crate inside.
When they were done, Zaehringer re-locked the cabinet and stood, clapping his hands together. "Get back outside!" he yelled at the guards. "What do you think you're doing, abandoning your posts like that!"
"But—"
"Go!"
They rushed out, leaving the corporal alone with Gates, Ghaith and the Gurkha.
"Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?"
"I saw some nice NVD's as we came in," said Gates.
Zaehringer shook his head. "All those are tagged. And on a night like this…you know what it means. You've got Sunnis looking for revenge, Shiites looking to celebrate, and us in the middle. The brigade will need those. But now…" He went to a closed overhead cabinet and lifted the panel door. "I've got some nice '14's here…"
"Don't be a gawby."
"I can guess what that means. Listen, they've all been repaired, even those hit by IED's. I mean, those that can't be repaired are surplused for replacement—"
"How many have you got?" Gates said resignedly.
"Uhm… half a dozen?"
"Right. Done."
Smiling at the ease of the transaction, Zaehringer began to take down the night vision devices.
"And some radios."
Zaehringer froze. "Now listen, we can't have you going on the net, especially tonight, with—"
"Al-Zarqawi being killed and the world coming to an end. I know. We won't clutter up your net. I'm thinking about those antwacky Motorolas over there. They can't mean much to you, leaving them out in the open like that."
"Ah…" the corporal nodded. "You want to eavesdrop on the muj."
"That's right."
"Take them all."
"Just need one, for Haji here. He's the only one speaks mujahedeen. The batteries are good?"
"Should be. Take two, in case one dies. I mean the radio. That way you'll have two scanners working at once."
"Right." Gates nodded at Ghaith, who took up two radios and slid them into opposite pockets.
It was obvious Zaehringer thought he was getting the best of the trade. A treasure load of Dutch beer for a few shopworn night vision goggles and a couple of cheap radios. But upon seeing a thoughtful look on Gates' face, he held up hi
s hands.
"Nothing heavy! No 40mm! No Brownings!"
"Don't be such a tosspot. I'm just thinking. I don't intend to strip the U.S. Army of its rattles whistles when it's on the verge of Armageddon."
There was another long pause. An E1 stuck his head around the corner and the corporal stomped his foot, as though chasing off an intrusive puppy.
Yet another long pause. Then Zaehringer said, "What are you thinking?"
Gates' shoulders sagged. "I'm thinking we have to travel light, tonight."
"You're really going out in that mess?"
"How good are your IOU's?"
"As good as anyone's."
"Then I'll have to accept it."
"If I'm on duty, I'll be here."
"That makes sense."
"I mean I'll honor my IOU, short of anything nuclear. If you make it back, that is."
Back outside, they piled into the Hilux, Ghaith in back. They drove to where they had left Ropp and Hutton. The latter was not to be seen.
"Where is our young Lothario?" Gates asked.
"If you mean Hutton, he got into a fight."
"He what?" said Gates, alarmed. "We can't have him in the infirmary. I want him with me in the lead truck. Bloody plonker…"
"The fight's over. He went into the can to wash the blood off his face."
"This is very inopportune," Ghaith fretted. "Who was he fighting? You?"
"Hell no. We spotted a funny-looking dude walking towards the latrine, all slumped over and his face covered up. We knew what it was all about and ignored her."
"Her?"
"A bitchin' Betty," said Gates. "A soldier of the female persuasion."
"Is that what you call them where you're from? Here, they call them WM's…walking mattresses."
"Not very chivalric," Ghaith noted.
"No, especially when we saw she was being followed by some drooling grunt." Ropp was a grunt, too, but they knew what he meant. "I mean, that's why these girls try to disguise themselves as guys. They don't like going at night because of this kind of thing. Rape, I mean. We've heard rumors, but the girls never report it. Hutton took off after the guy and they got into it. He might not look like much, but Hutton's pretty good with his fists."
"You did not enter the fray?"
"Of course I did. Hutton got…well, he wasn't winning. By the time he was knocked down, I was behind the grunt and clobbered him with my canteen. The guy ran off, holding his head. He said no piece of ass was worth a concussion."
"I admire your subversive tactics," Ghaith nodded.
"The girl disappeared, no surprise. Hope she found a place to pee. I've heard some of the women have been hospitalized for dehydration. They refuse to drink water in the late afternoon so they won't have to tinkle after dark."
Hutton emerged from the latrine, holding his jaw. Seeing them standing next to the truck, he broke into a trot.
"Sir Galahad," Gates bowed.
"Sir Stupid As Shit," Hutton said painfully through his bruised lips.
"Saving a lady's honor is…" Ghaith paused. "Well, it must mean something."
"Did you get everything you needed from the armory?"
"Almost. It would be a good idea if we had the sign and countersign for the night."
"There's none that I know of," said Hutton. "They were telling us no one was going out."
"That's a bother," Gates scowled.
"I know last night is was 'Pussy Hunt."
"No wonder your women are afraid of your own soldiers."
"No, we use it because the locals have a hard time with 'p'."
They looked at Ghaith.
"Bussy hunt," he said.
"I see," Gates nodded. "And the countersign?"
"Thank you very much."
Again they looked at Ghaith.
"Shank you very mush," said Ghaith, with a touch of pride. Seeing their expressions, he asked, "Did I speak incorrectly?"
"You're putting us on, Haji," said Ropp. "I've heard you speak the Queen's English like the Queen herself."
"I would ask you to favor my monarch with a better example."
"Shouldn't we get going?" Hutton said.
No one mentioned that he had been the cause of the delay. Sometimes the obvious wasn't worth remarking upon.
Ropp and Hutton held back when they took a closer look at the Hilux.
"What the hell's this?"
"One of my battle wagons."
"Where are the doors? Wait, are those the doors?" Hutton pointed at a door welded to the side of the truck bed.
"That's our armor. We don't like doors because they keep us from a fast exit. Where are your pistols?"
Hutton held up his Star BMK.
"Good. And you, Mr. Ropp?"
"I didn't bring…I don't have…"
"I'll scrounge one up for you."
"That's all right. If we get into a firefight, I'd like something heavier."
"You misunderstand," said Gates with a shake of his head. "The pistols are reserved for…" He cocked his index finger and stuck it in his mouth, making a dawk sound as he pulled the invisible trigger.
The two privates stared at him.
"What we're doing…where we're going…if it looks like you're about to be captured, keep it in mind."
"We would never—"
"You don't want to be captured by JAM," Gates said. "Believe me."
Ghaith and the Gurkha both nodded.
Richmond, Virginia
July, 2008
Cholesterol Is King
"Double Bacon Cheeseburger," said Ari with anticipatory relish as he perused the Flying J's laminated menu.
"I wouldn't think about it, Ari," said Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester, thumping her smallish chest. "If you want this to keep working, think 'salad'. And not the Mega Meat Salad, either."
"You are speaking of my heart, Deputy Marshal?" Ari asked languidly. "It is as strong as a camel's."
"I guess that'll do for an ox," Karen groused.
"Double Bacon's nothing," said her partner, Fred Donzetti, seated next to her in the booth. "Ever have a Perkins Sunrise? They top the patties off with hash browns, bacon, sour cream and an egg. Cheese is optional, but you can add as many slices as you want. You should try one, Karen. Put some meat on your bones."
"You think I'm too skinny?"
"You don't have a decent grilled carcinogen in your body."
Karen was offended, especially as the comment had been made in front of the man she was in charge of protecting. A task made infinitely more difficult since the removal of the tracking devices. She had been pleased, if not delighted, when Ari called to arrange an early dinner. But why here, at the Pilot Flying J just north of Ashland, where truckers took their meals with great dollops of BO? They didn't all stink, of course, but it only took a few to put one off one's deep-fried bowel plugs. 'Hey Mr. and Mrs. Diesel Head, I know you've come 3,000 miles straight from Seattle, but sheesh, they've got showers next door, y'know?'
"I'd be careful, if I were you," said Karen with a portentous growl.
Fred, who knew the heft of Karen's fist, buried himself in his menu.
Turning back to Ari, she asked, "What made you think of this place? There's plenty of grease peddlers in Richmond. And this runt next to me is wrong. I enjoy a burger every once and a while."
"You enjoy burgers very much, in fact," Ari reminded her. "'Burger-burger-burger' as I recall at Quantico."
"We even ate together at McDonald's."
"I remember," said Ari.
"That's where I first saw you eat pork." It was a remark calculated to draw a reaction, to give Karen at least one more smidge of insight into what made him tick. Ari gave an indifferent lift to his brow and returned to the glossy image of the Double Cheeseburger. "Well, anyway, I'm trying to cut back on cholesterol. No, not doctor's orders. It's just that more than half the people I know are on Lipitor, and I don't want to add myself to the list."
"For health reasons?"
"T
hink of it as my small protest against predatory pharmaceutical companies. But I don't want to sound ungrateful. It's not my life I'm in charge of, it's yours. Thanks for the invite, Ari. Are you paying?"
"Indeed."
"Then I wish you'd picked a better place, or even invited me over with a meal with your French chef."
"Madame Mumford is a diamond," Ari nodded.
"Snails," Fred grimaced.
"What made you think of the Flying J? How did you even know about it?"
"Someone told me its cuisine is highly regarded."
"I can tell when you're lying, Ari."
"Can you, you ravishing creature?"
Fred choked on a mouthful of ice water.
"I'm cool," said Karen, imitating Ari's raised brow.
"But this time, you are correct," Ari continued. "I am steering you into the heart of darkness."
"You read Conrad?" Karen asked, her eyes widening.
"Who?"
"He wrote a short novel by that name, 'The Heart of Darkness'."
"I thought I had driveled it myself," Ari confessed. "I will attend to my ignorance at the library. In the meantime, I would like to discuss what your media fondly refers to as a serial killer."
"I hope you're not saying 'cereal' killer, as in Wheaties."
"Wheat…ease?"
"Are you serious?" Karen lowered her menu. "You're not talking about those killers you see on the memory sticks CENTCOM sends you, are you? Remember, I know about that, now."
"We know about it," Fred chimed in.
"Now that I've told you…and would you shut up, already? Neither one of us is supposed to know what's on those sticks. We just deliver."
"Got it."
"But speaking of CENTCOM and all those other agencies that love you so much, they're pretty pissed at you right now."
"You just said they loved me."
"Not when there's three sticks you apparently even haven't looked at. Love will only carry you so far. You haven't identified any bad guys for them in almost three weeks. That makes you look bad. It makes them look bad. Worst of all, it makes us look bad."
"Thanks for including me for once," Fred frowned.
"I could tell them you're too drunk to sit up straight half the time, but I would probably get blamed for it. I've thought of coming into your house and hiding your bottles while you were out, you know."
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