“I still don’t understand what you mean.” Møgelhøj’s voice is thick with resistance.
“Don’t you see? The answer is actually quite obvious. You allow yourself to be recruited into the Danish army.”
Møgelhøj shakes his head. “It’s too far-fetched.”
“Listen,” says Andersen in an admonishing tone, like a teacher who has lost patience with a slow learner. “It’s one of the war’s basic premises—nothing is too far-fetched. If half of the soldiers who joined the Danish army to fight in Afghanistan were young immigrants with a Muslim background, would you still think it was far-fetched for me to imply they might have hidden motives?”
“No, but—”
“No, but what? Schrøder isn’t a first-generation Dane? He’s what we call a ‘real’ Dane? He has blond hair and blue eyes. His blood runs red and white. If his skin were the same color as brown shoe polish, wouldn’t we have every possible reason to suspect him? Are you sitting there suggesting that people’s political attitudes are found in their skin tone? I hope you know we aren’t racists in the Danish army.”
They sit in silence studying their boots. Neither of them looks up. “Sorry,” says Andersen. “I got carried away.”
“Of course we have to look into Schrøder’s background,” says Møgelhøj. “Such radical behavior doesn’t just happen out of the blue. There have to be signs.” He sits up straight. “I think it’s about time we have a chat with Steffensen.”
“The camera?” Andersen looks around. “Where’s the camera?”
“Shit! We left it in the room with . . . What’s his name again?”
They dash down the corridor. The door to the room with the traumatized survivor is open. They step inside. The nurse, who’s making the bed, looks up as they come in.
“Where’s the witness?”
“He left. Wasn’t he supposed to be meeting with you?”
“And the camera?”
She shakes her head. “I think he took it with him.”
27
What compels a soldier to mutiny? Bad food, ridiculous orders, incompetent officers, the survival instinct, a lack of morals, or too many morals, so they feel betrayed? The huge contradiction between what they’re told and what actually occurs?
Can that be it?
Too much discipline? No respect? The feeling of being a pawn in an impossible game? Or just cannon fodder?
Can you become mutinous for the opposite reasons? Because there’s too little discipline, too much respect, and you never get to put your life on the line? Because you’re cared for like an infant, as if the war’s most important purpose isn’t to kill your enemy but just to eat well and stay alive in a camp as comfortable and safe as a child’s bedroom?
Can one man make all the difference?
Can one camera?
When Sidekick shows up in the first tent, his pants and boots are smeared with clay and his hair is plastered to his forehead. On this February night, he has stumbled his way across the Dust Bowl, which the pouring rain has turned into a Mud Bowl. He shines his headlamp into the face of every single soldier who’s asleep. They light their own lamps in return. Beams of light crisscross in the darkened tent, until someone turns on the exposed bulbs hanging from wires stretched across the length of the tent. The first thing they notice are his eyes. They’re wild but not in any lost way; it’s the determination in them that seems wild. In his hand he’s holding a video camera. He turns it on and shows them the screen.
From that moment on, everything starts moving.
They go from tent to tent, waking the others, slowly becoming a larger and larger flock. Each time, he holds up the screen, the same rounds of gunfire, the same blood-smeared faces.
Schrøder.
They all have their soft spot, though for each of them it carries a different name. Father, mother, lover, friend. Everyone back home who’s recently, inexplicably, experienced something terrible. Or not experienced anything terrible. Whose fate they’re unsure of. For fourteen days now they’ve been unable to contact their relatives and lived with the terrible feeling that the war is everywhere. Now, that feeling has grown into determined rage.
It’s the rage that saves them. They’re hemorrhaging from inner wounds they didn’t even know they had. They could just as well shut down, become totally catatonic, suffer a sudden drop in temperature, a pulse that plunges, a will that dissolves. After all, they’ve just watched thirteen comrades die.
Third Platoon has tried to heal after the hole left in their hearts by Michael’s and Jakob’s deaths, but this is irreparable. Their training saves them in the same way that it takes over when they have to return fire.
Soldiers stream out of their tents and into the corridors, and then out into the open air. A sliver of reason makes them realize that they can’t just barrel out of camp on a nocturnal hunt for the murderer. “He’s ours,” yells Hannah, meaning Third Platoon. Awakened in the women’s tent by all the noise, she immediately joins the others outside. The platoon that Schrøder destroyed owns him now; they’ll be on the front lines when he dies.
They really fucking need to find Rasmus Schrøder and reduce him to an animal they can slaughter. They came here to kill the Taliban. Now they have to hunt down one of their own, because if they don’t their heads will explode. That’s all they know.
Adam was right—something really was wrong with Schrøder. He feels no triumph, though, no bitterness because no one listened to him. He doesn’t even give Hannah a thought. Everything within him is directed toward one goal: they have to catch Schrøder. His thoughts stop there.
And Hannah? Inside, she is a dark, whirling maelstrom. The man she loves . . . no, loved . . . She’s all at sea, grammatically. The word “love” has been crushed into nothingness for her. Her mind and heart are focused on one thing only: finding Schrøder. She’s burning with the same desire as before, but this time she wants her hands on him so she can put an end to him, see him take his last breath, screaming in pain, begging in despair. Now that hate has replaced love’s obsessive speculation, she has twice the energy. The position of platoon leader is empty now, and she has all the motivation she needs to make the others look to her.
The field chaplain shows up. “I’m going with you,” he says.
Watching the film on the video camera, he knew immediately what he was looking at: the world in chaos beneath the cross in the altarpiece in Bregninge Church. More than ever, he is part of that unrest—he wants to be with those whose hands raise the sword.
Hannah looks at Lukas Møller. He’s the one who saw the pattern with their relatives back home. Møller has earned his place. She nods.
Camper and Karlsen report. Good to have them along. She nods again.
Viktor stands there, his arms hanging, no light in his eyes. He has been hard hit. He and Schrøder weren’t close—they were too different—but they shared a division of labor and a mutual respect. Jonas and Tobias were Viktor’s boys, as he called them, and that same man he worked with every day murdered them. He exchanges glances with Hannah, as if to say it’s fine if she’s in the driver’s seat while he organizes the interior troops.
Sebastian and Mathias look at Gustav. This time there’s no guidance from Viktor. Their careers, promotions, pensions—the entire plan for their lives is on the line. And then there are their comrades. “If we had any doubts, we wouldn’t be real soldiers,” says Gustav.
Dennis is wound up. Unable to stand still, he’s in the throes of adrenaline. Viktor was wrong that time he told him that he’d calm down eventually. He has never calmed down, certainly not now, when he’s just lost his three best friends. A different reaction might come later, but not now.
Sørensen has to think of his two children at home. “You don’t have to,” Hannah says to him. “I have to,” he says without looking at her. He already feels as if he is failing his family; he can’t fail his platoon, too. He has two families to be loyal to, and it’s tearing him apart. Still, he has to be
able to look at himself in the mirror, and Sylvester can’t be the platoon’s only sweeper.
Even in this tense moment, they remain practical. Hannah orders them around, although it’s unnecessary. They know what’s involved. A soldier who isn’t thinking about equipment is a dead soldier, and a dead soldier can’t kill—and that’s what they’re going to do. Finally. They need a lot of weapons and ammunition. They take some American MRE field rations, which they normally deride as cat food, and they bring water. If anyone asks how long they’ll be gone, they can’t answer. They have the avenger’s perception of time. Time concentrates on a single point: that moment when they find Schrøder and riddle him with gunfire. Vengeance nourishes the imbalanced soul.
Simon checks his medic bag. Everything is in order. They’ll need him and he knows it. His job is to stay rational in the middle of all that fury. There will be wounded.
And Schrøder won’t be the only one who dies.
28
Steffensen is taking one of his walks along the bastion’s periphery. For him, the difference between day and night no longer exists. He can’t sleep, so it’s best if he keeps moving. He had enough forethought to dress warmly, so he’s not freezing. Yes, he thinks about the small things, but not the big ones. That’s why he can’t sleep. The dark circles under his eyes make his small, round face look disturbingly like a clown mask. Laugh, clown; rage, heart. That’s all his heart can do. It can’t cry, so it rages.
“Commander!”
He stops suddenly. A soldier runs toward him. As he approaches, Steffensen can see it’s a sergeant from the military police. Although he recognizes the bearded face, as usual, he can’t remember his name. All he knows is that the man is a bearer of bad news.
“I have to ask you to please follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, the sergeant turns on his heels and strides back in the same direction. Steffensen has to jog to keep up, a degrading situation. The sergeant speaks into his radio, and a voice answers. He can see light in the Dust Bowl and hear the sound of APCs revving up. A patrol at this hour? He hasn’t been oriented. Does he even know what’s going on in his own camp?
Suddenly, Andersen and Møgelhøj run up to him and stop, out of breath. “The situation is out of control,” says Møgelhøj.
The three men start to jog toward the Dust Bowl. Along the way, Møgelhøj tries to update him on the situation. Steffensen doesn’t understand any of it. “A massacre of my men? Schrøder a traitor? And now mutiny?” He holds his hands up defensively and stops. “I need to hear all that again!”
The sergeant who has kept a few steps ahead of them turns around. “There’s no time,” he says.
“There’s no time,” repeats Møgelhøj. He exchanges glances with Andersen, and then they start to run again.
“We’re trying to stop them,” says Møgelhøj.
“Mutiny?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. They want revenge.”
The men are standing there fully equipped. They have weapons, many more than required for a patrol. Their helmet cameras are attached. Steffensen doesn’t know why he notices this detail. Are they filming right now? The gunners are in place in the three APCs. The vehicles’ powerful motors are idling, making the air quiver.
“What’s going on here?” he hears himself say in a loud, penetrating voice that, much to his surprise, sounds as steady as a commander’s should. He stands directly in front of the vehicles.
“What’s this all about?”
No one answers. Nor do any of the soldiers look uncertainly at each other. He faces a solid wall of determination.
“Put down your weapons and go back to your tents. Get some sleep. We can talk about this in the morning.” His tone is conciliatory.
Still no answer. One of the men takes a step forward. The others follow suit. The APCs rev their engines.
He scans their faces. Is there even a hint of vacillation among the ranks? The chaplain is standing with them. That’s what convinces him. He knows Lukas Møller’s status; if he’s with the soldiers, no one can stop them. On some level he also knows them well enough. A massacre carried out by one of their own. They have to choose between this poorly thought-out rebellion and falling apart. Maybe it isn’t even a choice. They can’t just go back to their cots and act as if nothing has happened. If they do that, he might as well send the whole squad home and declare the war cancelled. They’ll never get out of bed again. That’s what they’re actually telling him. It’s all or nothing. Is any compromise possible when the world suddenly turns to black and white?
Steffensen hasn’t quite digested all the information he’s received, but he can’t deny the facts. A large number of their comrades have been slaughtered—by one of their own, Rasmus Schrøder, a man he trusted. It couldn’t be more personal. Nothing in their training could have prepared them for such an ambush on their worldview. Their very selves, their honor, their sense of justice and of balance, whatever you want to call it, that’s what they’re trying to save at this moment. Wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to do when he ordered the bombing of Atmar’s compound?
Roshaan warned him about Schrøder, and he ignored it. All signs indicate that Steffensen is responsible for the catastrophe their stationing in Helmand has become.
Steffensen takes a deep breath.
“There is a solution,” he says, his voice as steady as before. “I won’t stand in your way, but we have to agree to certain rules. That will give this the status of a regular patrol, not some desperate action or thoughtless mutiny. There are some things I want to get straight first. You’ll have to wait, but I promise it won’t take more than half an hour before you can head out. Do we have an agreement?”
They look at each other and then nod, one by one, all these men and one woman whose name he can’t remember. The chaplain, too. Steffensen got what he wanted. He’s knocked a hole into their wall of resistance, and he’s done it in the simplest possible way. He has shown them a way out, and it doesn’t go straight through the wall.
He turns toward Møgelhøj and Andersen. “Follow me,” he says.
Møgelhøj stares at him. “You’re desperate,” he whispers.
29
Steffensen leads the two investigators into his office and closes the door behind them.
“What are you doing?” Andersen shoots him a scrutinizing glance.
“Everything is falling apart,” says Steffensen. “And I’m already toast, as you two gentlemen so kindly informed me in writing earlier today. Now more than ever. Thirteen men? The responsibility is mine. Only the Americans have lost such a high number in one day—and that was in a helicopter crash. We’re dealing with a traitor, which makes it ten times worse. The men want to kill Rasmus Schrøder. Is there anyone here who doesn’t understand them? No, right? I don’t want to think about what would have happened if we’d tried to stop them. Didn’t you see their eyes? The chaplain is with them. Do you know what that means? Of all the men in camp, he’s the one they have the most faith in. If you can’t beat them, join them. That’s what I was just trying to do.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“I need your help. What’s our biggest problem right now? It’s not, as you might think, what a bunch of hotheads might end up doing. They’ll never find Schrøder. He’s long gone by now. They’ll get tired and come back home. Dejected, yes, but they’ll have cooled off. I can’t think beyond that right now. But imagine if it comes out that one of our own was behind this. An ambush. Just the suspicion of it could be devastating to our entire mission.”
Møgelhøj looks pensive. This is his ball game. Damage control. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t hide the fact that we’ve lost thirteen men, but whatever happens, it can’t become public knowledge that one of our own was behind the ambush. Everyone here in camp has to be told to stay quiet. Operation Minimize is already in place.”
Steffensen stares skeptically. “Do you really think that’s possible? I mean . . .
we’re talking about several hundred men.”
“That’s an order, plain and simple. A military order.” Møgelhøj looks right at Steffensen. “You understand what an order is, don’t you? It has to be made crystal clear to them that any leak at all will be viewed as high treason—and punished accordingly.”
Steffensen nods. Møgelhøj is humiliating him.
“And if they nail Schrøder,” adds Møgelhøj, “all the better. Problem solved. If not, they’re still professional soldiers, and an order is an order.”
“And if they don’t nail him?”
“We add him to the list of fallen. Hopefully that’s where he’ll end up soon anyway. So it remains a tragedy—but one we’re familiar with. Us against the terrorists. Us and them. What’s most important is that no outsiders ever hear about it. The recordings of the massacre still exist only on the video camera. And that’s where they’ll stay. If anything ever deserved to be called top secret, it’s this.”
Møgelhøj turns toward Steffensen. “See to it that they get what they need.”
“Air support, too?”
“No, no air support. Then it becomes official. They’re on their own now. This offensive has never happened.” For a moment he scans Steffensen’s face.
“And higher up? Someone will have to call Copenhagen this evening.”
Andersen and Møgelhøj look at each other. “We’ll take care of that.”
They stand up and leave the office. Steffensen is alone now. He doesn’t have much time. He turns on the screen and opens Skype.
There’s something he didn’t tell them.
30
It’s the middle of the night in Afghanistan. In Denmark it’s late in the evening, and he hopes Karen hasn’t gone to bed yet. It’s a breach of the camp lockdown he just engineered, but he doesn’t care. Karen looks surprised when she pops up on-screen. He can see she still hasn’t gone to bed. She still has her makeup on, and she must have washed her hair today, because it’s shining in the light of the desk lamp.
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